Survivor Stories
The View from Room 314: How a Hospital Window Changed My Life Forever
After surviving stage three lymphoma, Sarah Kolawole discovered that healing isn't just about medicine—it's about finding beauty in the smallest moments and strength you never knew you had.
By
Sarah Kolawole
on
Jul 23, 2025
The truth is simpler and more complicated than that. I learned that healing happens slowly, like seasons changing. I learned that strength isn't about fighting—it's about enduring.
The Diagnosis: When Everything Changes
The first thing they tell you about chemotherapy is that you'll lose your hair. The second thing is that you'll be tired. What they don't tell you is that you'll spend hours staring out hospital windows, watching the world continue without you, and somehow finding peace in that rhythm.
I was thirty-four when the word "cancer" first left a doctor's lips in reference to me. Stage three non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. The diagnosis came on a Tuesday in March, delivered in a sterile room that smelled like antiseptic and false hope. I remember thinking how ordinary everything looked—the beige walls, the motivational poster of a lighthouse, the doctor's unremarkable tie. How could something so life-altering be discussed in such a mundane setting?
My assigned room during treatment was 314, third floor of the oncology wing. The window faced east, overlooking a small courtyard where hospital staff would take smoke breaks and families would have hushed conversations on cell phones. In the center of that courtyard stood a single oak tree, and over the six months of my treatment, that tree became my calendar, my companion, my teacher.
When I first arrived in March, the oak was bare, its branches reaching toward the sky like desperate fingers. I felt a kinship with those empty limbs. My body, too, felt hollow, betrayed by cells that had forgotten their purpose. During those early weeks, as the first round of chemo coursed through my veins, I would press my face against the cool glass and watch that tree endure the last gasps of winter.
The interesting thing about being sick—really sick—is how it strips away everything you thought mattered. Suddenly, the promotion I'd been chasing seemed ridiculous. The argument I'd had with my sister over Christmas dinner felt petty. The dating app I'd been halfheartedly swiping through became a monument to concerns that no longer existed. When your body is fighting for its life, your priorities realign with startling clarity.
The Treatment: Learning to Hope Again
My mother moved in during April. She's a small woman, barely five feet tall, but she filled my apartment with the kind of fierce love that could probably cure diseases if scientists could figure out how to bottle it. She cooked endless pots of soup, even though everything tasted like cardboard to me. She sat beside my hospital bed during infusions, working crossword puzzles aloud because she knew I was too tired to concentrate but still needed distraction.
"Seven letters for 'renewal,'" she'd say, pencil hovering over the squares.
"Rebirth," I'd whisper, watching the IV drip carry poison and hope in equal measure through the tube in my arm.
By May, tiny buds appeared on the oak tree. I started taking photos of it through the window, much to the amusement of the nursing staff. Nurse Patricia, who had arms like a linebacker and a laugh that could wake the dead, began updating me on the tree's progress even when I wasn't looking.
"Your oak friend is showing off today," she'd announce while checking my vitals. "New leaves everywhere."
The leaves came gradually, then all at once. By June, the tree was full and green, casting shadows that danced across the courtyard pavement. I had finished my fourth round of chemo by then, and my own body was beginning to respond. The tumors in my chest and abdomen were shrinking. My blood counts were stabilizing. The word "remission" started appearing in conversations with my oncologist, Dr. Martinez, though always with careful qualifications.
I learned that hope is not a feeling but a practice. Every morning, I chose to believe that my body could heal itself. Every afternoon, I chose to find something beautiful in that view from room 314. Every evening, I chose to plan for a future that felt increasingly possible.
The hardest part wasn't the physical pain or even the fear of dying. The hardest part was learning to trust my body again. After months of feeling betrayed by my own cells, how do you make peace with the vessel that carries your soul? The answer came slowly, like those leaves on the oak tree—not all at once, but with persistent, gentle growth.
My last treatment was on a sweltering day in August. The oak tree was at its peak, full and lush, providing shade for the families below. I sat in room 314 for the final time, watching the IV drip for what I hoped would be the last time, and felt something I hadn't experienced in months: excitement for the future.
Remission and Renewal: Life After Cancer
Dr. Martinez delivered the news in September. Complete remission. The scans were clear. I would need regular check-ups, of course, and there were no guarantees in this business, but for now, I was cancer-free. I remember walking to the window of his office—not room 314, but a different window on a different floor—and looking down at that oak tree. Its leaves were just beginning to turn gold at the edges. A year later, I still drive by the hospital sometimes. Not because I miss it—nobody misses cancer treatment—but because I want to check on that oak tree. It's survived another winter since my treatment ended, pushed out new leaves last spring, and will likely be there long after I'm gone.
I'm different now, in ways both obvious and subtle. My hair grew back curlier than before, which my hairdresser insists is common. I have scars from the port in my chest and a deeper appreciation for ordinary Tuesday afternoons. I hug people longer. I notice sunsets more often. I don't postpone phone calls with friends. Last month, I volunteered to speak with newly diagnosed patients.
A young man, barely twenty-five, sat in room 312—right next to my old room. His window faced west, overlooking the parking garage, and he complained about the view. "Ask for room 314 if it becomes available," I told him. "There's an oak tree you need to meet." People ask me what I learned from cancer, as if surviving it comes with profound wisdom that I'm obligated to share.
The truth is simpler and more complicated than that. I learned that healing happens slowly, like seasons changing. I learned that strength isn't about fighting—it's about enduring. I learned that sometimes the most important thing you can do is sit by a window and watch a tree grow leaves.
And I learned that hope isn't something you find—it's something you choose, again and again, until choosing it becomes as natural as breathing.
The oak tree in the courtyard is still there, still marking time with its seasons, still teaching patience to anyone willing to look out a hospital window long enough to learn.
Blog
