Every hour on the hour in the ancient market square of Krakow, Poland, a trumpeter steps up to the drafty window of St Mary's Basilica's tallest tower and plays a tune called the "hejnal."

The simple yet haunting piece is repeated four times, each time facing a different cardinal direction. This beautifully unique tradition is done 365 days a year to honor a brave watchman who gave his life in the 13th century in defense of his little town of Krakow.

Story has it the watchman spotted a growing cloud of dust in the distance and realized a Tartar invasion was on its way to bring horror and misery to his people. The watchman seized his trumpet and belted out a warning prodding the sleepy village to spring into action and protect its innocent inhabitants. The clever musical siren was a success and the enemy was fended off, but at a high price.

The brave watchman was shot through the throat by an arrow from the enemy's leader. The last note of this commemorative tune is a long half note to represent the last sound played by the trumpeter as he was murdered.

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I visited this beautiful town in the summer of 2015 with my family where I gazed at the stunning wonder of the Salt Mines and marveled at seeing the birthplace of St Pope John Paul II and St Faustina Kowalska.

I paid homage to the victims of the Holocaust by seeing the terrible grounds of Auschwitz and Birkenau. I carried home with me so many beautiful stories from this culturally rich country — and the story of the trumpeter was one of my favorites.

Six months later, at the ripe old age of 36, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Much like the Tartars, cancer was merciless.

It didn't care that a beloved husband and four small children needed me.

It didn't care that I was a physical therapist and that I needed to treat patients, not be one.

It certainly paid no heed at seeing my parents suffer as they witnessed their only daughter go through the horrible process.

Cancer was that cloud in the distance I could see insiduously making its way towards me looking for a tasty meal. I could hear the trumpeter furiously blasting his song to urge me to keep fighting.

•••

At the time, my oldest was only 9 years old and my youngest was a tender 2 years, with two siblings in between. We knew we wanted the kids to hear it from us first before we informed our friends. At the time, we didn't know if I would need chemotherapy or radiation — we didn't even know for certain how advanced the cancer was — so we told the kids everything.

We talked to them about breast cancer and what patients go through — surgery, chemo, radiation — no holds barred. We answered all their questions as best we could in terminology that they could understand.

And then came the inevitable question, "Are you going to die, Mami?"

I answered it truthfully, "I don't know—I do know that Mami is not going to die today or tomorrow and we are going to pray for strength and guidance."

It scared me to pieces to say those words because it placed my mortality smack dab front and center.

In the months that followed, I came to be thankful that my husband and I had been so up front with the kids. Death was not a taboo topic to discuss and talking about it took some of the fear away. It opened up beautiful discussions as to what happens to the immortal soul when it shuffles off its mortal coil.

Some of the conversations left us in tears, some with a renewed sense of faith and strength to face what might come ahead. My kids were empowered by being able to talk and communicate with us and we, in turn, derived a sense of peace.

•••

One year, three surgeries, and four grueling rounds of chemotherapy later, the doctors at Moffitt Cancer Center declared me to be free of disease — the invasion had been stopped in its tracks.

Unlike the poor trumpeter who was unable to celebrate victory with his beloved village, I have been given the gift of life … again. And I don't plan on wasting it.

On Thursday (Jan. 4), I opened my own outpatient physical therapy clinic. It is also the two year anniversary of my first surgery. I will be exclusively treating the amputee community in their battle to regain the mobility that they have lost.

Why amputee? Because I love it. I revel in the academic challenge each patient brings. Witnessing these brave souls walk again for the first time after such a devastating trauma never fails to bring me joy at their victory. And this time, I get to play the "hejnal" to encourage my patients to continue their fight.

•••

The name of my company is Palanca. In Spanish it means "plank." And much like the plank exercises used in physical therapy to lift the body, I hope to lift up my patients in their fight to regain control of their lives.

Oftentimes I still think of the trumpeter — his perseverance to continue playing in the face of mortal danger is an inspiration to continue my own fight and to help my patients with theirs. I don't know how my story will end. I'm hoping for something like "… and she lived happily ever after."

But one thing is for certain: I will never give up, I will never stop fighting.

God's not done with me yet.

Cosi Belloso is a physical therapist who lives in Brandon. Contact her at renewalrehab.com, palancaPT.com or on her Facebook page at facebook.com/cosibelloso.