How could I not know?
Do you ever look at a photo, recall the day, then think about what came after?
Four years ago this week, I was enjoying a glass of red wine at one of our favorite St. Pete bars, Hawthorne Bottle Shoppe. My impromptu suggestion to take adavantage of Rick being available on a late Friday afternoon and our daughter still home on summer break became a toast her upcoming senior year of college.
Enjoying an occasional afternoon cocktail or glass of wine in the afternoon is an indulgence usually reserved for vacations. This would be one of the last days I’d feel that carefree for a long time.
I look at this photo every year since, when it appears in my Facebook memories, and wonder how I didn’t feel what was growing inside of me.
Healthy-looking skin, a bright smile, and full, shiny hair showed a healthy person. Now when I look at that photo, which Facebook kindly reminds me of each Aug. 16, I wonder about others who take photos like this, blissfully unaware of a deadly beast inside.
Moments in our lives that precede the profound ones remind us of what life was like before everything changed. Humans are curious creatures. It’s necessary to our survival. The desire for answers led to discoveries that changed our world. Answering the “why” can be credited for the survival of mankind. It’s natural to wonder why something that has the power to upend our lives, even kill us, happens to us.
We question ourselves, and our actions. The what-ifs almost consume us, but we must keep our foot on the pedal and push forward.
This photo was taken 17 days before I started feeling bloated on a Saturday evening, sitting in the left corner of the sofa, watching television. I cupped my hands over each side of my belly. I wondered if this sudden roundness meant I was in perimenopause. Maybe I pulled a muscle from trimming, then hauling away, palm fronds. I even blamed Dixie, the boisterous labrador pup we were watching, who’d leapt across my abdomen the day before. I decided that I’d need to come to terms with these extra pounds. A 51-year-old body doesn’t bounce back from indulgences like wine and cheese the way it does at 30.
This photo was taken 24 days before I had to loosen my belt by two holes so my favorite shorts would fit. It was taken before I realized the twinges of pain in my abdomen didn’t signal the arrival of my period. It was taken before I consulted Dr. Google several times a day until I convinced myself I had an ulcer, kidney stone, or appendicitis, but never cancer.
This photo was taken 31 days before early-evening low-grade fevers planted me on the sofa for an hour before I felt well enough to cook dinner.
This photo was taken 40 days before I felt short of breath, as I struggled to walk the Poppy Hills Golf Course, following my son as he practiced before the biggest tournament of his life. I could easily follow him when he played 18 holes in 95-degree Florida weather, but I gasped for breath even in the humidity-free cooler northern California temperatures.
That’s when I accepted that something was wrong, and that these sudden changes were more serious than what I’d self-diagnosed. I had chills, and a fever that I could tell was higher than it had been a few weeks prior. Back at the hotel, I was on my knees, my left hand holding back my hair, vomiting into the toilet for what seemed like days.
This photo was taken 41 days before I wound up in the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula emergency room. Referred to by its acronym, CHOMP, the emergency room doctor promptly sent me for a CT scan, then declared, “You have a 20cm tumor in your ovary.”
This photo captures one of the last times I didn’t worry. This was before I would forever check a box on health forms that told the world I’d had cancer.
When I see the photo, I wonder how I couldn’t have known about the 3 tumors: one on each ovary and one on my uterus. The synchronous Stage 2B cancers (supposedly a good thing) were rare for someone my age. Apparently, 51 is young for an ovarian cancer diagnosis. I was lucky, though. Mine was the ovarian cancer of the endemetrioid. There are no good cancers, but some come with a better prognosis. After surgery, my gynecological oncologist told my husband he believed I would be completely cured. Still, I take nothing for granted. I continue to be surveilled every 6 months until (God-willing) July 2025.
Ovarian cancer is the deadliest of all gynecological cancers. Experts - and survivors - say it whispers. Most are diagnosed when the cancer has advanced to organs and lymph nodes.
No diagnostic test for ovarian cancer exists, which means that 1 in 78 people with ovaries will hear the words, “You have ovarian cancer.”
Suvivorship carries a sense of duty to advocate for those who can’t. We tell our stories. We raise money. We appeal to lawmakers who have the power to support funding for research, clinical trials, and tools that reduce racial disparities in treatment.
September is ovarian cancer awareness month. The color assigned to ovarian cancer is teal. Ovarian cancer patients and survivors are teal sisters. I always wanted a sister, yet I detest teal. The last thing a cancer patient or survivor wants is to be reminded of the disease, but like or not, cancer will always be a part of who I am, which means I will wear teal this September. I will also share my story so that others might be saved through an early diagnosis. Had I never become so sick in that hotel bathroom in California, my cancer likely would have been discovered at a later, more dire, stage.
My hope is that you share this with someone you love. Talk openly with a trusted medical professional about your body and what you might be feeling that is not normal for you. If you don’t get answers, look for a doctor who will advocate with you and for your health. Most importantly, always advocate for yourself.
Watch my segment on Bloom TV - WFLA Tampa
As an Advocate Leader and Survivors Teaching Students Presenter with Ovarian Cancer Research Alliance, I have spoken to nursing students, health care providers, advocates, and other groups about my experience. Knowledge is power, and early detection saves lives. Cancer is now part of my story, one I’m proud to share. Our stories deserve to be told. The power in conveying one’s words can improve lives, inspires us to act, and connect us with others. Let’s commit to talking more. The more we share, the more lives that can be saved from ovarian cancer.
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