My story began on a Monday morning in October of 2004. As I was getting ready for work, the pain in my right lower quadrant was so sharp it took my breath away. I noticed a small bulge in my groin a few weeks prior to that and had just seen my doctor on the previous Thursday. She confirmed what I suspected; this was an inguinal hernia and needed surgical repair. Give me a break, I thought. Women my age don’t get hernias like this. My friends jokingly asked me if I was all of a sudden turning into some powerhouse weight lifter. That morning I figured I was probably going to have surgery before the day was over. As I walked into the hospital where I work, I went directly to the Emergency Department. By this time I was limping, and I told the triage nurse my diagnosis. The very kind ED physician examined me and inquired how long I’d had abdominal swelling. I explained this was from uterine fibroids, I’d just seen my internist on Thursday, and she had put me back on the pill due to heavy bleeding. With a positive family history for cancer, and being a nurse, I’d always been diligent about screenings and exams. Just fifteen months prior I had had a transvaginal ultrasound with normal saline, and a normal pap smear. The ED doctor didn’t seem to think this could be fibroids and wanted to get a CT with contrast. My immediate thought was “now? I have a meeting at 7:30.”

Thirty minutes later I was back in the ED exam room and when he asked me how I was doing, I told him I was starting to get scared. It was for good reason. CT showed a mass, with original site appearing to be the right ovary. It had the characteristics of ovarian cancer, but of course they wouldn’t know until a biopsy could be done. The mass needed to come out, and soon. The so called inguinal hernia was there because the mass was pushing down on my GI tract. OK. My head swirled. No, you don’t understand. Maybe this is colon cancer – as my mom died of this, and I was due in a few months for my second colonoscopy. I just spoke to four thousand people yesterday at my church, telling them about my trip to Africa in June. I looked the picture of health. I cannot possibly have an abdominal mass that you think is ovarian cancer. He set me up with a gynecologic oncologist, I was admitted to the surgical floor, and I spent the rest of the day calling friends and family, canceling meetings, and trying to process what was happening to me. My boss came by, colleagues came by, the people who report to me stopped in, and flowers were delivered. I filled out my admission paperwork and tried to be a good patient. The bowel prep would start Tuesday, and surgery would be Wednesday. My labs were all normal, but the CA-125, a blood test I had never heard of, was pending. I signed a consent for a total abdominal hysterectomy, bilateral salpingoophorectomy and exploratory laparotomy only after much soul searching. Certainly, if there was cancer, I wanted everything out. But if there isn’t a malignancy, I asked that something be salvaged, if possible. To me, 46 just seemed too young to lose every female organ and enter menopause cold turkey.

The immediate pre-op phase is a bit of a blur, with one exception. I asked the anesthesiologist what my CA125 was, and I heard 299. I knew – then and there- this was cancer. I’d be having major surgery. The next thing I remember was an ECG electrode being applied on my left rib cage, and I was out.

A day or so later, I got the word. Ovarian cancer, stage 1C, grade1 and a separate endometrial adenocarcinoma stage 1B, grade1. All 21 lymph nodes negative. My surgeon provided me with a copy of the pathology report. I would stare at these papers for weeks to come. Yes, that was my name. That was my social security number. I knew the pathologist who read this. He was excellent, and there were no errors. This malignant mass had come out of me.

I had few questions when the news was delivered. I’d need 18 weeks of chemotherapy, yes, I would lose my hair. No, I wouldn’t need a port. The tears came, and they came. It is painful to sob with a fresh abdominal incision, but the grief and the emotion had to be expressed. I saved up all my God questions, mainly, “why me, God?” for my pastor friend that had led the group to Africa. He didn’t have the answers, except to say God promises to go with us and be there for us during frightening and confusing times in our lives.

My post op course was uneventful. I followed directions to a “T” and healed quickly.

Then I started chemotherapy. This was grueling. Numerous anti-emetics and steroids, then taxol and carboplatin times six treatments. Nothing could have prepared me for the fatigue that hits 48 hours after a treatment. It is indescribable. This is not like pulling an all-nighter and being wiped out the next day. It is so far beyond that. I found myself using handicap door openings to conserve energy, and buying milk by the quart instead of the gallon because it was easier to lift. My nurse practitioner could tell me exactly when my hair would begin to fall out. This was brutal information – but I was grateful to receive it, harsh as it was, because it allowed me time to digest this gut wrenching reality. I chose to proactively get my head shaved, and purchased a cute wig. It was one small measure of exercising control when I had so very little. I received immense support during these difficult months from family and friends who prayed for me, brought nourishing meals to me, drove me to appointments and listened to me when I needed to talk or to cry.

I returned to work exactly six months from that Monday in October. Six weeks after that I ditched the wig. My strength and stamina returned quickly.

Since October 2004, I met and married a marvelous man! I now have a full head of hair, and I am in excellent health. There are no words to express my sheer joy and thankfulness to God for such a sweet ending to this story!

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