I’m a journalist and blogger and in September this year I was asked by a Writers’ Guild to read aloud at one of their monthly gatherings. The theme for the evening was “Challenges”. I chose to read from a series of blog postings about my ovarian cancer experience. I’ve shared them here for anyone who may be interested.

September 2009
It’s true that ignorance is bliss. A year ago if someone had told me I’d be spending two days of every month lying in the medical intensive care unit hooked up to a heart monitor, a perpetual blood pressure cuff and an incessantly beeping IV pole, ever so slowly taking powerful poison directly into my carotid, I probably would have collapsed on the floor, a quivering mass.
But here I go again. Next week it’s back to the hospital for another treatment.
***
November 2008
The worse part about a relapse is that you know what you’re in for—more or less.
After another “debulking” surgery—that’s where they remove as much cancer tissue as they possibly and safely can– I recuperated for about 10 days and then chemotherapy yet again.
This time Carboplatin and Gemcitabine. Platinum messes with your DNA and Gem plays havoc with your blood counts—red and white. Both beat down your bone marrow, sometimes to dangerous levels, increasing the risk of spontaneous bleeding.
Even though I’ve been living with cancer for two years—almost to the day—there are still those moments when the fact that I’ll never be free of it is rammed home, again.
That happened on Monday while getting set up for chemo. So far I’ve managed to avoid having a port, with all chemo being done intravenously (or IP). But my veins are pretty much burned out—rubbery and most important there’s “no return”—that’s when the nurse tries to pull back and get a return of blood. Karen, my chemo nurse, told me it’s time to get a port and the feelings that washed over me were overwhelming. A profound sense of defeat and sadness. It really is here to stay.
***
Spring 2008
Take it Back
I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in November 2006.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing that in print, or speaking it outloud, or thinking it to myself late at night when I can’t sleep.

Every once in awhile I’ll be in the midst of doing something else–reading a book, holding up my end of a conversation, walking on the beach, concentrating on work, laughing at something someone just said–and it’ll hit me, a wave of shock and disbelief.
Literally out of the blue. It’s a truly visceral experience that I liken to looking up on a beautifully calm and wonderful day and seeing a giant dark wave bearing down on me. Sometimes the sensation of being overwhelmed is so great that it stops me in my tracks and I actually catch myself shaking my head and whispering to no one in particular “this can’t be happening to me”.

But it has and it is.

I’ve learned many things since November 14, 2006 and for the most part I’m grateful for those lessons but I will never, ever be able to honestly say that I consider cancer to be a gift. I’ve heard others say that and good for them if they mean it. As for me, if it’s a gift all I want to know is “where’s the return desk?”
***
Summer 2007
SAFE POISON~
I feel safe in the chemo treatment room. In fact, some of the best sleep I’ve had since being diagnosed has been right here in this room, snuggled under a brightly colored afghan while lying back in my favorite turquoise recliner in the corner. It is here that I beat back the dark shadow of cancer, this peaceful and welcoming place, this room full of poison.

Sadly, this room is never empty. There are so many of us that the nurses have to schedule us in shifts. We come to this room with hope and determination. We talk to one another but we don’t really bond. We share the details of our disease and treatment and there’s a lot of joking and laughter. We tell wig horror stories and debate the merits of going bald versus covering up. But these are fleeting connections and you learn not to ask the nurses about the women you’ve come to know if they aren’t in the room when you are.

During my induction chemo three of us were pretty much on the same chemo cycle. We sat in a row and shared stories when we weren’t dozing off. The older Asian woman, dignified and gentle. The very sad and quiet Carrie clearly struggling with the treatment as well as the cancer.

Then my chemo ended. Yea, I was in remission and would have a few months off before starting a maintenance program of monthly Taxol infusions. When I returned to chemo I entered a room of strangers. I sat in my favorite recliner and while my chemo nurse was starting my IV I asked about my friends.

She shook her head. There was awkward silence then, “We hate it when you ask us about the other women.”

The Asian woman’s death had been a good one I was told. All her family was with her. Carrie struggled until the very end.

I sat there unmoving for many minutes, fighting hard to keep from sobbing outloud. I looked at the empty chair on my right, and then at the empty chair on my left. Then I said to myself, I am going to be the one who lives. I am going to be in that 30%.
****
Fall 2007
On Becoming a Warrior….by Not Dying Today
I live by a number.
Each month I get a new one. I call to ask for it and while the nurse searches in my electronic lab file, I hold my breath. It’s as though I’m under water, just below the surface. So close that I can see the sky and the sun but submerged deep enough that I could drown if I breathe before it’s safe to resurface.
Then I get my number… 5.2, or 7.2 or 3.9 or 7.1 and I’m back in the world. But I know some day that number will probably be too high and I’ll gasp, choke and begin to drown.
But I’m Not Dying Today.
Ovarian cancer sucks.
Last November the diagnosis came out of nowhere.
Throughout the summer I unpacked into our new dream house at the beach, not knowing I was sick. I raced around at work, put in l-o-n-g hours setting up our board of directors web site, sat through days of our Annual Meeting, remained stoic and supportive when my husband resigned his job–and 20 year career–to start his own business, then began packing for the trip of a lifetime to Tasmania, Australia–all the while unaware that I was dying. Or rather, something inside was growing and trying to kill me. My number then was 114. Too high!
The trip to Tasmania was cancelled. I had a back ache and one thing led to another and what do you know, the week before I was to get on a plane, fly around the world and dance under the stars along the Tamar River, celebrating the wedding of a dear friend’s son, I was having a vaginal sonogram. The look on the technician’s face said it all when I asked her, “Am I going on my trip?”
Oh hell yes, I was starting a journey.
An operation to remove the cysts. My gynecological oncologist said the operation would be short if the growths were benign so when my husband saw Dr. B walking toward him after I had been in the OR for only two hours he felt buoyant. But then the doctor said my husband needed to make a decision. My sister, a nurse given to expecting the worse, thought I must be in a coma and it was time to decide whether to put me on life support or let me go. The question was not so profound but still quite sobering.
Dr. B explained that I not only had cancer but that it was Stage IIIC and had metastasized and was eating into my colon. He could do a bowel re-section (remove the affected tissue and rejoin my intestines with my rectum) or he could perform a colostomy which would give me the absolutely best shot at knocking back the cancer. That’s because the colostomy would make it easier for post-surgical chemo called Intraperitoneal Chemotherapy. This is where they put a hole in your side, insert a port with a 5 inch tube attached to it. It hangs inside you and when in use it dumps directly into the abdomen one of the most blistering, heavy duty cancer fighting drugs in use today–Cisplatin. The same drug that “cured” Lance Armstrong. That would be platinum. That’s right, just like the metal used to make my engagement ring–but that’s another story.
So my husband had to decide. Dr. B helped though because in a private conversation only the day before I sat up on the edge of the examining table and told him even though he thought there was a pretty good chance my cysts might be benign, I wanted him to know what I expected if they weren’t. I didn’t know what I was going to say until I said it: “I want to survive. The most important thing to me is to live. I want the most aggressive treatment available. You may have to make a decision after I’m out and I want you to do what you have to do.”
I didn’t know I felt this way until the words came pouring out. Me, the one who got a French manicure every two weeks, kept my graying hair perfectly colored and wore it in an “oh so edgy” short cut., the one who spent way too much money on clothes and expensive makeup said this: “I do not care about body image. I just want to live as long as I can.”
Funny what facing death can make you say.
And I knew that day when I left my doctor that 24 hours later I would be told I have cancer. I just knew it. I awoke in the Recovery Room with my husband on one side and my sister on the other, each holding a hand. My sister said, “It’s cancer” and my darling husband said “We have the fight of our lives in front of us…”
And here I am almost a year later… statistically speaking I probably have about 4 more years–if I’m lucky. But I’ve also met women who have survived with late stage ovarian cancer for many, many years–10 years, 15 years, 20 years. We don’t hear much about them and they do have incredible stories. I want to be like them.
I survived induction chemo (3 months of true hell), a second surgery to reverse my colostomy–good news because this could only be done if the cancer was in remission.
But my life is still tubes dripping poison into my veins once a month, no eyelashes (oh God all that mascara going to waste), some hair sprouting (some days), a racing mind, looking backwards and forwards at the same time, plummeting emotions, jumpy legs in the middle of the night, ideas for great escapes, early morning cleaning frenzies, an incision site that still isn’t properly healed, still a workaholic, dreaming of the future, shrieking into the wind and rain at midnight (my husband slept through it). Moments of unbelievable tenderness with my one and only son. Crazy good times with my girlfriends. And did I mention that I still love wine and good food?
I don’t want pity. I want to figure out how to survive. How to LIVE WELL. Become a warrior .Get back in the world. Not give up. Find time to laugh. Curse at a**h***s (at least in my mind if not out my mouth), make time for fun, honor friendships and family. Try to figure out how to live well every moment so that when my number is up I’ll have no regrets.
Pretty freakin’ melodramatic aren’t I?
In two days I have to go to the lab, have blood drawn (yet again for the millionth time) and then hold my breath for three more days. Until I get my number. I hope it’s 3.