Cancer should be a four letter word
I used to think that words were just that - Words. Something we used in communication, uttered in anger, mumbled in frustration. I never gave words all that much thought, until they used the "C" word and I had to wake up.
It was 1996 and I was forty one years old, in a loving relationship and trying to get pregnant. My gynecological appointment the previous year had shown no problems, all tests were negative for sexually transmitted diseases, and cervical cancer. The man I was with was loving, giving, caring and most of all, had a wonderful sense of humor. What more could a woman want?
Yet, I wanted a baby. I wanted to know, and experience what giving birth was all about. I wanted to nourish and care for and teach and ... The Universe had other plans for me. Plans I was unaware of at that time.
My cycles had always been irregular, yet to me that was the norm so I knew it was going to be difficult to get pregnant.
I began to gain weight in my mid-section, but all the pregnancy tests were negative. When I was unable to tie my shoes, and felt a constant pressure on my bladder, I made the decision to go see my physician. The "C" word was something I'd never considered.
The primary doctor sent me for ultrasound. I was told that I had fibroid tumors and that I could "live with them or have them taken out." I opted for a second opinion. Something to this day I will always be thankful I did.
Lesson one: Always ask questions, always challenge the answers.
During the exam for my second opinion, my gynecologist was unable to insert the speculum and surgery was scheduled quickly. Still no mention of the "C" word.
I was the "good patient." I trusted that the doctors, who'd spent years in higher education, knew what they were doing. (I hadn't learned lesson one yet.)
I don't think the doctor was prepared for what he found. He had maintained his cavalier attitude during the exam, and the pre-op visit. Something he was unable to do once I awoke in recovery.
I think he told me I had cancer at that time, but to this day I don't remember if he did. In actuality, it was a mutual friend of my doctor and I who uttered the word cancer to me. I do know he told me that they'd removed both ovaries, my uterus and cervix.
I was devastated. It had never occurred to me that this might be the outcome from my surgery.
After all, I was trying to get pregnant!
The emotional roller coaster ride had begun. There hadn't been time for it before the surgery, everything had happened so fast.
I was suddenly faced with the fact that I would never know what giving birth was all about. I would never feel that tiny baby's first movement. There would be no prenatal visits, no shopping for infant wear, no painting the second bedroom in pastel yellow.
I felt a great loss. Not just the fact that I wouldn't, couldn't bear children, but a loss of wholeness. My womanhood had been taken from me; my Goddess(ness) altered.
The relationship that I had come to cherish, to adore, that had healed me from so many past pains, was beginning to show the stress of it all. We never discussed my loss. I needed him to wrap me in his arms and assure me that all would be well again.
He never did that. No one did.
Mother came to care for me during my recovery. Dutiful she was, cooking, cleaning, chastising me when I smoked around my oxygen. Mom never asked about my diagnosis, I never said. With as much company as I had, I'd never felt so very alone.
There was never any talk of chemo or radiation or even any follow-up care.
Would you believe I still had not learned lesson one?
I began researching ovarian cancer on the Internet. I had so many questions, and the conspiracy of silence kept me from asking.
Although I don't recommend finding medical answers online, the information does give one a sense of empowerment; and I was empowered.
Surgery was the suggested course of treatment, and all margins were clear, meaning all the neighboring tissue was free from any residual cancer cells. During cancer surgery, the surgeon will remove not only the tumor itself but also a portion of the surrounding tissue. This tissue is then sent to a pathologist for immediate determination of the visual presence of cancer cells under a microscope. If cancer cells are seen, additional tissue is removed (re-excised) until the tissue margins are determined to be clear; I was cancer-free.
My relationship crumbled. Was it the cancer? The fact that he and I couldn't have children together? I'll never know, but I moved on, moved away and began to make a new life for myself.
In 2001 when I was diagnosed with Malignant Melanoma, I knew enough ... I had learned lesson one.
There was a small mole on my back. Nothing I paid much attention to, after all I couldn't see it. My doctor had mentioned once or twice to have it checked by a dermatologist, but she never seemed that concerned.
I did see a dermatologist. He did a biopsy and I waited patiently for the results. Not because I trusted he knew what he was doing. I was patient because I had learned that no matter what life throws at me, no matter what curve in the Universe I might come up against, I am a survivor.
I went back to the Internet and did my research. By the time I had my results, I knew enough about skin cancer to have told the doctor a thing or two.
It's still shocking, emotionally frightening when you hear the word, "Cancer."
The doctor called me at work and gave me the news, "Do you have a pen and paper?" He asked of me. I didn't, but assured him I would remember whatever he had to tell me.
"You have malignant melanoma. Now I don't want you to get upset." If I hadn't been so shocked, I would have laughed aloud. He told me to make an appointment with a surgeon as soon as possible. I thanked him, hung up the phone, and in a daze went back to my desk. Apparently I was a bit pale; I remember someone mouthing the words, "Are you okay?" when I passed by. With tears in my eyes, I mouthed back, "Cancer."
Even a survivor sheds tears.
I arranged to see my family that evening to tell them the results. Mom was all about being tough and my brother was silently concerned. And me? I needed a hug.
Lesson two: Don't be afraid to ask for what you need. Demand it if you have to.
This time I went into it with my eyes wide open. I knew what the surgery entailed, every detail. I knew about the sentinel node biopsy (thankfully knew, although knowledge can't prepare you for the discomfort.) I knew about recovery time, and I knew about treatments for melanoma. I knew what caused it, and how to prevent it.
When I met with my oncologist, I was armed with questions and ready to challenge his answers; I was one empowered survivor!
There was a brief time when it was thought my cancer had spread to the brain (which in my mind answered questions about some foolish decisions I had made in my life) but the cancer hadn't spread; I was once again cancer-free.
There are so many lessons one can learn from the adversities of life, if one chooses to learn; I've learned more than my share.
Life is a gift. I can choose to peel back the layers that gift is wrapped in, no matter what it reveals, or I can choose to be ignorant of the gift.
Life is scary sometimes, but cancer?
It's just another four letter word.
J. A. Stroud
Published in "SHE Caribbean" Spring 2003
I've posted this for purely selfish reasons - it would appear that I am once again facing the possiblity of cancer and wanted this to be my personal reminder of what I've learned.