English
Cancer is a warning. I responded to this warning in the fall of 2018 when, at age 45, I received the frightening diagnosis of ovarian cancer. I was stage 2a and underwent surgery and chemotherapy in the spring of 2019. So I set out to change everything! I moved from the East Coast to the Midwest to be closer to my friends and family. I started and ended a relationship, changed jobs, and started taking Pilates and TRX classes. I finally renovated my house, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I took the trips I always dreamed of. I even threw a month-long party on the shores of Lake Michigan for my 50th birthday.
And not every moment was Instagram-worthy. After my cancer, I overcame my fear of failure and started writing. I took classes to learn how to write plays and performed at public storytelling events. I worked on a 12-step program for adult children from alcoholics and dysfunctional families. I wanted to break the patterns I had had since childhood.
I’ve seen the statistics. I didn’t like the term “survival without progress.” I thought they were still talking about remissions. But I saw that the average after diagnosis was 18 months of life without cancer progression. He was 1800 days old. My situation is unique and I was determined not to waste a single moment. As people say, most people overestimate what they can achieve in a year and underestimate what they can achieve in ten years. I had the best version of my life. I didn’t want to know anything about cancer.
Annie, 2019
In March 2024, I felt like something was wrong. This time I was determined not to ignore the signs. I noticed something like a phantom pain coming and going on my left side. Every time I passed a mirror, I stopped to examine my midsection. The main blood test for a tumor marker linked to ovarian cancer is called CA125. I have had results of 4 or 5 (essentially undetectable) since the first treatment. I sent a message to my care team telling them I was scared and couldn’t shake the fear of missing early signs of bloating. In April my CA125 was 7. I resolved to stop obsessing. I was sure everything would turn out well.
When I had my blood drawn in July, I was optimistic. It was the weekend of a music festival. Friends with whom I began to take the trips I had always dreamed of had come to my city by plane. Before taking the blood, I asked my medical team: What numbers were worrying? They said as long as they stayed under 12, they weren’t alarming. This analysis came up with 14. I was sure this would be my last music festival.
Annie, at a music festival in 2024
They scheduled a CT scan for me. The results were completely unclear. My joy was short. I understood what my registered nurse meant when she said, “Sometimes these things take a while to develop.” I lived in a strange state of “ambiguity” for a few months. All conversations were difficult. What should I share? Would you cause unnecessary stress to the lives of the people you tell about it? Would his emotional reaction stress me out? When the numbers came down one September day, I celebrated like I’d won the lottery. In December, my CA125 was 19. A second set of tests confirmed what I had known for nine months: my cancer was returning. The first diagnosis was painful, a warning from the universe. The recurrence was much worse. As if I had suddenly been hit in the stomach. My heart was shattered and my spirit was completely broken.
It was a miracle that I recognized the recurrence of my cancer so early. A sign of how much progress I’ve made since the last time I missed completely obvious signs. One morning, before what I knew deep inside was confirmed, I asked myself what other regrets I had in my life. I immediately thought of something. I wasn’t completely happy with my body. I immediately met with my therapist, who referred me to a body image group. After many weeks, with the help of tools and resources, I gradually changed my mind. I couldn’t start treatment if I didn’t feel inner peace.
My amazing friends, family and colleagues have once again supported me. I had laparoscopic surgery and then started another six chemotherapy treatments. The second time was much more difficult. Was it age? Or a traumatic reaction from cryotherapy during treatment (I really hate cryotherapy!)? I slowly began to understand that this is now a chronic disorder. I was ashamed. My situation was no longer so special.
I just didn’t have the optimism and faith that I had the first time. I had persistent existential sadness. Even the most trivial decisions were difficult. I am extremely extroverted and usually feel most comfortable when I am in the company of other people. But this time I felt like a wounded animal. I wanted to be alone and hide in my bed. Because of my supervisors, I couldn’t improve my mentality. He also found it difficult to accept his positive intentions.
During the first four treatments it got progressively worse. Finally, in the fifth cycle, I began to hope. I had my last treatment the day after my 52nd birthday. I got some of my charm back. Unexpectedly, I also met someone just before my exams in December. She was also a cancer survivor and literally gave me the encouragement I needed.
Since completing treatment, I have become stronger and found a new standard of normality. I’m grateful to be receiving a PARP inhibitor that will hopefully extend my progression-free survival for a long time (I’ve come to terms with that concept!). I’m slowly starting to see repetition not as a failure, but as a finer filter of my life. Cancer makes things clearer. Only the most critical and significant things are kept. After the relapse, my relationship with cancer changed. I can’t part with it; We’re talking non-stop right now. But I’m grateful that the conversations these days aren’t about death.
This educational resource was created with support from Merck.
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