Cancer is a wake-up call. I answered the question in the fall of 2018, when I received the shocking diagnosis of ovarian cancer at the age of 45. I was stage 2a and had successful debulking surgery and chemotherapy in the spring of 2019. Then I set out to change almost 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 Pilates and TRX classes. I finally renovated my house, which was long overdue. I took the trips I had always dreamed of. I even organized a month-long 50th birthday party on the shores of Lake Michigan.
And it wasn’t just Instagram-worthy moments. After my cancer, I overcame my fear of failure and started writing. I took classes to learn playwriting and performed at public storytelling events. I created a 12-step program for adult children from alcoholics and dysfunctional families. I wanted to break patterns that had haunted me since childhood.
See, I had seen the statistics. I didn’t like the term “progression-free survival” – I thought remission still existed. But I had seen that the median was 18.4 months for the cancer to stop progressing after diagnosis. I had had 1,800 days. I was a unicorn and determined not to take a moment for granted. As they say, most people overestimate what they can achieve in a year and underestimate what they can achieve in ten years. I was living my best life. I hung up the phone and hung up on Krebs.
Annie, 2019
In March 2024 I felt something was wrong. This time I was determined not to miss the signs. I noticed a kind of phantom pain coming and going on my left side. Every time I walked past a mirror, I stopped to examine my midsection. The main blood test for a tumor marker linked to ovarian cancer is called CA125. I had received a 4 or 5 (essentially undetectable) since the first treatment. I messaged my care team and told them I was worried and couldn’t shake the fear that I was missing early signs of bloating. In April my CA125 was 7. I told myself to stop fixating. Surely the cancer had made a mistake.
I was cautiously optimistic going into the July blood draw. It was the weekend of a music festival. Friends who I had started taking these bucket list trips with had flown into the city. Before taking the blood, I asked my medical team: What number should we care about? They said as long as I stayed under 12 we wouldn’t raise the alarm. I got a 14. I was sure this was my last music festival.
Annie, at a music festival, 2024.
Then I was scheduled for a CT scan. The results were completely inconclusive. My joy was short-lived. I understood what my nurse meant when she said, “Sometimes these things take a while to develop.” I lived in this uncomfortable state of “indecision” for a few months. Every conversation was difficult to navigate. How much should I share? Would I add unnecessary stress to their lives? Would her emotional reaction stress me out? When my number dropped by one point in September, I celebrated like I’d won the lottery. In December, my CA125 was 19. A second set of scans confirmed what I had known for nine months – my cancer was back. The first diagnosis felt like a kick in the butt, a nudge from the universe. Recurrence felt like a kick in the teeth. A sharp punch in the stomach. An absolutely broken heart and a broken spirit.
It was a miracle that I was diagnosed with cancer again so early. A sign of how much I had grown since the last time I missed bright, flashing neon signs. One morning, before it was confirmed, but when my deep knowing was certain, I asked myself what other regrets I had in my life. One thing immediately came to the surface: I had not made complete peace with my body. I immediately went to my therapist, who referred me to a body image group. Over the course of many weeks, I gradually changed my feelings with the help of tools and support. I couldn’t allow myself to be at war with myself.
My amazing friends, family and colleagues have once again supported me. I had laparoscopic surgery and then started another round of six rounds of chemotherapy. The second time was much more difficult. Was it age? Or a traumatic reaction to having to endure icing during treatment (I really hate icing!)? The realization slowly dawned on me: this is now a chronic illness. I was ashamed. I was stripped of my unicorn title.
The optimism and confidence I had the first time through just wasn’t there. I was haunted daily by existential grief. Even the smallest decisions were difficult. I’m extremely extroverted and usually feel most comfortable when I’m surrounded by people. But this time I felt like a wounded animal. I wanted to be alone and hide in my bed. I couldn’t convey a positive vibe to my caregivers. I also struggled to understand her positive intentions.
With the first four treatments it got progressively worse. In the fifth cycle I finally started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had my last treatment the day after my 52nd birthday. I had found some of my mojo. In a completely unexpected twist of fate, I also met someone shortly before my scans in December. She was also a cancer survivor and literally pulled me across the finish line.
Since completing treatment I have been getting stronger and finding a new normal. I am grateful to be taking a PARP inhibitor, which will hopefully extend my progression-free survival for a long time. (I’ve come to terms with this concept!) I’m slowly starting to look at repetition no longer as a failure, but just as a finer sieve into which to pour my life again. Cancer clears up. Only the most critical and meaningful things can get through. After the relapse, my relationship with cancer changed. I can’t part with it; We are now in an ongoing dialogue. But I’m grateful that none of us spend much time talking about dying these days.
This educational resource was created with support from Merck.
Do you have any real women, real stories of your own that you would like to share? Let us know.
Our “Real Women, Real Stories” are the authentic experiences of real-life women. The views, opinions and experiences shared in these stories are not endorsed by HealthyWomen and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of HealthyWomen.
From your website articles
Related articles on the Internet