The Sweetest Word

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I got a card in the mail from my OB/GYN office this week.¬†Just a simple card with a couple of check marks and one beautiful, glorious word: “benign.”

For a cancer patient, this is the best word in the world. It means everything’s OK. Everything checked out. You can actually exhale.

In my anxiety-ridden mind, I’d already diagnosed myself with ovarian cancer before this procedure. I’d gone as far as mentally preparing myself for the news, trying to wrap my mind around what that would mean–more chemo, more invasive surgery, maybe radiation, maybe death. This is what life is like post-cancer. Worst-case scenarios running through the mind all the time.

But thankfully, this is one I no longer have to worry about. I am so grateful.

 

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Notes from the OR

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Pre-op fashion

Yesterday’s oophorectomy went well. My doctor didn’t see anything that looked weird (huge sigh of relief), and the procedure was pretty uneventful. I was home by around lunchtime.

My torso scar collection has grown by three, although these are pretty small (and let’s be honest, my bikini days are over anyway). I’m sore, but it’s not unmanageable–much less pain than my c-section or mastectomy.

I’m not going to lie, it was a little sad to take a pregnancy test (standard procedure) and then sign a form confirming that I realized going through this procedure meant I wouldn’t be able to have any more children. It’s weird because even though we’d already made the decision to only have one child, the finality of all this still feels like a loss.

But what I’m gaining–some additional peace of mind–is worth it. At the end of the day, I have to remember that it’s not about mourning children that won’t be, but celebrating the gift of time with the precious child I do have.

Ultra-Sad

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Last month I started taking Tamoxifen, an estrogen blocker often prescribed to women with breast cancers that are estrogen receptors, like mine. This medication helps block the hormone from feeding cancer cells, and works to reduce recurrence.

As one would expect, though, any medication that tinkers with hormones can have some wonky side effects. I’d heard some horror stories–side effects so bad that the patients had to discontinue or find an alternative medication–but my side effects have been pretty minimal, thus far.

That said, I started noticing some mild pelvic pain a couple weeks ago. Nothing major, just a little pain/pressure, mostly when I was walking or active.

Old me would have just ignored it and moved on. New, paranoid cancer patient me lets very little go unchecked. Though inconsistent, the pain persisted for more than a week, so I called my OB-GYN’s office to let them know (per the instructions on my Tamoxifen patient leaflet).

Yesterday, I went in to have everything checked out.

Going to my OB-GYN office is kind of a sad experience for me nowadays. The place is teeming with women at various stages of pregnancy–the newly-pregnant, with their nervous significant others in tow; the second-trimester gals, all cute belly and glowy faces; and the almost-done ladies, bellies about to pop with¬†that third-trimester look of being completely over feeling like a beached whale.

I’m done having children. I’d made that decision long before my cancer diagnosis. But I still can’t help feeling a pang of jealousy when I see these women. I loved being pregnant, and there are days that I would love to be pregnant again, but that’s not in the cards for me.

This visit only intensified those feelings. After my exam, my doctor sent me to the ultrasound room for a quick look-see just to be certain everything was kosher.

The last time I was in this part of the office, I was one of those pregnant women, excited to get a look at my unborn child. I absolutely loved getting ultrasounds. It was so cool to see my little guy moving around inside me. That blurry black-and-white screen was full of promise and excitement.

Not so much this time. As the tech went to work, I watched the screen nervously, this time hoping my womb and surrounding area were empty. She made a few measurements, and when I asked questions, she gave me some vague answers–standard protocol for ultrasounds. But sensing my terror, she reassured me when she was done that it looked good.

My OB seconded that opinion when we met in her office shortly thereafter, going so far as to say that my uterus and ovaries were “textbook perfect.” Too bad these model parts are where no one can see them!

I left the office with a sense of relief tinged with sadness. Though my decision to be one-and-done was already made, a part of me still mourns the end of this chapter of my life. And I’m angry about the no-turning-back finality that my cancer adds to that ending.