Part 3: No thank you, Thor

*Disclaimer - this next part of my story discusses cancer and the raw, emotional experience that we went through as a family. If you are not in a place to read this please skip ahead to other posts, I’ll have a disclaimer prior to any post that includes this topic moving forward. I’ve been in your shoes, it’s ok to protect your heart by not reading every story put out into the world.*

I cried when I got to my car. I called my husband to update him, then I pulled myself together and called my parents.

I want to say it was a week later, but it may have been just days. I was at work and my phone rang. It read “Cleveland Clinic”. I answered immediately and recognized my gynecologists voice. (Remember the time I said working with my husband would be invaluable? We have arrived to exhibit A). My doctor speaks soft and slow, I can tell she’s concerned. I already know where this is going. “I’m referring you to oncology, we don’t’ know for sure if it’s cancer until they remove it but if it is I want you in the right place” I hung up the phone. Tears already welling up in my eyes. I shared an office with 5 people and I have no clue who was in the room with me when I got that call. What I did know was that my husband was in a meeting 3 offices away from me. I saw him through the window and knocked on the glass, tears in my eyes. He took one look at me, and he knew. We shut ourselves in a conference room along with our dog, Klaus, and I sobbed like I’ve never sobbed before.

I was able to get in with the oncologist in about a week. At this point I was being reassured that the oncologist was only a precaution, the cyst was likely benign, and at my age (40) ovarian cancer is not likely. I was terrified but I tried to believe it.

A few days after scheduling I received an order to get a blood test prior to my appointment. It was called a CA125 blood test. Don’t know what that is? Neither did I, so I googled it. Curiosity killed the cat - google will be the death of us all. ‘A CA 125 test measures the amount of the protein CA 125 (cancer antigen 125) in the blood.’ All that convincing I did went right out the window. I went to the lab; a gentleman called me into the room. He asked me how I was, but I was already crying. I told him I was just really scared. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt horrible for putting that on him. He’s just taking my blood and what if his name is Carl. OMG what if he’s that lady’s husband?! Then he said to me “I had to get this test done too, it was really scary but mine came back ok.” One little statement, one big impact. I still don’t know if his name was Carl, but he made things easier so it couldn’t have been. (sorry if your name is Carl)

Several days later my husband and I found ourselves in the Gynecologic Oncologist’s office. Turns out it takes me going to a cancer doctor to finally bring someone with me for support.

Things I knew going into this appointment -  I needed surgery, they would explain what Carl was, discuss my options, and tell me what to expect.

Things I invented that would happen going into this appointment – they would do a biopsy on Carl that would probably be incredibly painful, and they would tell me I have stage 4 cancer and am going to die.

None of this was helped when they brought us into the room. I am not a healthcare designer, but I’ve done enough medical office buildings with exam rooms to know the specs. This, my friends, was not an exam room. My eyes whizzed around the room. It was large. It had a patient exam table in the middle of the room. Not off to the side. The MIDDLE, so that equipment can maneuver around it. Said equipment was lined up on the far wall. The floor was covered in an epoxy that didn’t stop at the walls; it went up the cove base. The cove base and floor are made like this so that germs and bacteria don’t get trapped in the cracks. Do you know what kind of rooms have these things? PROCEDURE ROOMS! I freaking knew it. At least when they do the biopsy and my blood starts pouring out into the room because I have stage 4 cancer it’ll be easier to clean up. There was no way they use this room for regular conversations.

You may say - “Or they were booked up that day and had to use a procedure room as an exam room.” Don’t bring your logical thinking into my story, K?

What actually happened is I met the Nurse Practitioner, Bridget. Bridget explained everything in the most controlled and caring way. She told me that my CA125 came back at 45. A number that is not out of the ordinary for a woman still menstruating. They have seen numbers in the hundreds and thousands so 45 is not concerning. We met the oncologist. She walked us through what would happen in surgery. She informed me that they can’t do a biopsy until surgery (there’s no way to access it) but there would be a pathologist in the room during surgery to run tests. If it was cancer they would know immediately and would then determine how much more needs to be removed. When I told her I just wanted everything removed regardless she surprised me. “I understand that being your first reaction, but at 40 to be forced into menopause can be dangerous too. It affects bone density, heart health, mental health. If we can avoid it, we prefer to remove only the ovary and cyst” OH. Menopause. I thought that was just the end of your period. I had never considered what it did to your body, or that it had any negatives. (40 year old Anna, such a naive little baby child)

We agreed to the procedure, then I asked the question every patient wants to know and every doctor doesn’t want to answer. “I know you can’t tell for sure with the information you have today. But based on your experience do you think this is just a benign cyst, or do you think this is cancer?” She responded “Based on the information we have and your CA125 being where it is I think there is a good chance it’s a benign cyst”

We scheduled surgery to be in roughly 2 weeks on Monday, September 26, 2022.

It will come as no surprise that two weeks feels like an eternity when you are trying to convince yourself you aren’t dying of cancer. Life moves forward. I would be ok when I was busy, but in the stillness, I was a wreck. There were days that I felt like I couldn’t breathe from the fear. At this point Carl had become so large and uncomfortable that it felt like I was pregnant. I am someone who typically avoids pain medicine, but I popped ibuprofen like it was candy to dull the pain. It felt like someone jammed a softball between all of my organs. I would try to work in my garden. It was my first year growing full beds of flowers and I loved it, but I got winded incredibly easy. The majority of my time was spent in the corner of our L-shaped couch. We let our kids know what was going on as it was happening, at the time they were 14 and 11. We were honest with the possibility of cancer but reassured them in the same way the doctor tried to reassure me. Our daughter has a logical mind and a passion for the medical field. She wanted the facts and to know if there was a plan to fix it. Once she had that information, she trusted the doctors and knew I would be fine. (Can’t relate.) Our son did ok with it too. He has a lifelong fear of needles and a had a new found fear of surgery ever since our daughter enlightened him on the magical world of appendicitis. It took us years to reassure him that his appendix was not going to burst and every little twinge of pain in his abdomen does not equal surgery. His biggest concern was “Is this something that can happen to me too?” Once he understood that he doesn’t have ovaries so no, this specific thing cannot happen to him too, he was ok. But I was not ok. The kids would go to bed and I would sob on the couch, convinced I would never see them graduate high school. Wondering if I should write letters to them so that when I’m gone they’ll still have words of advice from their mom. I was absolutely devastated by the unknown.

One Friday I wanted to have a movie night and watch something to just laugh and forget. Thor Love and Thunder had just come out on Disney +. I’ve always enjoyed the Thor movies so I was excited to settle in to watch a good looking man and have some laughs. Guys, in the first 5 minutes you find out Jane has stage 4 cancer and then she dies at the end. What in the actual fuck. SOBBING. No laughter to be found. Just sobbing. And this was not the first time that happened. My sweet husband had somewhat recently watched a tv series and really enjoyed it, so he suggested we watch it together. When it starts you know that the main characters’ wife died, but not how or why. I think I even asked my husband if he remembered how and he couldn’t recall. Wouldn’t you know it - before the first episode ends the main character reveals his wife died of ovarian cancer. Can a girl get a distraction here or not?!

1 week before my surgery the doctor’s office called to let me know they needed to move my surgery date to October 5. 9 days past when I initially scheduled it. Not ideal when you are sitting between is it cancer or is it just Carl. We had no control over it and chose to look at it as a positive. The Doctor must not feel like it’s an emergency, so if it’s ok to push it back 9 days it must be benign.

Somehow, I remember those extra days getting easier. I’m not sure if it was the emotions settling in, the weekly therapy sessions (I was so thankful for my therapist through all of this!), or if I had actually managed to convince myself it was just Carl, not cancer. I was fact focused at this point - I have a cyst that needs to be removed and it does not look like cancer. I have pages in a notebook that repeat that sentence over and over.

October 5th finally arrived, I was in a much calmer head space, and I was ready to evict Carl from my womb. Well, my womb area. You get it.

…to be continued