MY STORY
One woman gets loud about the `whispering disease'
September 25, 2008
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Claudia Connor
SPECIAL TO THE STAR
On July 17, 2007, I had a follow-up appointment with my doctor after a routine cyst removal surgery. The words she spoke would change my world and life forever.
"I'm sorry. You have ovarian cancer."
Blank. Nothing was registering.
My whole body began to feel fuzzy. Luckily, my mother came with me that day and didn't leave my side. My gynecologist started to cry. I refused to cry.
Crying meant accepting and understanding the news that had just been delivered to me. I was angry. I knew I was perfectly healthy and that this was a lie.
I went into Spanish Inquisition mode. How did I get this? Why did this happen to me? Can I still have children? Will I die?
I fired off question after question. My poor gynecologist was at a loss. "You have to see an oncologist. We have to book you in but just so you know, it could take a few weeks."
When someone tells you that you have cancer and you have to wait a few weeks to find out answers to your questions, you go insane. In the case of my husband Sean, he just went into action. While he spent countless hours on the phone with different hospitals trying to book an appointment, I went to the Internet and found Ovarian Cancer Canada's website.
What I discovered only made me angrier.
Ovarian cancer is a silent killer, known as the "whispering disease." Its symptoms include bloating, cramping, loss of appetite and frequent urination. Because the symptoms are so easily overlooked, most women are diagnosed too late. This type of cancer typically hits women in their late 50s and 60s.
But I was only 33, and a powerhouse of energy. Sure, I got cramping and bloating, along with the other billions of menstruating women in the world. That doesn't mean we have cancer.
Sean and I finally met with the oncologist and confirmed the pathology report's findings. I still couldn't believe it.
"You have stage one, " he said. "That's good. To give you the best fighting chance, we'll need to remove your uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes, and, with chemotherapy, you should be..." That's when the buzzing in my head began.
I had just been told I have a life-threatening disease, and my best hope for survival was to rip out all of my organs related to any child-bearing function. My world was completely shattered.
This could not be happening to me. Sean and I had been planning to start a family that year.
I wanted to wake up Sunday mornings to the sounds of little feet running up the stairs and hear the one word my heart ached to hear: Mommy.
The oncologist maintained that I was very lucky they had caught it early. With a hysterectomy and chemotherapy, I could live to a ripe old age.
All I wanted to do was hide under the covers and have my mother hold me and tell me it was going to be okay. It was so hard telling my friends and family. The look in their eyes was disbelief and sheer anguish. But the love that emanated back was also recharging.
While we waited for my surgery, Sean championed to get a second and third opinion. I would have never had my surgery so soon if it wasn't for his determination. My surgery was on Aug. 13 and it was a success. We had won the battle.
Now, we had to finish the war. I just had all my maternal organs cut out of my body so I could never have children, but I would live a long life. I wanted to go back to bed, press my morphine button, and slide into darkness where I didn't have to feel anything.
During the day, I kept busy with tai chi and yoga at cancer support groups like Wellspring. It was the nights that were long and dangerous. I stayed up for hours, thinking about what my baby would have looked like. I even named her: Olivia.
I knew in my heart that I had beaten the cancer. On Dec. 20, 2007, I had my final chemo treatment.
All of my family and the medical staff that had nursed me back to health, cheered me on as I rang the ceremonial bell. I rang it so hard that I left a dent in the wooden plaque. It felt so exhilarating to ring that bell.
Two months later, I noticed that a small bump had surfaced on my lower abdomen. The doctors confirmed that a rogue cancer cell had gotten loose and somehow survived the chemo. Just one more surgery, accompanied by 28 radiation treatments, would do the trick.
Finally, it's over. The summer of 2008 has come and gone and I couldn't be happier.
Right after my last radiation treatment, Sean and I sold the house and moved to a beautiful new home. I just started running again and I am completely smitten with our new puppy, Portia. On Sept. 7, at the Winners Walk of Hope for Ovarian Cancer in Toronto, I nervously took the microphone. I looked into the crowd and saw my dear friends and family, standing by me yet again.
My mom was volunteering too. She caught my eye and I thought, "We did it. It's over."
I had never heard of ovarian cancer before that fateful summer day. My guess is many other women out there are just like me. I hope one day a screening test can be developed so it can be caught early. Until then, I will tell my story and maybe someone will think twice the next time she feels a pain and thinks it's nothing.
Toronto Star