A tale of “me too”.

I know it’s been an age since I wrote Part 3. Honestly, it was emotional going over all this again and it’s taken some time to get myself together. (And I went on holiday, but more about that later!)
In Part 1 I talked about the betrayal of breast cancer.
In Part 2 I went on about being in hospital in a pandemic.
In Part 3 I raged about the indignity of it all.
Today I explain what happened next.

You are reading this, written in 2022, about events in 2020. So obviously I survive. I am good. I feel healthy, if a little bit rounder. I’ve just had my 2nd year mammography and everything is clear. I still hold my breath everytime I see the doctor, but so far, so good.

We jump back in time, without a DeLorean, to late 2020 and a routine follow up at the gyno.

At this point, I am feeling better. The rage and fear have subsided and life goes on as normal. I have had regular Osteo appointments to get full mobility back in my shoulder. I even start to have a mini period again. I think this is a good thing. My gyno does not agree. At my regular three monthly meetup with her, she does her due diligence and checks the “internals” for wear and tear. And lo and behold….there is a big something something on my ovary. (Backstory, ovarian cancer is relatively common in women who have survived breast cancer – as if you hadn’t been kicked enough. Am I right?)

Now, I am pretty sketchy on the timeline that follows, but the following things happened (but maybe not in this order):

– an absolute public meltdown where breathing is not present
– an emergency meeting with another surgeon who specialises in ovaries
– a month of “let’s watch this and see”
– a “there is nothing on your ovary” conversation
– the specialist wanting me checked for the “Angelina Jolie” gene
– the genetics centre refusing to do the “Angelina Jolie” gene test
– utter frustration
– the “Oh, it’s back” conversation
– another operation
– ovaries be gone

Do you know what a Christmas turkey feels like? I do. I am getting slowly carved up. I have 3 more scars and a belly button that looks like the floor of an abattoir. Those of you who know me well, understand. I am allergic to my own belly button. I’m not even joking. I hate touching it. How the hell am I going to keep it clean?

The physical recovery time for  an oophorectomy (the “oooooo please take my ovaries out” procedure) is less than the for breast cancer but emotionally, I think I find this harder. One cancer, ok. This can be chalked up to a colossal universal error. But potentially two? WTF! It’s a real punch in the…. ahhhh…. ovaries.

Thankfully, this lump/sac/arsehole proves to not be a cancer. Of course, then I am left wondering what all the fuss was about. Could I have kept my ovaries intact, after all? Just to be clear: my ovaries are not missed. They were potentially the most useless organ ever bestowed on any human being. But the thought that cancer might be attacking another part of my body was SHATTERING.

I am now in full blown menopause and immediately start putting on weight. JOY! Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.

Circling back to my rant about being lucky….I know I have people to thank: (Here comes my Oscar speech…)
Thank you to: my gyno, the boobie specialist , the boobie surgeon, the ovary surgeon – for (lets face it) saving my life, my darling – for being calm in the face of my unravelling, Ms Thing – for picking up, Isobel – for the hugs, the Singapore Cancer Crew girls – for the context and support, everyone who answered their phones and everyone who has read this and been so supportive.

Also, never undervalue the input of Ben and Jerry.

These people truly make me feel lucky, even in the crappiest of times. And this has been a crappy time. Fingers crossed and thumbs pressed for no more of these shenanigans.

Yours, in good health, Angela.