Ovareactions

I hadn’t really felt scared up until this point. But surgery scared me. One of the things I found most difficult about going through a cancer diagnosis and treatment was the lack of control I had over anything. Things just happen to you and you have to trust that they’re the right things. It’s why I inwardly roll my eyes whenever I hear someone say something along the lines of ‘keep fighting’. I know these people mean well but no amount of ‘fight’ can beat cancer. Your life is in the hands of science and medical professionals, and is at the mercy of a disease that does whatever the fuck it feels like. If cancer had killed me, would that have been because I didn’t put up a good enough fight?

Surgery, especially, felt like a major loss of control. My first concern was whether I would wake up at all. That might seem irrational but my mind couldn’t help jump to the worst case scenario. My second concern was if I did wake up, would it be a success? Signing the consent form didn’t help with catastrophising. Of course, you have to be made aware of all the possible worst case scenarios so you can make an informed decision. It wasn’t exactly a tough choice; opt out of surgery and definitely be killed by cancer at some point, or have the surgery and possibly have some complications, but have the best chance of surviving cancer. One of the risks was perforation of the bowel which would mean further surgery to repair it. For some reason, I really fixated on this risk and was convinced I was going to end up with a stoma.

My parents stood in the corridor to wave me off as I was wheeled down to theatre. By the time I arrived there, I was sobbing. Maybe it was because I’d just seen my parents but I felt like a helpless child. The sea of faces in the room made me realise the gravity of it all. All those people were there for me. I remember the anaesthetists’ kindness and comfort as they sent me to sleep. In a few hours, I was awake and being moved back to my room on the ward. Unsurprisingly, my memories of this time are hazy. I was hooked up to a morphine pump (would recommend) and barely knew where I was.

Now we had the wait. The wait to see whether surgery had been successful but also the wait for my full diagnosis. Opening me up was an opportunity to investigate further. In addition to taking biopsies from the tumour, biopsies were taken from the surrounding area. Because my tumour had ruptured, there was a risk that the disease had started to make itself at home elsewhere.

The day after surgery, I went for a chest CT scan to check for any spread to the lungs. I remember the radiographer questioning why on earth they had sent me down in a wheelchair rather than my bed, as he carefully lifted me onto the scan machine. I couldn’t even sit myself up, let alone climb onto anything. By the end of that day, I’d developed a method of rolling myself out of bed so I didn’t have to call a nurse every time I needed the toilet. I was determined to get back up and moving ASAP so I could go home.

Back to that wait. It felt like forever. In reality, it was only three or four days. The ward sister had very kindly allowed my mom to visit. While there were still some visiting restrictions in place, I was in a room on my own and she recognised how important it was to have my mom with me. Plus, it helped the nurses out; my mom could shower me and dress me, so it was one less thing for them to worry about. By now, I was managing to walk around a little bit on my own and was told I could go home that day.

As I prepared to go home, Mr Baxter came to see me. This was it.

“So, we had the pathology results… there’s nothing surprising. It’s good news.”

The relief washed over me. ‘Good news’ may have been a stretch. I mean, it was still cancer. But it hadn’t spread. In the grand scheme of things, it was ‘good news’. Mr Baxter was shortly followed by my surgeon and my Macmillan nurse.

The surgeon, a very sweet and apologetic guy, proceeded to explain the procedure and what they’d found. My germ cell tumour, very rare but more common in younger women, was a mix of an immature teratoma and a yolk sac tumour. They were expecting the yolk sac tumour due to my elevated AFP levels, but the immature teratoma was more of a surprise. This part of the tumour was particularly aggressive. On a scale of 1-3, it was a grade 3, because it consisted of neurological components. Within a couple of minutes of this conversation, chemotherapy was being discussed. My Macmillan nurse had already pre-warned me that chemo might be on the cards but hearing that this type of tumour meant it was now a definite was hard. The good news was that they hadn’t found anything else during my surgery. Everything appeared to be confined to my left ovary. The caveat to that, of course, was the rupture which would have likely left some sneaky cancer cells lurking in my stomach.

It was at this point that I found out I’d already been referred to Professor Seckl at Charing Cross and I’d be seeing him within a week to discuss my treatment plan. So I was now not only faced with chemotherapy but with chemotherapy miles away from home. It was a hell of a lot to take in. My Macmillan nurse stayed with me and my mom to explain what a possible treatment plan might look like. I was left with piles of leaflets about germ cell tumours that I couldn’t bring myself to read for a good few days.

It was hard to even contemplate the next steps when I was still raw, physically and mentally, from major surgery. I could barely look when the nurse removed the dressing from my stomach. I had a midline incision from just below my belly button down to my groin. I told myself that my days of flouncing around in crop tops and bikinis were probably over anyway. I’ve only just started to accept my new body. The scar is always a reminder of what I’ve been through; sometimes that makes me feel strong, and sometimes it makes me feel sad. I still get random bloating and twinges on the left side occasionally. But without that surgery, I wouldn’t be here. So I might just brave that bikini this summer.