Ovareactions

‘When you’re diagnosed, it feels like someone throws you into the bottom of a pit. And you’re constantly trying to climb your way out of it. You get through treatment and feel like you’re nearly out of the pit, and then just when you think you’ve reached the top, something else throws you back down.’

This was how one of my wonderful friends summarised life with cancer recently. I’ve been at the bottom of that pit. And I’ve been at the top of it. In fact, I’ve had many days where I feel like I’ve made it out of the pit and experienced what a world outside of the darkness is like. But something else always throws you back down.

17 February was my 3-year diagnosis anniversary. I hadn’t really placed any significance on any of the dates connected to my cancer before, but for some reason, this day hit me. I mainly felt angry and pretty sorry for myself. Every positive post on social media pissed me off but I couldn’t look away. Another pregnancy announcement? That’s not fair. You got a new job? Must be nice to be able to focus on your career. And then I feel really guilty for thinking like that. My fellow (former) Catholics will know that feeling all too well.

My 3-year anniversary treat was an appointment with Mr Baxter. I’d been seeing him regularly again because he wanted to keep an eye on a cyst on my remaining ovary. If you have ovaries, it’s pretty likely you have or have had ovarian cysts. Sometimes they can be extremely painful, but often they come and go without fanfare. You wouldn’t even know they’re there. The blessing and the curse of having regular scans is I always know if they’re there. And an ovarian cyst for someone with my history can never be treated as just a cyst.

This cyst had been a particular block in the road since it first reared its ugly head. When I finished my treatment, I was told by my doctors that I’d need to wait 2 years before trying for a baby. Not only to allow my body to recover but also simply due to the regular MRIs I would still be having, which are not pregnancy safe. Honestly, I don’t know if we were ready to try for a baby at that point anyway but having the choice taken away felt like another cruel consequence chucked at us by cancer.

So when that 2-year mark came around in May 2024, we were free to make our choice. Or we thought we would be. But the cyst got in the way of that. The cyst meant regular MRIs were back on the cards. Which meant life had to go on hold yet again.

Every time I got my scan results, I hoped the cyst would have disappeared of its own accord. But instead it was getting bigger. Only a couple of millilitres each time, but enough for me to know how this was probably going to end. Mr Baxter had warned me from the beginning that if the cyst continued to grow, surgery was a possibility.

I knew when I walked into that appointment in February that it wasn’t going to be great news. There were 4 people in the room which is always a red flag. Mr Baxter broke the news quickly. The cyst had grown to 6cm and it needed to be removed. It was one of the very rare occasions I burst into tears in an appointment. I felt like I was right back where I was 3 years ago, signing consent forms for surgery and thinking about all the plans I’d now have to cancel.

My biggest worry was my fertility. What if the surgery went wrong and I lost my remaining ovary? I had to keep reminding myself that the whole point of the surgery was to preserve my fertility. Leaving the cyst to do its thing was more risky; it could rupture or twist into my ovary, meaning the whole ovary would have to be removed.

I was also worried about an upcoming trip I had planned. It sounds like such a trivial thing to be concerned about but this trip was symbolic to me. It was the first solo trip I’d ever booked – an Irish language retreat where I’d spend a week with strangers, fully immersed in the culture and language on a remote island. It was the sort of thing I would have never done before my diagnosis, but being faced with my own mortality has taught me to just go for it, even if it feels uncomfortable or scary. My Macmillan nurse knew how much cancer had already disrupted my life and knew how devastating it would be to have this taken away from me too. The plan was to get the surgery out of the way before my trip so I could put it all behind me.

Just a few days later, I got a call on a Monday morning.

“Can you come in for your pre-op today? Your surgery has been booked for a week’s time.”

Suddenly, everything was moving quickly. I had a few days to tie things up at work ahead of having 6 weeks off, to tell my close friends and family what was happening, to mentally prepare myself.

During the pre-op appointment, we laughed and joked with the nurse assessing me, trying to forget the reality of why we were there.

“When was your last period?”, she asked, after I’d finished performing a dance for her. (This is how delirious I get at appointments now.)

“It actually started today,” I replied.

Later that day, I noticed I wasn’t bleeding anymore. I didn’t think anything of it. There was every chance my periods would be weird at the moment because of the size of the cyst.

When the bleeding still hasn’t resumed by Thursday evening, alarm bells started ringing.

“I think I should do a pregnancy test,” I said to Lambros.

And there it was. A bold, undeniable positive. It was an overpowering mix of emotions for both of us. Shock. Excitement. Worry. My surgery was supposed to be in a few days. Why did I always have to do things the hard way?

The next morning, I phoned my Macmillan nurse.

“I think I’m going to be in trouble, please don’t tell me off… I’m pregnant.”

“Oh Greta,” she sighed.

After a chat with Mr Baxter, she confirmed my surgery would be cancelled. Instead, they’d keep a close eye on me throughout the pregnancy, starting with a scan at the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit the following week. Of course, I wasn’t in trouble. They were all very happy for me. Happy, but worried.

We had started trying for a baby after my last MRI. I was sick of being told what I could and couldn’t do. I figured it would take a long time for me to get pregnant so it wouldn’t hurt to start trying. Neither of us were expecting that we’d be successful on the first try. I bought another test. Surely the first one was wrong. I’d even asked my nurse if the cyst could be causing a false positive but she confirmed it wasn’t that type of cyst. The second test confirmed it – I was pregnant.

Me and Lambros didn’t know what to do with ourselves over the next few days. We were cautious, not wanting to get our hopes up. Because my surgery had been cancelled, we felt we had to tell our close friends and family. We knew they’d be worried about the surgery being cancelled and couldn’t lie to them. Of course, this meant a lot of excitement which we didn’t want to put a dampener on. But it was always in the back of my mind that things wouldn’t work out this time.

Just a few days later, I started bleeding. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Are you meant to call someone? Are you meant to just sit it out? As the bleeding got heavier, I did what I usually do when I’m in doubt and called my nurse. She gave me the number for emergency gynae and told me to call them if things got worse. By the evening, things had got worse. I called and spoke to a lovely nurse who said she’d get a doctor to give me a call. A couple of hours later, the doctor called and gave me the stock advice – ‘Go to A&E.’

The plan was that I’d be assessed at A&E and then be able to go up to the ward. I packed my overnight bag, thinking it’d be a quick stop at triage and then straight up to the ward. We knew as soon as we stepped foot in A&E that was going to be very unlikely. It was swarming with people. We managed to grab the last couple of seats and buckled in for a long wait.

It was a couple of hours before I was called into triage, where I had one of the worst blood tests I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot of blood tests. I was exhausted, in pain and emotional, and now I had blood all over my trousers from my dodgy blood test. A&E is the worst place to be when you feel like shit, but at least it’s entertaining. We watched people kicking off and getting thrown out by security, and heard the ridiculous reasons for people checking in, including ‘I’ve got a plant in me eye’. When I started to hear people around us complain that they’d been waiting over 8 hours, I called the ward again. They told me it’d probably be another 10 hours before I could see a doctor. We’d already been there 3 hours at this point. Hearing someone across the room retching was my final straw. I just wanted to sleep. Even people who’d arrived in ambulances were starting to walk out.

The next few days were a bit of a blur. What are you supposed to do while you’re having a miscarriage? I didn’t want to sit around thinking about it so I carried on working. It felt weird to be sat in meetings, having normal everyday conversations, knowing what was happening with my body. At the end of that week, I went to what was supposed to be my first scan. Instead, I had a blood test to confirm that my HCG levels were dropping and I was definitely miscarrying.

And that was that. The Early Pregnancy Assessment team were wonderful and offered follow-up support, which I refused. The pregnancy didn’t feel real and I wanted to keep it that way. Sometimes I question whether I made it all up. A positive test and a couple of pregnancy symptoms were all I had as ‘proof’. It was easier to pretend it never happened.

Instead, my mind was back on my surgery. The plan now was to reschedule it for after my trip to Ireland. But for the first time, I was aware of the cyst. I could feel pressure in my abdomen and the odd twinge. I tried to convince myself I was imagining it at first. I didn’t want to admit that my trip to Ireland probably wasn’t happening, but I knew that I had to put my health first.

At my regular check-up with my oncologist, I admitted my symptoms. Within a week, I had a date for surgery. I was devastated that I had to cancel my trip but I know I wouldn’t have been able to truly enjoy it with a ticking time bomb in my abdomen. I could have never forgiven myself if I’d ignored my symptoms and ended up losing my remaining ovary.

I felt oddly calm about the surgery. The past few weeks had been so difficult that I think I’d just become numb to everything, to be honest. I just wanted to get it over with. I arrived on the ward at 7:30am on a Sunday morning and by 11am, I was being taken down to theatre.

I was still calm until the point of them trying to get a cannula in. Chemo has absolutely destroyed the veins in my hands. The first attempt had me in tears from the pain. I knew I was bleeding a lot when the theatre nurse called someone else over to help put pressure on the wound. I then heard her say that if they couldn’t find a suitable vein, they wouldn’t be able to continue with the procedure. After some more horrific prodding and poking, they had success. At this point, I was grateful to be put to sleep.

The first thing I asked when I woke up was if I still had my ovary. I asked every member of staff that came near me and no one could tell me, which sent me spiralling. If I had been a bit more conscious, I probably would have figured out that everything was fine. I’d only consented to my ovary being removed if it was literally life or death. The fact that I was awake and talking probably meant I hadn’t nearly died.

Back on the ward, a nurse confirmed everything had gone well. I’d bled a bit in surgery but it had all gone to plan. I still had my ovary.

The next evening, I was discharged to begin a slower recovery than I’d anticipated. I was straight back to where I’d been 3 years ago. Reliant on others to do everything for me. In pain and barely able to move. I’m so lucky to have wonderful parents and an amazing husband. Lambros did everything for me with no complaints. In fact, he complained if I tried to do anything.

There was still another dark cloud hanging overheard. Was it just a cyst or had the cancer made a comeback? The surgeon was happy it all looked normal, but I couldn’t get my hopes up until the biopsy results were back. A couple of weeks after the surgery, I could breathe a sigh of relief. All clear.

So now I can move on with my life. Or so everyone keeps telling me. Again. A month on from surgery, I’m just about feeling physically okay. Emotionally? I’m sure I’ll have a meltdown at some point. There’s always the worry about what will be the next thing to drag me back down into the pit, but I’m determined to drag myself out of there.