A Tale of 2 Cancers

I thought this newsletter would be difficult to write but once I sat down with pen to paper, the words came easily. Why? Because I believe the difficult experiences we have in this life are meant to teach us something, guiding us to a higher expression of our best selves. If you’ve had an experience that was difficult but were able to glean something valuable from it, welcome to your highest expression! The Ezee-Passes are for the toll roads, not life. No one is exempt from the hurdles that this human form requires of us. 

My best self is one who inspires and teaches others; it does not surprise me that my Ostara newsletter would come out with a theme of reinvention and renewal…but also assertion. With Spring comes Aries, the 1st sign of the Zodiac and the essence of “I AM.” On March 19th, we will move out of Winter and into Spring, giving our thanks to the elders of the North Direction as we bid them farewell and greeting the new day of the East. This is a time of rebirth, emergence, and even revelation. 

And there is no greater revelation than cozying up to one’s mortality. 

Now I know a lot of people at this point in my 52 years who have had ‘close calls,’  unfavorable diagnoses and a flush of other 9-Lives type of accidents–myself included. But I want to share a Tale of 2 Cancers with you not so much as a warning tale but rather a gesture of inspiring you to show up and be heard, talk loudly if you think you’re being ignored, assert what you know is true. Because it may just save your life. 

In December of 2008, I had a vaginal ultrasound for a diagnosis of ‘pain with sex’ or if you want to get fancy, dyspareunia. The ultrasound revealed a ‘burst ovarian cyst’ and my doctor said we’d watch things, that it was probably a one-and-done. Painful sex continued, and so I sought a 2nd opinion. This time, I wanted to go to an OBGYN, not to the facility where my PCP and 40 other doctors practiced. Luckily for me, at the time I was working at Portland Gastroenterology and we had good insurance–I could go see whomever I wanted. Specialists were covered! 

So, in January of 2009, I went to see an OBGYN and had another vaginal ultrasound. This time, the radiology tech took one look at the screen and said, “It’s not your ovary that’s giving you the problem. It’s your fallopian tube.” She was quite candid about describing the ‘hotdog’ size of my fallopian tube, suggesting that it should really look more like a string. 

Well they didn’t even let me go home without giving me a big shot of antibiotics in my arm and a 2-week supply to take home with me. The OBGYN said the fallopian tube ‘must be infected.’A follow-up was scheduled in 3 weeks so they could do another ultrasound to assess. Hopefully, this course of antibiotics would treat the raging infection I had. 

3 weeks later, another ultrasound. No changes on imaging. Another course of antibiotics, with a 6-week follow-up. Back in 6 weeks, another ultrasound. By this time, I was getting a little impatient and worried. Although there appeared to be a slight decrease in the size of my fallopian tube, it didn’t look like the string formation they were expecting. 

“This is a tough one,” the doctor said as she wrote out yet another prescription for antibiotics. I took the script, stuck it in my purse and asked her if we could do a biopsy? 

“Well, that would just destroy the tube. I’d have to remove it in its entirety.”

I waited for more explanation. “Is there any harm in doing that? I can live with one, can’t I? I mean, these antibiotics don’t seem to be, you know, fixing the problem.” 

She seemed to be contemplating this course although I could tell she wasn’t sold on the idea. Finally, she said, “I suppose we can just remove it. But let’s try one more round of the antibiotics first. And, let’s put you on my surgery schedule now because it fills up, just in case.” 

Great. I took the antibiotics (again!), no change. So, on July 29th, 2009, the good doctor who I had to convince to try something different removed my fallopian tube. Results? Serous tubal intraepithelial carcinoma, if you want to get fancy about it. Fallopian tube cancer. 

As anyone can tell you who’s had cancer, you suddenly have 5 new doctors and a LOT of appointments. On October 13th, I had an abdominal hysterectomy with cervix, ovaries, 17 lymph nodes, omentum from both sides of my abdominal cavity and the other fallopian tube removed. Lucky for me, there was not any more cancer to be found. Yah! 

I was 38 years old, and it took me a long time to feel like cancer wasn’t going to sneak up on me and shout ‘Boo!’ in my ear. Anyone who’s had a cancer diagnosis and lived through it will tell this. 

And then we have Jan 29th of this year. I had been walking around for about a month, noticing that a freckle on my face was bleeding. On and off, no biggie. However, I wasn’t doing anything to make it bleed. My grandmother, who was a nurse, used to say, “Keep your hands away from your face! That’s how germs are spread.” So I hardly ever touched my face, and knew I hadn’t scratched myself. 

I called my dermatologist. I love this guy! He is so sweet. I go see him once a year because my mother, who is heavy on the Scottish genes, has had 3 melanomas. He got me in the following week. 

A few pleasantries, a few light-hearted jokes. He always asks about the farm, so I told him about the chickens, the new kitty, the Sweet Suite. The whole time we’re having this conversation, he’s looking at my face with one of those magnifying lenses with the little light on it. Finally, he steps away from my face, slips the magnifying glass into his scrub pocket and says, “I’m not worried about this.” 

Oh, ok. So, do faces just bleed, out of the blue? And you know what? I almost said “Great, see you at our annual visit.” But something would not let me hop off that examination table. Something would not let me be on my way. Just like with my OBGYN, I had to press for other options.  

So often, in uncomfortable moments, it’s easier to make a joke instead of blatant confrontation. So I made a joke. “Well, what should I say to people when they ask me ‘Do you know that your face is bleeding?’”

He smiled and may have said something else but I wasn’t moving. He then said, “Well, let me just scrape a little off. It’ll take 5 minutes. We’ll send it off to the lab.” 

This time, it was your garden variety skin cancer: basal cell carcinoma. Very treatable, very common. Great! And last week, I breathed through the cutting and digging and sewing-me-up at Plastic and Hand. I was lucky, again. 

But that luck is BECAUSE OF ME, both times. In other words, if I hadn’t pushed, probed, asked for more, asked for something different, it is quite possible that I may not be here. Maybe not so much for the skin cancer but what if I had been satisfied with the supposed ‘burst ovarian cyst’? What if I had been ok with never-ending courses of antibiotics? What if I thought bleeding freckles were no big deal? 

It struck me last week that of the 2 times I have had ‘cancer scares,’ I had to advocate for the best thing FOR ME. 100% of the cancer scenarios I’ve experienced in this life were because 100% of the doctors weren’t on point, I WAS. Don’t get me wrong–they get it right MOST of the time. But I am here to tell you that if something doesn’t ‘sound right,’ it probably isn’t. 

Doctors do not have crystal balls (no one does). But Creator gives us a voice. We must speak up if we expect to be heard. What you have to say may not always be popular, but it may be the life-saver you give to yourself. 

And: it will matter TO YOU TO SAY IT. This Spring, harness your inner Aries! Stand up and protest, assert your will, and make your feelings known. As my daddy used to say, it’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease. 

Squeak on! 

Mary Katherine