On being a statistic
… and both loving and hating that I am
On Friday morning, I caught the GO train to head into Toronto. I absolutely love travelling into the city on the GO. Indeed, I cannot imagine anyone wanting to travel to Toronto and not want to travel there by train, especially if they could get where they were going by extending their journey on one of the TTC’s subway routes. Changing from the train to the subway to a bus and then another bus and another would seriously compromise the joy I feel when I park my car - for free & 9 minutes from my home - and step onto the train that spares me a thirty-four mile drive on a sometimes-six-but-up-to-twelve lane highway filled with crazy drivers that stretches between me and my destination. (To say nothing of the joys and terrors of driving in downtown Toronto.) On the train, I can read a book. I can do a body scan meditation. I can watch the scenery or knit (not so welcome during rush hour; just sayin’). Some people sleep but, seriously, that is not going to happen to me. I think they choose to sleep; I’d only sleep in public if someone drugged me. Not happening.
That morning, I was just tidying up a few things when I realized it was already nine minutes before the train was leaving. Oops. Ran downstairs. Grabbed the coat. Pulled on the boots. Checked for my Presto card. Keys. Swiped snow off the car. Drove: nasty weather but I have fabulous winter tires; a few precision lane changes; skipped the covered garage with its long walk to the platform; left the car as close to the entrance as I could, and managed to catch my breath with double-time panting at the top of the kind of long staircases reserved for those who are very possibly going to miss what it is they need to catch at the top of them about a minute before the train arrived. Please do not let me remember I can get there in under eight minutes. Not a good thing to do, even with winter tires. Don’t tell my husband.
I was heading into Toronto for an appointment at Princess Margaret Cancer Centre. For the past fourteen years, beginning one year after surgery for ovarian cancer, I have made two trips to PMH - one for a CT scan and one for a follow-up.
This trip to PMH was my last. My doctor and I decided that an annual CT Scan and follow-up is no longer necessary. I’ve passed the time during which the cancer may have become re-established, and so, I officially graduated from my program! I am incredibly grateful for their work, and their careful follow-up. Indeed, the past fifteen years have been a bonus.
In Canada, 3100 women are diagnosed with ovarian cancer every month. During that same month, 2000 other women die from the same rogue cells, stolen away from their lovers, their mothers and fathers, their sisters and brothers, their children and grandchildren, the friends who have walked the journey with them, and the world to which they have added their magic every single day up until the moment of that final exhale. Since I was diagnosed in 2011, 30,000 Canadian women have died of ovarian cancer. The impact is incalculable.
It was not science that saved me. It was disease. Since I began to menstruate, endometrial tissue began to thrive and spread outside my uterus doing the same thing endometrial tissue does inside the uterus - build up in expectation of a fertilized ovum and then slough off when one doesn’t arrive. It’s a monthly thing, as we all know. But when it’s happening outside the uterus with its same monthly habit, all hell breaks loose. My abdomen was opened twice to deal with the mess it made.
But endometriosis was the disease that saved my life. Usually, ovarian cancer spreads silently. Beginning on the outside of the ovary, it spreads throughout the abdomen. But I’d noticed a walnut-sized lump which led to my early diagnosis. When it was removed five months later, it was the size of a two-litre pop bottle and weighed four pounds. Name me one woman who, without a noticeable lump, would see a doctor if she put on four pounds. By the time she’s put that on, if it’s ovarian cancer, it’s everywhere.
I cannot tell you what it feels like to be a survivor. There is no “Why me?” question that makes sense when you’re diagnosed and there is no “Why me?” question that makes sense when you’re the one who survives, save the one in a quadrillion chance that endometriosis gave me. Life unfolds according to the laws of biology, chemistry, and physics with human behaviour adding incalculable doses of chaos betwixt and between the choices of our waking hours and the slow, steady breaths of our sleep.
As life continues to unfold for me, I hope the courage of women who are handed the horrifying diagnosis of ovarian cancer is met by a cure those currently searching for have found. And I hope that day will be very soon.
Last year, some progress was made on the discovery of a drug that may prove to inhibit the growth of ovarian cancer cells. This is immensely good news though it will likely take considerable time to become widely available to women presenting with early diagnoses. If you’d like to be part of finding a cure, please make a donation to Princess Margaret Foundation to assist in their research. You can find their donation page here.