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The next couple weeks were a living hell. I went about my business, and tried to stay calm. But internally, I was in a panic. I had no idea what to expect. It didn't seem real. I kept hoping it was just a horrible nightmare, that I would wake up and everything would be fine. But every day, I woke up, and that appointment was still written on the calendar. I had cancer.
I was a wreck by the time my appointment came around. Dr. DeRosa explained that I had a very rare strain of cervical cancer, a kind they usually find in middle aged women. It was spreading very fast. Usually, the treatment for my type of cancer was a hysterectomy, plain and simple. No female reproductive organs means no female reproductive cancer. But I was so very young, with no children and hopes of having them some day. Dr. DeRosa took my hands in his, looked me in the eyes, and said, "I need you to know now.... This may not go like we hope. I plan on doing everything I can to get you healthy again. But there's a big chance you won't be able to have children when this is said and done." My heart crushed, right then and there. I had finally found my soul mate. We had casually discussed settling down and having a future together, but how could I tell the man I could see as the father of my children, that I might not be able to give them to him? In retrospect, I should have been more open with Trey about how serious things really were. But it wasn't in me. Besides, we didn't know anything yet for certain. Dr. DeRosa insisted I see a cancer specialist. I was hesitant. All of them were so far away. And the thought of travelling so far for something so serious... It made it too real. Luckily for me and my thick skull, he highly recommended an oncologist close to home, in Huntington, West Virginia. He made an appointment for me to see Dr. Oakley at Edwards Comprehensive Cancer Center at Cabell Huntington Hospital, within only a few days time.
Trey was able to accompany me to my first visit. I was all nerves and jittery, I had no desire to drive to or from the appointment. We arrived early, so that I could fill out the necessary paperwork. As I was filling out my (lack of) insurance information, I was called to the desk.
"Miss, would you be interested in drawing up your last will and testament?"
I almost passed out. A will? Seriously? Was it that serious? Was I going to die? What had they not told me? Who would I even leave things to? I didn't have a husband yet. I was only 23, almost 24. I hadn't told so many people I loved them. What about all those places I wanted to see? I was in a rapid downward spiral in a strange place, with strange eyes on me. I mumbled what I think was "No, thank you...." and turned to go return to my seat before I faceplanted. I actually had the clarity of mind to look around the waiting room as I dizzily made my way back to Trey. All around me was sickness,and disease. Fuzz adorned the heads of most of those waiting. I'm certain there was matching peach fuzz hair under the scarves or hats that seemed to adorn the rest. Most had oxygen tanks, and some were in wheelchairs. I felt so out of place. I felt.... alive, still. And it terrified me that I was a minority in feeling so.
Dr. Oakley was nice enough. I missed the calm comfort of Dr. DeRosa. I don't want to slight Dr. Oakley. He was very direct with me, and was quick to explain exactly what was going on, and what I needed to do. He sent me home with a cocktail of medications, mostly for the pain. I was put on prenatal vitamins, and directed to quit working. Like I could stop working. I know his intentions were good. And oh, how I wish I had been able to heed his advice. But I had no insurance. And I had been foolish enough to think I was immune to something like cancer, and had spent the nest egg I had managed to save up. Because, I was young. I was immortal. Cancer happens to other people, not to me.
Trey did his best to be my rock. As far as I'm concerned, he never got scared, never waivered. But he proposed to me in February. He asked my father for his blessing, and we started making plans for an autumn wedding. There was no elaborate proposal. There wasn't even a ring. But he told me that he didn't want to lose me. That he'd rather only get to be married to me a little while rather than never at all. And for the first time, I actually felt like I needed someone. I needed him. For a little while, the cancer didn't even matter. Again, love had swooped in to distract me from the horrible realness of what was happening inside me.
Dr. Oakley took over the removal surgeries. He agreed with Dr. DeRosa, I was too young for a hysterectomy. So every month, I went to the cancer center. And every month, I left with less and less cervix, and more and more medicine. I can't remember the names of all the medicine I tried. I had to sign forms to agree to take trial drugs, though none of them helped. I spent a whole year, only leaving the house to go to the cancer center. I ended up getting fired from my job - yes, you read that right, fired. For having cancer. It was ridiculous. But I was too weak, and in no position to fight it. Trey was a bartender at the time. Just from working in a restaurant, he would bring home germs that a healthy person would never even notice or think about. But I was constantly getting sick, just because he left the sanitary sanctuary of our home and returned.
I started losing huge chunks of hair. I lost about 5 softball sized chunks of hair every week or so. Luckily, I had a lot of very thick hair, so it was hard to notice for a while. I never lost anywhere near all of it. That actually became a bad thing. One trip to see Dr. Oakley, I shared an elevator with another lady going to an office on that floor. She asked me who I was going to see. I said that I had an appointment with Dr. Oakley.
"Who do you know with cancer?" she asked.
"Oh, it's me. I have cervical cancer."
"No you don't."
"Um... yeah.... I do."
"No you don't. You still have all your hair. And you look fine. It's not nice to lie about something like cancer. You'll get yours some day." And with that she gave me the cold shoulder, and pushed past me to escape the elevator when the door opened. I went down the hall to the restroom, called Dr. Oakley's office to say I'd be a few minutes late, then cried for 5 minutes in the farthest stall. It was the first time in at least 6 months that I finally let myself cry. And while it was a little therapeutic... It opened the flood gates. It was a sign of defeat. I couldn't pretend that this wasn't a serious situation anymore.
Trying to plan a wedding was maddening. I didn't have the energy. A trip to purchase a wedding dress zapped me for a whole week. I just couldn't make it all come together. Jokingly, Trey suggested just going to the court house to get married. I eagerly agreed. After drilling me to be certain that's REALLY what I wanted to do, we made a few calls, and on August 14, 2009, I took my best friend's last name in a gazebo outside the courthouse. It was small, it was intimate, and it wasn't stressful in the slightest. I was far more interested in being a wife than a bride. I'm still glad that's how we did it. I know to the outside, it seemed so fast. But when you aren't sure if you really have tomorrow, you learn to just take a deep breath and go for it. I didn't know how long I'd get to be around, so every second had to count for something.
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| Our wedding party. Best man Ed, Trey, myself, and Maid of Honor Anna |
It was a long year. The longest year of my entire life to date. I withered away. I never got scary thin, but I was so weak. And you know what the worst part of all of it was, looking back? I never let anyone in. Very few people even knew what I was dealing with. I had posted a few vague blogs on MySpace. My family knew I was dealing with "medical issues", and some of them realized it was cancer. But I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I was already a mess. Dr. Oakley tried putting me on an antidepressant, to assist with my anxiety while going through everything. But it counteracted with other medication, so I couldn't continue taking it. Not that it helped anyways.
I had some good friends that would stop by, to cook for me, or clean and sanitize my apartment, or to take me out to the lake for a quiet day in nature, something I dearly missed. They may not realize it, but they were my angels. I used their wings to pull myself out of the depression pit cancer had thrown me in. Every kind act was ammunition in my fight. And to think, if I'd let more people in, how much faster could the ordeal have been over? It embarrasses me that I hid it from the world.
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| This is one of my best friends from high school, Tracy. She came over and scrubbed my whole apartment, top to bottom, because I could barely get off the couch. |
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| And this is Gretchen and my Llama, Lauren. I wish I had a quarter for every time these beauties have been a blessing to me. I'd never have to work again! |
I had one removal surgery left before they simply couldn't remove any more cervix. At that point, treatment would take a very serious turn. I would either start radiation therapy, or chemotherapy. Up to this point, I had only needed to orally take medicine. Treatment would mean absolutely no kids. The alternative, a full hysterectomy, would also mean no kids. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. This was the end of the road. He performed the surgery, and as he shook my hand before he left the room after I was dressed and it was done, he paused. He sighed, and said, "Would it be out of order to ask if I could give you a hug? My heart is breaking, I wish I could do more, or offer you more hope. It's not professional, but may I give you a hug?" And while it was awkward, it was so heartwarming. And alarming. But perhaps that was my anxiety screaming over every other emotion I had in the moment.
Now, I can't explain what happened next. Honestly, I can't. Some have said it was answered prayers. I could agree with that. But however it happened, it did.
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| Waiting (rather impatiently) at my last visit to the cancer center |
At my next scheduled appointment, Dr. Oakley prepared to give me my final exam before alternative methods were approached. His head popped up from between my legs like he was in a game of Whack-A-Mole. "Do you mind if I ask some of our other doctors and medical interns to join us?"
I was slightly floored, considering the position I was in, but I said "Yes, I suppose so. Is everything okay?"
"Oh yes, things are fine. I just need them to see this. Excuse me." And with that, he quickly went out of the room. When he returned, he had about 9 people in white coats with him, all with clipboards in hand. For the next 20 minutes, I as a person didn't exist. I felt like a lab rat under glass. I knew they were talking about me, and I could tell they were excited, but they may as well have been speaking an alien language. After a bit, Dr. Oakley remembered I was a sentient being in the room.
"Oh! You need to know what's happening here. Your cancer? It's gone."
"............. What?"
"It's gone. All of it. No scar tissue, no sign it was ever even there, other than your near lack of cervix. It's completely disappeared. I can't pronounce you in remission yet, but it's gone. I want to see you again in a month, and if it's totally gone, you'll have another visit with Dr. DeRosa before you'll officially be in remission."
I left the office in silence. I didn't smile or acknowledge a soul until I was back to the car, where Trey was waiting for me.
"It's gone."
Trey's face was certainly a mirror of the perplexed look I know I gave Dr. Oakley. "What do you mean, it's gone?"
"The cancer. It's gone. My cancer is gone!"
My next trip, everything was still just fine. Somehow, they managed to get all of it, every last cell. My next visit with Dr. DeRosa, I was still totally in the clear. I was officially in remission! I was still considered high risk, but I was cancer free. It was like I had been given a new lease on life!
As you know from my bio, I have a lovely daughter named Roni. I wasn't supposed to be able to be her mother. But that blessing is a story for another blog.
If you take anything from my experience I hope it's this:
LIVE.
Live your life. Don't tell yourself "I can do that later." "I'll get around to it." "Someday."
Go and do the things you've always wanted to do.
January is Cervical Cancer Awareness Month. It's also the month I get to celebrate my second chance at a Happily Ever After. Every year I get to spend with my loved ones is now genuinely a Happy New Year. Start yours out right. Get tested. Early detection is what saved my life.
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| This is a picture of a cervical cancer ribbon, a piece of artwork hanging on the wall at the cancer center. A kid had drawn it in support of their mother. I touched it at every visit. I took this picture at my very last appointment there. I wanted to show the child I was determined to have, that I thought of them even before I thought they could exist. |
Here are some links providing some information on cervical cancer:
10 Warning Signs of Cervical Cancer
New HPV Vaccine
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