Another fucking update

Yesterday, I went to the surgeon. I went to find out my treatment plan — what it would entail and when it would start. I expected a chemo regimen and possibly surgery. I had prepared myself to discover that I’d have to wait several more weeks before starting everything.

What I didn’t expect was to walk out of the office without a treatment plan. But that’s what happened.

See, it turns out that the low-grade ovarian cancer I was told I was lucky to have seven years ago when I was first diagnosed is only lucky to have if it doesn’t come back. And for most people who have it and treat it, it doesn’t come back. And then there are those of us who have a recurrence. We’re not so lucky because this low-grade cancer, this slow-moving beast, it doesn’t respond to chemotherapy so well. It’s too slow.

And this slowness is a mixed blessing. In the words of my terrifically vague surgeon, there are some women who are still living with this “after more than ten years”. What I don’t know is how many others aren’t, or what kind of intervention (if any) those women have had. And frankly, ten years doesn’t sound like much. It sounds like a fucking joke. But that fucking joke just might buy me enough time for an effective treatment to be found. So, yeah. Mixed blessing.

I know people will be tempted to find the silver lining in this, that the fact that this cancer is slow seems encouraging, but it really isn’t. It isn’t encouraging to be told you have a disease that might kill you, but for which there is treatment only to have that downgraded later to a disease that will kill you, albeit slowly, and for which there is no treatment.

There’s a lot more to talk about. And I promise I will, soon. I’m not taking this lying down, but for the next little while I plan to be really fucking sad. So all the other stuff, the “what next?” stuff, will just have to wait.

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About Alicia Louise

I'm a writer, editor, fact checker, storyteller, events organizer, chronically busy yet endlessly lazy, mildly neurotic (though I keep the neuroses well-hidden, one hopes) 32-year-old with recurrent ovarian cancer. I like people and good writing and straight talk. I have a hard time feeling sorry for people, including myself, but the people that I love, I love passionately; one may even say creepily. I try to keep that mostly to myself. I'd like to be charming, but I'm usually just a mess. I'm like a gull slamming into your windshield.
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One Response to Another fucking update

  1. TW says:

    Be sad as much as you need to be. I’ve tried so hard not to be, for the people who love me, that it eats me up inside.

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