Fifteen years ago, I woke up in the middle of the night suffering from excruciating pain in my pelvic region. I sat up in bed, writhing in pain, sweating, and feeling very nauseas. My husband woke up and asked me if I wanted to go to the ER.
I told him no.
The pain lasted about 30 minutes and then eventually subsided. When I woke up the next morning, I felt as though I had done 1,000 sit-ups because my abdomen was that sore. Being a woman, I was concerned, but chalked it up to pre-menstrual cramps. About a month later, the same thing happened. This time I was in my office. I ended up having to lay down in the fetal position on my office floor while my colleagues fanned me because I was pale and nauseas. I remember distinctly my boss walking up and standing over me said, “This is not standard office procedure.” Hey, thanks for the concern.
I finally decided to make an appointment with my gynecologist.
When he asked me what was going on, I remember joking around and saying, “Doc, I don’t know what cancer feels like, but if I had to guess, I would guess it felt like this” and proceeded to explain my symptoms. After my exam, he told me some women have “very painful ovulation” and “pass a super-egg.” (Yes, he actually said “super-egg.”) A week later, his office called and said my pap smear came back fine.
So at the age of 28, I continued to live my life, accepting the unbearable monthly pain, understanding that I had “super-eggs.” I often joked around with my family that if I ever had children, they might be faster than a locomotive and able to leap buildings in a single bound.
As the years progressed, the pain became more and more intense. Still, my gynecologist told me there was no cause for alarm. In 2010, my sister witnessed one of my “super-egg” episodes. She was horrified and begged me to call her doctor. I told her I was fine and told her to stop nagging me about it. She picked up her phone, called her doctor and handed the phone to me. I finally conceded and went to her doctor on April 1, 2010. Right away the doctor recommended an ultrasound. “Hmm,” I thought, “I wonder why my doctor suggested this as an option.” As I lay on the table, all I heard from the ultrasound technician was the click-click-click of the keyboard and mouse as she took screen shots of the large black area on the screen. This was no April fool’s joke. As the technician kept clicking, no words were said. They didn’t have to be, I knew.
My sister, who nagged me to call her doctor, had just saved my life.
On April 27, 2010, I had surgery. The tumors on my ovaries were so large; I ended up having a total hysterectomy. The tumor on my left ovary was 9cm, and the one on my right ovary was almost 5cm. Since tumor size is most relatable to fruit for some reason, I had one “grapefruit” sized tumor and one “plum” sized tumor. My “super-egg’ was more like a fruit salad.
In the months that followed, I did six rounds of chemo to treat my ovarian cancer. I remember the day my hair started to fall out. It was coming out in clumps, as if someone had replaced my hair with extensions and they were falling off. Again, my sister was there for me. We went outside, put a chair in the middle of the grass, and she shaved my head. I remember looking at my reflection in the panes of the French doors. I looked like G.I. Jane, and this was my battle.
I am delighted to say that I am in my fourth year of being cancer-free.
Ladies, we know our bodies and the signals we’re naturally given when something is wrong. Never accept a medical opinion you think may be wrong. Trust your instincts. It could just save your life.
– Leslie Clarridge
