Kippy’s Story
Stage at diagnosis: Stage II
Story posted: May 2010
It came as a surprise; it usually does. I am a tour director and was scheduled to take a group to California in two days, when I started experiencing discomfort that I thought was indigestion. My mother, a retired nurse, suggested that I see a doctor before I leave — and follow up for further treatment, if necessary, when I come home.
No problem getting in to see the doctor on Thursday afternoon. He started with the usual questions, along with the poking and prodding. He finished all of this with the suggestion that I get a CAT scan. And so it began…
The doctor called me at home that night (yes, you read that correctly, at night, and at home). The results of the CAT scan indicated a large mass on my ovary. He recommended that I cancel my trip and come in the next morning for additional consultation with a gynecologic oncologist.
I saw the oncologist the next day and a whirlwind of appointments, surgery and acute anxiety started in rapid succession.
I was in a state of shock. Cancer. It brings all kinds of terrible thoughts. It can be a death sentence.
How could this happen? I am in good physical shape. I have watched my diet. I exercise, and I don’t smoke. Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? I cried. Self pity had set in.
Friends and family surrounded me with love and support. If I have learned one thing from this ordeal, it is that the only things that really matter in this world are faith, family and friends. As I struggled to understand and deal with all that was happening, it was the conversations and tears that we shared that kept me going.
My surgery occurred within a week of the diagnosis. I had what I describe as a hysterectomy on steroids — all things that are removed during a normal hysterectomy, plus a few other organs due to the cancer. After surgery, the oncologist said I had stage II cancer and that the cancer appeared to be contained within the tumor.
I was not completely awake and out of the anesthesia, but this registered with me. I remember smiling (don’t know if I actually did, but it felt like I did). My husband and parents were at my bedside, and we were all relieved that the cancer had not spread.
Our happiness, however, was short lived. I also remember that the doctor said that they always biopsy surrounding tissue in the event that there are any microscopic cancer cells. So when the doctor came back the next day with the news that three small cells had been found on my lymph nodes, the nightmare began anew. Thoughts of death and chemotherapy started to consume me. I cried again.
The proscribed chemotherapy protocol was a newer one — one that they have had good success with. I was told that there was a 75- to 80-percent chance of getting into remission with completion of all sessions. But I was also told that approximately 40 percent of patients who start this protocol are unable to complete it because it is so aggressive: six sessions consisting of three treatments each (one intravenous injection and 2 injections directly into the stomach cavity).
Preparation for treatment — implanting the ports for administration of the drugs — started after I left the hospital, and my first treatment occurred within two weeks of the surgery.
Somewhere between my first and second treatment, self-pity was replaced with self-preservation and determination. It quickly became clear that this was going to be very difficult, and it would take all that I had. I was determined to complete all sessions.
I jokingly told my husband that the next six months were going to be all about me, and they were. I forced myself to eat when I had no appetite. Food tasted terrible; I sucked on mints and lemon-drop candy to suppress the metallic taste in my mouth. I walked and exercised when I had the energy but no inclination. I focused on my body to understand reactions to the many medications. I concentrated on my medications to take them at the right time to ward off nausea and pain. I ate bran flakes to fight off constipation. And the list goes on.
And so my life progressed — day by day, week by week, month by month, always focused on getting to the other side. The other side meant an end to the chemotherapy, the return of my appetite, and most off all, spring and all that spring brings: new beginnings.
It was also between my first and second treatments that I started losing my hair. Hair loss is the most obvious sign of cancer and a constant reminder that it is a life-threatening disease. I thought I was prepared, having purchased several scarves and a wig. But like so many other things, preparation doesn’t always allow one to deal with reality when it arrives.
It started slowly; a few strands in my brush soon became handfuls of hair. And although the hair loss started slowly, the decision to shave my head came quickly. I couldn’t handle the slow, tortuous process of watching it fall out. It was time.
I made an appointment and later that same morning, I went in to the salon, my scarf in my purse. The stylist (recommended to me by the woman who sold me the wig and scarves) had a private work area, a good sense of humor and a box of Kleenex. I couldn’t watch so I kept my eyes looking downward.
When he finished, I looked up and stared into the mirror not knowing whether to laugh or cry — so I did both. I felt a terrible loss, but I was relieved that this step was over. As I put on my pink scarf, I remember what a good friend told me — “It’s your badge of courage, wear it with honor.” So I held my head high as I left. I knew that I was going to earn this badge of courage.
That night, I took off my scarf and got into bed to watch the news before turning out the light. Mozart, our yellow lab, loves to sleep in our bed. I heard her coming upstairs and as she jumped onto the bed, she immediately froze, staring at me. Her body tensed, the fur on her back rose, and she slowly leaned forward. She didn’t recognize me!
I laughed and called her name, coaxing her to come. She slowly approached. What stranger was in her master’s bed? As she came near, she put her nose to my head and sniffed from one end to the other. I’m not sure what was going on in that little brain of hers, but she finally did process that it was me — and proceeded to lick my head!
Ah, Mozart — just thinking about her brings a smile to my face. We call her our “therapy” dog because she’s been such a great support through this whole affair.
The last two sessions were tough. I was anxious to complete my treatment and move on to whatever lay ahead. When friends or family members asked how I was doing, I replied that I was going to finish, that it wouldn’t be pretty, and I’d crawl to the finish if necessary. Well, I was right. It wasn’t pretty and I limped over the finish line; I finally completed the regimen on February 3. I had made it to the other side.
I am now in a state of remission and relieved that the treatments are over. I know that I reacted quickly and well to the chemotherapy, but I have asked very few questions about the prognosis. I have no control over what might happen and have, therefore, chosen to live each day to the fullest. Besides, I didn’t go through the hell of chemotherapy to waste my future away!
When this ordeal started, I kept my focus on the other side and the new beginning I hoped it would bring. How fortunate I am to have this opportunity now in front of me. It is spring here in Minnesota and when I look outside, there is renewal all around — grass and flower sprouts and buds on the trees. When I look in the mirror, I see my own spring and renewal — hair growth on my head, my eyebrows and my eyelashes, and hope for the future. It is a new me.
My story ends with my reintroduction to God. Most people diagnosed with cancer turn to their religion for support, and I am no different.
I was raised in the Catholic Church but as an adult have not attended church regularly. During my chemotherapy “recovery” weeks, I started attending the very short 8:15 a.m. mass at the nearby Catholic church where I was married. The people at this early service are elderly, and are regular attendees. When I started going to mass it was difficult, and I cried through the service, not knowing how to pray or what to pray for.
It was after mass in late October when I experienced a life-changing event, one that helped me cope with this new challenge I’d been given. As I was leaving church, tears still falling onto my cheeks, I heard a voice behind me: “I’m a cancer survivor.” I turned around and an older woman approached me, and said: “You have to believe, and you have to pray.” As I nodded, unable to speak, she again said: “You have to believe, and you have to pray.” She then asked me my name and said “Kippy, I will pray for you.” I remember thanking her. l didn’t even ask her name; I have never seen her since.
As I continue to re-establish myself with God and my religion, I often think of her message. I have found peace within and understand what to pray for — not a healing but the strength to handle what has been given to me and to remind me that there is life after death. I now know why I was so focused on the other side — it would be a time of new beginnings both inside and out.