I'm Not a Statistic

Stage IIIc Ovarian Cancer... that was the official diagnosis, back in July, when I had surgery. Do a Google on that and you'll get loads of webpages. At first I didn't read them. I followed one school of thought which I'll lightly call, the Ostrich School of Head in Sand. I didn't want to know the statistics and I didn't need to know because I was busy enough having major abdominal surgery and recovering and then chemotherapy took over my life and focus for a good while but now what? What's next? EVERYBODY is asking me that. It's a very obvious question. So, am I done? Have I earned my freedom? Did I pass?

First, I officially graduated from the Ostrich School and if you can't handle knowing, please skip this entire blog post. I'm serious. Don't read it! For those who want to know, according to Cancer.org about 3 in 4 women with ovarian cancer live for at least 1 year after diagnosis. Almost half (46%) of women with ovarian cancer are still alive at least 5 years after diagnosis. Between 70% and 90% of all women with ovarian cancer, at some point, have a recurrence. Women with advanced (stage 3 and 4) ovarian cancer tend to have multiple relapses and undergo several rounds of chemotherapy. For women diagnosed with ovarian cancer, the risk of recurrence varies based on multiple factors, including the stage at diagnosis. About 68% of women diagnosed with stage III ovarian cancer, who had successful surgical outcomes, will have recurrence at some point. [Citation: Ovarian Cancer National Alliance (www.ovariancancer.org) and SEER Cancer Statistics Review, 1975–2005, National Cancer Institute. Bethesda, Md., http://seer.cancer.gov/csr/1975_2005/]. If ovarian cancer is found (and treated) before the cancer has spread outside the ovary, the 5-year survival rate is 94%. However, only 15% of all ovarian cancers are found at this early stage. Please stop asking me if it was caught early and treated...  No. Stage IIIC is advanced, spread, and the 5-year survival rate for what I had is 35%. Now you know. 

I met with my surgeon yesterday. I asked him if he thought I was cured and he said, no. ...But but but I was NED (no evidence of disease)! He explained that due to his actually having been inside my body during the surgery and his having a vast amount of experience he hopes that I'm cured but the reality is most cases like mine relapse. I appreciate his honesty. You might be asking or want to ask me why I'm writing about this? Because, I want everyone who comes in contact with me to know. This is why I'm not having a party to celebrate the end of chemo. This is why I'm happy yet careful. I'm celebrating and I'm thankful and yet I'm not going to take anything for granted. It's wonderful to live each day as a brand new day... coined, "Living Sincerely" by wise cancer survivors. Excited to be alive and planning a bright future yet still very aware and mindful of my reality. It's fragile.  I've graduated from having sand in my eyes and ears. I'm fully aware of my situation and that's bringing me to a very safe and happy place... closer to G-d and closer to my family and friends. It's okay.

What's next? That depends. It's impossible to plan these things... (I give you permission to laugh). I decided early on to live on the assumption that I am not only lucky but miraculous. I'm not a statistic because, like I've said before, you're either 100% alive or 100% dead and I know which one I'm choosing if anyone asks. I have a LOT of work to do. Staying alive is a full time job. Breath in. Breath out. I choose happiness! Whether it's for 1 year or 100... I choose to live each day as happy and meaningful as I can make it... for me.

Where's My Prize?

Yesterday, I completed my final chemotherapy treatment. I don't know what I expected but it wasn't that. When chemo ends, it just ends. Well, that's how it goes in my case - a very lucky case, I know. I had a successful surgery back in July, and the chemotherapy was prescribed to knock out any cancer cells that dared to linger or have the chutzpah to rebuild cancerous empires in my body.  There's this tiny invisible person inside of me saying, "Okay, so you finished 5 months of chemotherapy. You're done. What you you want?!! A prize?" Uh, yeah - damn straight I do! Where's my certificate of completion? My extended warranty? I want the laminated card that states my achievements and a declaration... I want the lifetime guarantee; signed, stamped, and sealed with a golden emblem. Where's. My. PRIZE?

The clock gets reset and we start something new; follow-up. A CT scan here and a check-up there. I actually flipped out. I cried. I shook with emotion. My questions and demands don't really have Human answers. Not the fair kind. I was forewarned by my oncologist that it would be a process and I should have listened to his gentle kind words. I left the oncology day ward feeling empty and lost and even a little bit doomed. There's no modern day miracle test to detect ovarian cancer or recurrence. No "ovarian-oscopy". No smears. No definitive blood tests. Like the primary disease itself, the main hope for early detection is slightly short of an act of divine intervention. Picking up on the slightest symptom and being able to identify it is the only hope second to being cured, of course. I've reached the point that I aimed for from Day One of the diagnosis; remission. Life goes on.

Speaking of prizes and life....

After a long and emotional day including chemo and some unrelated drama, I drifted off to sleep with my subtle worried thoughts finally taking a rest. At around nine thirty at night my phone sang loudly- a call from my SIL (Sister In Law). Her waters broke! ...How quickly can I meet them at the hospital for the birth? Within minutes I was dressed and out the door! I arrived at the hospital, in Jerusalem, parked the car and RAN to find my brother and SIL. I watched, in complete awe and amazement as my SIL gracefully and so naturally directed strength and faith into birthing her precious baby daughter. Just after 1:00 AM, I was blessed with one of Life's most exquisite moments as my brother and SIL shared their intimate birth with me. It was the first time I ever participated in a birth that didn't involve me becoming a mother. Seeing two people, who I love so much,  bring their daughter into the world is the ultimate climactic vantage point of G-d's greatest gift. What a beautiful, miraculous gift Life is! 

There is no prize and there are no promises. There are only gifts - every moment, every single day. I completed chemotherapy. My own journey took me from wondering about my own life and its fragility,  a successful surgery, through an up-and-down roller coaster ride beyond even the cliche's wildest imagination... to the perfect, miracle of my newborn baby niece being born into a room filled with love and hope. Love and hope for now... and G-d willing a wonderful future.

The Antonym Of Lonely

In sickness or in health, it's wonderful to be the opposite of lonely. According to a quick Google-researching, the "official" antonyms of lonely are: befriended, loved, and unlonely, which, doesn't really seem like a real word but I'll take it.

Lonely. The thought of alone-ness -- loneliness. My heart and attention have been very drawn to focus on the excruciating truth that exists all around us. I see it in peoples eyes. I hear it. You can feel it across oceans or from across the street; via any medium - telephone, e mail, and especially in some of the most supportive online groups and social media.  Being alone seems to happen equally to people who aren't physically alone.

My inner self has been whirly-whacking (also not a real word) around for the past few weeks in some kind of a personal hurricane. I've been angry, happy, depressed, hopeful, sad, and defensive BUT never lonely. All of my people are still here, even the ones I might have yelled at or said harsh things to in my focused haste to keep my head from rotating right off of my body. The storm might still be raging, it probably is, but I'm coming to my senses. I've seen a lot of sadness. I've heard and read a lot about loneliness.  Other people's loneliness has grabbed me by the throat and throttled me into clarity. What's the huge and final revelation? Being the antonym of lonely saves me from myself. Living life, day to day, when life is on auto-pilot,  who has the time to feel lonely? When crisis hits, whether internal or physical, THAT'S when it can grab you and hold you down. I realize how it's possible to lose sight of the light at the end or the list of goals that were set and then fall off the path... and how important it is to hold onto all the people around you; sometimes physically. Listening. Taking moments. Not fighting anything - not even cancer. Slowing down and just being. Just living. Just existing. Unalone. Unlonely. Loved.