When our organs are so polite, they are killing us
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
My usually chatty gynecologist had suddenly gone quiet and was leaning closer to the ultrasound screen. I watched her face as she zoomed into the images.
“Do you have any pain?” she asked. “No, nothing!” I said firmly, thinking that it would negate whatever she was seeing on the shadowy images of my organs. From the way her frown deepened, it was clearly not the answer she was hoping for.
“I need you to go up to the pathologists for a CA125 tests,” she said.
“Now?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said, a weird kindness creeping into her voice.
“What are we testing for?” I asked.
“Cancer,” she replied as I stared at her in disbelief.
“A CA 125 test may be used to look for early signs of ovarian cancer,” I read on my phone as I waited for the lift to arrive. The article went on to describe the five-year survival rates for ovarian cancer. It was shocking.
“I won’t have cancer,” I tried to console myself. “I am too healthy”.
However, by the time the lift doors had opened two floors up, my world had changed. The article I was planning to write seemed trite; I couldn’t care less if Zuma was going to hand himself over to the police, and the domestic chores I had on my lists were forgotten.
“I might have cancer,” was all I could think.
The next day the results were back. The tumor markers were elevated. “Don’t start planning your funeral yet,” a medical cousin said. “It could just be a cyst, but they will have to do more tests”.
For the next week, I was on the rollercoaster ride of medical diagnostics. I had no control or way of stopping it and it was terrifying.
At the CT scan, the radiologist kindly tried to distract me with politics. (“Do you think Zuma will be arrested?”) It worked for a few minutes, but then she left the room and the terror returned as I held my breath while my body was pushed through the machine.
The surgeon who ordered the CT scan called with some good and some bad news. There were no signs of any spreading, but there was a growth and it was huge – bigger than they initially thought. It had to be removed.
I was referred to another specialist. More ultrasounds followed – and this time the news was worse. “I’m not sure, but I think there is a second tumour, and I see some free-flowing fluid. We don’t like to see that,” he said, as he pointed to the dark images on the ultrasound. “You need to go and see a gynaecological oncologist – the best one in town”.
Sitting across from the doctor I felt nauseous with panic. Things had now moved from “I might have cancer” to “I most probably have cancer.”
“I really want to live to see my grandchildren”, was all I could think as I sobbed while driving home.
The next day, Prof Hennie Botha, head of gynaecological oncology at Stellenbosch University saw me. “I’m usually very mind over matter, but I feel like my dog when there is a thunderstorm,” I said to him tearfully. “I’m frantically trying to find a place to hide to make this go away, but everywhere I go, it is still there.”
After another ultrasound, he took my hand and pressed it next to my belly button. There it was – the thing that had quietly grown in me during the last 12 months. (There had been no sign of any abnormality during my previous gynaecological visit). Prof Botha gently explained my options, but also did not mince his words. The chance of the growth being cancerous was at least 70%. It had to come out and soon.
Two days later he held my hand as the general anaesthetic took effect and 90 minutes later he again squeezed my hand as he assured me that all had gone well. He had taken out the growth - all 9 cm in diameter and 190 grams of it. I was now also without a cervix, ovaries, uterus and omentum (the lining that protects our digestive system where cancer cells like to “hide”.)
The final verdict on whether it was cancer would take a few days.
Two days later Prof Botha called and I finally gave the longest exhale in human history. The growth was rare, but totally benign.
I would live to see my grandchildren!!
It has now been 6 (tough) weeks since the operation. As my body is slowly healing, I am also trying to make sense and get over the shock of all that happened in the last 2 months. One of the things I struggled with was how I didn’t realise earlier that something was amiss. I have always been conscientious about my health, so how could a growth the size of a cricket ball develop only to be picked up during a routine gynae visit?
After lots of research, I now know that gynaecological cancers (ovarian, uterine, and cervical) are sneaky. They grow silently and only tend to cause discomfort at an advanced stage.
It also turns out that women’s organs are polite – so polite that they can kill us. I had asked every specialist I consulted why such a big growth did not result in pressure or pain on other organs. Apparently, my organs (like most women’s) created space in the belief that it might be a pregnancy and so there were no obvious warning signals.
The good news is that most gynaecological cancers can be treated if they are detected early. This is why regular check-ups and pap smears are so vital. There is no question that every woman should visit her clinic, doctor or gynaecologist at least every two years – preferably every year.
My story ended well, but Prof Botha’s waiting room was filled with terrified women of all ages suffering from advanced cervical, ovarian or uterine cancer and very bad prognosis. I was also told that because many women missed or delayed doctors’ visits during COVID, there is now an increase in more advanced cancers.
It will take time for my body and mind to fully recover, but I know that for the rest of my life I will be thankful that I did not have to join the thousands of women who every day go through the hell of chemo and radiation after surgery.
Having met some of them I know that they are true warriors who fight bravely for their lives. I salute them whilst hoping that our stories would encourage other women to have the simple check-ups that could mean the difference between life and death.