Barbara Keepes

April 2017

On Memorial Day weekend of 2011, I brought home a new miniature schnauzer puppy, Sherman. For four and one-half months it was constant puppy training; I knew the window for optimal puppy learning would close fast and a well behaved dog could accompany me and be welcome many places for many years to come. So no wonder I was exhausted all summer long and into early fall.

I woke up on October 9, 2011 with a terrible pain deep in my abdomen, just above my belly button. But, I had just completed two days of fall yard clean-up and landscaping projects so it wasn’t real surprising I would be sore. By early evening, the pain was bad enough I knew it would prevent me from going to work the next day and I just couldn’t be out. I had a friend take me to Urgent Care, mad the whole time for this crazy inconvenience on a Sunday evening! After an exam and blood work, the medical professionals told me to go directly to the hospital; they would let the hospital ER know I was on my way. The blood work showed an elevated white cell count and, although the doctor didn’t say it, I believe she probably thought I had appendicitis. Off to the hospital we went, me cussing all the way because “damn,” now I would probably miss a whole week of work! HA! The joke was on me!

Once at the hospital and after what felt like hours of tests including more blood tests, a CT scan and vaginal ultrasound, I was wearily taken to my room. A few hours later through the sleep the pain medication had sent me off to, a gynecologist was standing at my bed trying to tell me what was wrong and that another doc would be coming to see me. I was still pretty drugged but finally I figured it out and said to him, “oh, you mean an Oncologist.” An hour later a Gynecologic Oncologist was the one standing at my bed. Nothing snaps you out of sleep and the left-over fog of pain killers, than being told the next guy coming in, is an Oncologist. But I feel the Lord was watching out for me with the entire medical team that night. The doc at urgent care who sent me immediately to the hospital; a staff gynecologist who knew the importance of getting a Gyn Onc involved from the beginning; and the Gyn Onc on call, well, he saved my life.

All this happened over a Sunday night into early Monday morning. The Gyn Onc recommended surgery for Wednesday. I remember asking him about getting a second opinion and he was happy for me to do so but also said he was 99% sure we were looking at ovarian cancer. Knowing what I’ve learned about ovarian cancer, it’s pretty clear why he was so confident in his initial diagnosis. A mass on the ovary combined with a high CA125 and abdominal pain isn’t likely to be anything else.

Like most of us diagnosed at Stage IIIC, Wednesday afternoon’s surgery left me without a uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, omentum or a cervix. Studding was found on my bladder, rectum, parametrium, anterior, posterior and pelvic sidewalls. The mass itself was about the size of an orange. As difficult as the surgery and recovery were, optimal debulking was achieved. Once again, this points to the need to have a Gyn Onc surgeon perform the surgery. I don’t think a staff surgeon or even a gynecologic surgeon without extensive ovarian cancer surgical experience would have been able to achieve optimal debulking for me.

Six weeks of recovery gave me time to wrap my head around the fact I had advanced ovarian cancer. Would I live? Would I die? Will it be horrible? What kind of wig should I get? Would I be able to work? What about all the things I hadn’t haven’t done yet? What about all I hadn’t said? Would those things happen now? Had I completed God’s purpose for my life and it would end? Or would I go on to complete some unknowing purpose?

It turns out that I was in the best possible position I could be in if I had to have ovarian cancer. Within the previous two months I had completed the waiting period for long-term disability insurance; a relatively new job had provided me with outstanding medical insurance; and colleagues (who could not have been more supportive) generously donated their vacation time, when I was out of sick leave. My family and friends rallied around me and provided much needed physical and emotional support. I have often wondered what people less fortunate than I, do in this situation. I am not one of those who can say that my cancer was a blessing but I do feel very blessed by my circumstances.

IV and IP (Intraperitoneal) therapy of Cisplatin, Carboplatin and Taxol were the recommended treatment and a port was placed in my abdomen. Between the IP port and dangling wires of the PICC line in my upper arm, I felt a bit like Frankenstein. Certainly not very attractive — and I had just grown out my bangs and now I would lose it all!

Chemo was horrible. No dancing around how difficult it was for me. Although lifesaving, I came to dread chemo days and would cry the night before. The neurotoxicity of Cisplatin was too much and I could tolerate only five cycles at which time we switched to Carboplatin for the sixth cycle, both with Taxol. Chemo days were long days that started with sometimes adventurous drives from home to the clinic. My family was great and accompanied me to every chemo treatment and always made sure I had everything I needed in between chemo days. Five days in bed or on the couch and a slow recovery through day seven.

I have read accounts of many brave and strong women who are able to do so much more physically than I could during chemo up to even running marathons. The thought of that is so foreign to me. Getting off the couch to go to the bathroom without passing out was the marathon I ran. I kept thinking, “Why can’t I do that? Come on Barbara, get up and go to work!”

I’m not even sure how to describe those 5-7 days after treatment. My nights and days got twisted, sleep would come and then it wouldn’t and my mind was so foggy. My body ached like never before. Meals the first few days consisted of a piece of bacon and a few bites of watermelon. Treatment would leave me weighing 12-14 pounds more than when I left in the morning. All that fluid just sitting in my abdomen, yet because I could not even tolerate water, after a few days I would get so dehydrated that I would pass out.

But, treatment was working and my CA125 slowly declined. My every-other-week doctor visits gave me the opportunity to learn about my disease, and have open and honest discussions with my doctor. Fortunately, he understood early on that I am a straight shooter, dislike uncertainty, and like information. Although he remained positive about my progress, he would end many of our discussions with “but God may have other plans.” His honesty and ability to help me understand my disease were immensely important in my journey to understand, accept and fight what was happening to me. This medical partnership that included him, my therapist, acupuncturist, chemo nurses, lab staff and countless others was the rising tide that lifts the boat. I think of them now and say a silent prayer of thanks.

During treatment, all I wanted was to go back to October 9th, to before cancer, to my old life. What “they” don’t tell you is that you will never have your old life back. For me, I am irrevocably changed. The end of treatment was the start of a much longer journey, in some ways, a more difficult journey. It took a lot of time and effort to sort out what now, what was worth keeping in my life and what needed to be let go. Some relationships survived, some thrived and others didn’t. Old ones were reestablished and to some I said good-bye, to be replaced by new relationships. I have seen two nephews and one niece marry since treatment and now, we excitedly await the birth of the son of one of these nephews. I fulfilled a bucket-list trip with a tour though five African countries and laughed more than cried. And that puppy, Sherman? — He will turn 6 the end of the month.

As I write this, it is March 6, 2017, five years since my last chemo and I am cancer-free. I guess God does have plans for me.