Vicki Grandy, Portland

December 2020

“That is really serious, isn’t it?”

The news of my Ovarian Cancer diagnosis frequently brings this response. And the conversation that follows never gets any easier. Nobody, including me, knows quite what to say. But here goes…

My story is pretty typical. Spring of 2019 I developed some vaguely troubling symptoms, a lump that went away, some funny digestive stuff, but mostly just a gut feeling that something was wrong. My primary care doctor didn’t really see any cause for concern, but she ordered an ultra sound for good measure. A few weeks later I was conferring with a gynecological oncologist and scheduled for surgery. As mild as my symptoms were and as quickly as I got into surgery, I still came in at Stage 3C. Ovarian Cancer is a sneaky trickster!

The time around my surgery is a bit of a blur. My husband,Steve, and I were reeling with the acute stress of the diagnosis and high drama of the surgery – not to mention contending with the Spector of Mortality! How grateful we are still to have found a doctor and health care team who treated me with calming compassion. I was very frightened, but I felt that I was in excellent hands. I had a three hour robotic surgery and was told that I was “optimally debulked”. And I thought, “What on earth does that mean?”

Post surgery, my body got busy with the business of healing. My brain got busy trying to figure out the ins and outs of chemotherapy. I have been retired for several years, but before that I flew airplanes for a living and always enjoyed the problem solving nature of the job. But this had me stymied. Navigating the treatment regimen is a steep learning curve of new vocabulary and concepts. The NIH guide that I got from the Ovarian Cancer Alliance of OR/SW WA is dog-eared.

The internet is full of really scary stories, and some of them are true! Sometimes it’s healthier to watch puppy videos on YouTube.

Most helpful is talking to someone who has been through it. Ovarian Cancer Alliance mentor and buddy, Becki, was willing to share her story with me. It was so nice to be able to talk about O.C. with somebody who has been there. All my friends and family were incredibly supportive, but I frequently felt like I had leaned on them so much, they really didn’t need the details of chemo side effects and how I threw up on my car and my shirt.

My oncologist said to me at the start of chemo, “During chemo, live your life.” That was a valuable piece of advice.

My first chemotherapy session came at the end of July. The weather was beautiful, and I could be outside a lot, and I had tons of distractions. People dropped by with food and flowers and cards and presents, and we sat on the deck in the warm afternoons and visited. Steve was still working at his pilot job for Delta; so we asked friends to help get me to and from chemo when he was out of town. All that good company made the long treatment days go by more easily. And the number of days that I felt ill were just a few…at first.

As the cycles progressed, the days got shorter and cooler. I spent more time indoors on the couch feeling just a little sicker for just a little longer with each treatment. By cycle six, I was green around the gills for about ten days, and my feet were getting numb. I began to understand the concept of toxicity.

Still, we lived our life. In a three week cycle only about six to eleven days were difficult. Steve and I made plans for fun outings the rest of the time especially in the summer. When I look at pictures from August and September, it looks like we are having a normal summer, hiking, swimming, paddling our kayaks. My bald head in the pictures is the only tip off. By late fall, I was thinner and short of breath but walking everyday.

A side effect of Cancer treatment that isn’t in the literature is a feeling of indescribable gratitude.

By no means, did I “sail through” chemo, but I made it. And that’s because I had help. I felt like the Tour de France champion in the yellow jersey with the peloton of husband, sisters, friends, and well-wishers pushing me across the finish line. There are not enough thank you cards in the world.

The compassionate care I received from my Doctor, his crew of PAs, nurses, and medical assistants, as well as the kind office staff, reinforced my faith in the goodness of human kind. Angels, hiding their wings under scrubs, walk among us. I will never forget that.

And the other patients, oh my, were so impressive. Chemo is rough! Your hair falls out, you get sick and throw up. There is profound fatigue, headaches, weird smells and insomnia. Really, every part of the body revolts. And the sheer tedium of the long infusion days takes a toll. And yet, with all the discomfort and the indignities that go with cancer treatment, most of my fellow patients were good humored, patient and friendly and funny. I loved those two guys who would meet up in the infusion room and greet each other with, “You look like hell.” “Takes one to know one.” So this is what courage looks like.

Let me add here that I fully indulged in episodes of self pity. My friend, Cathy, who was also going through a chemotherapy course, and I regularly had pity parties on the phone. We were both pretty sturdy patients, but Chemo really sucks. We always, always ended up laughing our butts off somehow. Go figure.

We celebrated the end of chemo and a CT scan showing NED with a trip to Kauai, the most healing place I know. Swimming in the Pacific and hiking the fragrant trails of Waimea Canyon made me friends with my body again.

Fast forward to 2020. The pandemic arrived just as I was trying to figure out just how to handle the strange new world of wondering and worrying that is remission. The language of cancer is so vague and conditional. Because, well, you just never know. Good old mortality stays in the wings, playing peek a boo. And with COVID 19, the entire global population is noticing just how tenuous our existence is. And that has us focusing on just how remarkably beautiful and magical this blue ball tumbling through space is.

When we are able to gather again, I hope we can remember what joy we got from bird song and star gazing.

I am coming up on a year in remission. It has been a very full year. I have been following my parents’ order to “Go outside and play.” To be in nature and in motion is what makes me feel most alive. And when I am skiing in knee deep powder, hiking a trail through meadows of lupine and Indian paintbrush, or swimming in a mountain lake, I stop thinking about O.C. and the uncertainty of being a survivor.

Hope and fear are two sides to the same coin which gets tossed every day. I am marking my time by the seasons, each one glorious in its way.

Every day is a gift.