I Have Endometrial Cancer

This morning I went to work at the University of Illinois Survey Research Office, where I work part-time as a researcher. I had been anxiously awaiting the news of my endometrial biopsy results from last Tuesday. I had called this morning and left a message for my doctor’s nurse asking if the pathology report was in.

At around 9:30 this morning, just as I got a caller on the phone and was reading the spiel from our latest survey, my cell phone rang. It was my gynecologic oncologist.

The cancer club has a new member. The pathology report showed a clearly differentiated Stage 1 tumor in my uterus. If I hadn’t already been sitting down in the hallway outside the Survey Research Office, I would have collapsed.

I later asked a nurse friend what this meant. She said a clearly differentiated mass means it is a mass with its own boundaries as opposed to an undifferentiated mass that is integrated with the surrounding tissue. The type of cells they recovered from the biopsy let the pathologist know what type of tumor they are dealing with. She added clearly differentiated is always better than the other one and it is easier to surgically remove the entire growth.

As it was, my sobs were loud enough to attract the attention of several women in nearby offices. I have been prepared for this news since 2008. You are never prepared for a cancer diagnosis. My reproductive organs have turned on me and declared war. I just want them out.

I was scheduled for a follow-up appointment next week. Now I am preparing for a hysterectomy. My gynecologic oncologist said he almost called this weekend but waited until today. He asked if I was alone and I told him I was at work. I don’t imagine it gets any easier calling and telling women every day that they have cancer.

When he told me, I said I had been expecting the news. He asked why. I said women know these things. I knew something hadn’t been right in my body for a long time. I said ever since my diagnosis of complex hyperplasia without atypia in 2008 I knew I was living with a ticking time bomb inside me that was going to go off one day. When I started bleeding a year ago, I knew that was a danger sign. I said all the research I did for my article pointed to cancer.

That is one diagnosis you never want to hear, however.

The director of the Survey Research Office was wonderful. She opened her office and let me talk and later let me have a private office where I could sit and make phone calls. She also told me to go home and to take as much time off as I needed and that I would always have a job. Another woman from the office across the hall brought me a cup of water. She had been on her way to the restroom when she heard the news.

Everyone has gone out of their way today. I appreciate all the little kindnesses. However, as someone messaged me, don’t let the word cancer define you. I am still Roberta; I am not the cancer. This isn’t going to change.

Me and Martin McCormack from Switchback

Switchback

I have a consult scheduled with my gynecologic oncologist Wednesday afternoon to discuss my options. Oncologist is such an ugly word; it sounds so harsh. The word does not roll off the tongue easily. He told me to call him anytime between now and then if I have questions or if I need to talk.

I have been so busy today calling friends and family members and telling them the news I haven’t had time to process the news. There are no protocols for telling people you have cancer. I have been telling people this for some time. It is a feeling I have always had. Now I have an official diagnosis. I am from the tell it straight up school. There is no way to sugar coat the word cancer.

I need to make time for myself. I need to lose weight. I have set myself up with regular dates with a speculum. For someone who never wanted to make pelvic exams a regular part of her life, I’m making up for it now.

I will know more after Wednesday. I need to settle myself and say goodbye to my girlie parts. I will miss my uterus, my cervix, my ovaries, my fallopian tubes. They define my gender. They have served me well the past 50 years. I will miss them.
Will their loss make me less a woman?

This news couldn’t have come at a worst time. I don’t think there is a good time to hear the words, “You have cancer.” I have four articles due this week. I have told my editors, who have been very understanding and offered to help in any way they can. I have to accept the fact that my life is outside my control at the moment and trust my doctor.

No one asks to be a member of this club. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.