My Future

Shannon Laidlaw
3 days ago
8 min read

I'll see you in a couple years

Do you know there is a type of hypochondria that turns every small ailment into a terminal cancer diagnosis? Headache – cancer. Ache in the lower back – kidney cancer. Stubbed toe? Will devolve into some form of cancer. That would be me.

Naturally, when my stomach starts protruding like I’m 12 months pregnant and I have knee-buckling pains in my abdomen - it’s an ulcer. Or a touch of diverticulitis. Cancer wasn’t even a thought. I’m often wrong about most things, so this makes sense.

The Beginning

I sit here nearly a year out from the CT that would start this journey. One that involved brutal colonoscopy prep, a full hysterectomy where I was split open, and 6 rounds of chemo. Luckily, ending with me being free of disease - for now. A lot has happened in a relatively short amount of time and I don’t know that I have even begun to process any of it.

MyChart and Me

So here’s the wild ride of finding out all my diagnoses from MyChart, my best frenemy. We really have shared a lot together.

Like the results of the initial CT scan to figure out why my stomach hurt, telling me the beach ball in my stomach was “highly suspicious for malignancy.” Luckily, I had a great doctor who called within minutes of getting those fun results and got me hooked up with an oncologist right away.

Those results also told me that there was a “thickening” along my colon wall. Which could mean many things, like I do have a cancer and it has spread. Lovely. A colonoscopy was ordered and I spent the worst night of my life drinking a tank of absolute poison and praying for a quick death.

Yet, my colon has never been so pristine. The procedure itself was a beautiful nap considering I hadn’t slept the night before, if you don’t include a few minutes on the toilet here and there. And thankfully, it was clear.

The doctor also gave me the reassuring news that I probably don’t have cancer because, “it doesn’t grow that big, that fast.” Welp.

Surgery and Surprises

I had surgery a few weeks later, cut open from “tits to tail” as they say. They removed a basketball-sized tumor from my right ovary, which was indeed cancerous. And also twisted around the ovary multiple times, which is really just fun to think about.

I was once again reassured that it looked like they got everything out. A side note: I am not one for reassurances. Give me the cold hard facts. If it’s not so bad after all, then I get to be relieved. If it is as worse as it could be, then at least I was prepared.

So after the surgery, I spent a few days trying to break free from the hospital as quickly as possible. You want me to walk a 5K down this hall? Sounds great, let’s go.

I was sprung after only a few days and moved in with my mom and stepdad for a few weeks while I recovered. The Olympics were on, which kept my mind mostly preoccupied. I got to navigate chairs and stairs and beds and hope my guts (what was left of them) didn’t fall out of my stitched-up belly. All in all, recovery went well.

Stage 3? Seriously?

I waited for the news, which took a few weeks, and then I finally got the notification on my phone from my old buddy, MyChart. It felt like the pathology report was 40 pages long, but it didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.

The cancer spread to a lymph node and trace amounts in the omentum, whatever that is (let’s be real, thanks to Google, I know what that is and could probably teach a course about it). And I was classified as stage 3.

Huh? I was reassured they got it all, how could this be? I was barely stage 1 in my head. How could I have advanced stage ovarian cancer?

Do you know what Google says about this? It’s over for me. I could die in the next 6 months. To say this was a punch to the gut would be the understatement of the century.

Googling and Reddit: The Rollercoaster

I was seeing my doctor the next day, so I got to wait a whole 24 hours. And I googled a lot and stressed out even more.

When I saw her, it was more reassurances. Stage 3 was curable. Yes, curable, not just treatable.

I let her give me those reassurances, and I would go on Reddit later and let them give me a death sentence… or make me feel better. Which they do in equal measure.

The treatment would be six rounds of chemo over 18 weeks.

What Chemo Was Really Like

I had a month to terrorize myself with how chemo would go. I only know what I’ve read, what some friends who’ve gone through it have told me, and what movies/television have portrayed it as. I saw myself bedridden, vomiting throughout the day, losing weight and wasting away, all while my hair falls out in big clumps… and then I die, probably.

It goes without saying—everyone’s experience is different.

My first infusion was fairly uneventful. I got a port a week prior—which in itself was probably worse than any of the infusions—so it made receiving the meds easier. I got restless and I got sleepy, but that was about it.

They freaked me and my daughter out with the idea of being allergic to the chemo drugs. Having to stab me, Pulp Fiction-style, while my kid would look on in horror. That did not happen.

I can say on the whole, the actual receiving of chemo was, dare I say, fun? I brought one of my favorite ladies with me to each one and nearly got in trouble for laughing too loud and causing a ruckus. My nurses had a dance party while playing Milli Vanilli.

What’s not to love here? You know, beside the cancer part.

Steroids, Food, and the One-Sided “Benefit”

I was given a sheet to tell me what to expect. I was told there probably wouldn't be any reaction the first 3 days out, mostly because of all the meds they pump you with. Also, no nausea.

Which was true and never happened. Not at all what movies told me.

From what I read, I’d be put off of food and everything would taste bad. I don’t know if I can laugh harder at that.

I was hungry all the time (let’s blame the steroids) and actually gained weight through all of it. The one fucking benefit might have been losing weight and here I was packing on another 30 pounds that I did not need.

But I get that losing might have been a bad sign, so I will take the wins even if they come with a larger dress size (or two).

I got told how good I looked a lot. I’m really glad I didn’t listen to the Scamanda podcast while I was going through this or I would have worried that everyone would think I was lying.

Who gains weight during chemo?? Me, apparently.

Losing My Hair

Overall, I felt like crap from around days 4–7 after infusion. It got slightly worse as it went along with some neuropathy setting in and just being ridiculously tired. But I got through it and worked at my less-than-stellar job through the majority of it (see previous post).

The worst part was the hair loss.

I’ll admit I’m a vain person and I’ve had long hair the majority of my adult life. Ironically, my hair was the longest it has ever been when I found out I would need chemo.

I let my friend cut it to a cute bob in preparation for losing it. Around a couple weeks after the first treatment, it started to fall out. And become very painful.

I bought clippers to shave it when it was time, but it was very difficult to get myself to that point. Eventually, the pain outweighed my need to hang on to hair which I knew would eventually grow out.

I was also afraid of what I looked like bald. Did I have a misshapen skull and would look like a Conehead?

I let myself have a good cry the night before I shaved it. I paced around my apartment telling myself, “It’s only hair” over and over. The next day, I said “fuck it” and shaved while I cried. And then it was gone. And what was I so worried about?

It sucks, even now when it is growing in very slowly and very gray, but it truly is only hair.

The Best News: NED

I had another CT a few weeks after my last infusion which gave me the amazing news that I was NED (no evidence of disease). Ned is my favorite name now.

I went and rang the hell out of the bell.

I get to keep my lovely port for a year and have to go back for follow-ups every three months to make sure it stays the hell away.

Ringing the bell. I was super thin before chemo, look at it what it did to me. The nurse behind me is Scott, the best ever.

What Now?

Now I process it all.

I have googled the statistics of stage 3 ovarian cancer so many times, I am probably on alert at Google HQ. I know that there is a high likelihood of it returning but I also know it may not. I could be here for another 20 years or another 2.

It’s scary and it makes everything feel rushed. Which is why I sit here, unemployed and writing. Because there may not be a “later” to do all these things.

I don’t want to live a half-life, so I will experience as much as I can now.

And I’m not afraid of death, not really. I won’t even know I’m dead.

I just ask that when I’m on my deathbed that no one takes pictures of me when I’m on the brink. That is not a legacy I want to leave for anyone.

No, it’s not death that I’m concerned about. I am more worried about what I leave behind.

I have a daughter who is terrified for me. Who asks if I’m okay multiple times a day, still. I want to make sure she is prepared for the world without me. All I can do is give her as much as I can now.

Gratitude and Aftermath

Through all of this, I’ve learned how truly great people can be—and also how difficult it can be for others.

I can’t thank those enough who helped build a page, create a fundraiser, made shirts, donated, sent gifts, offered thoughts and prayers, etc. It was truly strange to be the subject of so much attention (and can I admit, it felt a little hollow when it was over? – a subject for another blog).

While I am beyond grateful, I hope no one ever has to help me like that again.

And looky here, turns out, sometimes the hypochondriac is right. But usually about the wrong things.. Listen to your gut, especially if it's the size of prize-winning watermelon.

Disclaimer: words are all mine, formatting provided for easier reading by robots. Don't give me shit about AI y'all. I know.

For more information about Ovarian and all cancers/ways to donate to help research efforts:

American Cancer Society

Ovarian Cancer Research Alliance

Share your own cancer story in the comments or send me an email: shannon@whatiamhub.com We are all in this together!