I don’t know where to start with this story. On occasion I hold things back so as not to hurt my family, my friends and at times, our industry. Some things are just too raw to write. I mentioned that I had surgery in June. Here’s the abridged story.

Background

Over a year ago, I was in hospital for a small procedure. A scan was scheduled. The radiographer noticed something untoward. She probed further and found a large cyst on my ovary and highlighted this to my consultant who recommended further investigation. I never felt it and it never interfered with me. I was referred to a gynaecological oncologist.

It was most likely a benign fibroma, and there for a long time

There followed scans that were repeated after three months. The diagnosis was made. It was most likely a benign fibroma, and there for a long time. Ricky, my grandson was only weeks old and calving 2020 was about to start. As there was no perceived risk to waiting; surgery was deferred to April. Then COVID-19 happened. The surgery was further pushed out to June. The operation went well. From there things didn’t quite go to plan. I got an infection and found myself attending the wound clinic every other day for several weeks.

Feeling useless

At home, I was under strict orders from the family to rest. For the first two weeks, it was easy. I couldn’t do a thing. Then I started to get stir crazy. I didn’t want to be the patient. Each morning, I came downstairs to have a cup of tea with my husband Tim before he’d go out to milk. I remember one morning vividly. We heard a car pull in and Tim asked: “Who could that be?”

Ordinarily I’d be on call to assist but not that day

The door opened and Hugo, my son Colm’s gorgeous dog, bounded in and straight over to greet me. We wondered why Colm was so early! He announced that the calves were going that morning. He had sold a bunch of 12 heifer calves surplus to our replacement requirements. Ordinarily I’d be on call to assist but not that day. I was hardly able to cross the kitchen not to mind help to load calves and obviously I wasn’t considered. The men were oblivious to my feelings of uselessness.

Diagnosis

On 6 July, I had my follow-up appointment with my consultant. That beautiful word “benign” had changed to “malignant”. A cyst had become a tumour. My chest tightened and my world turned upside down. The surgeon was “blindsided” (his own word) as he read from the report on his computer screen. “Malignant tumour, leiomyosarcoma – rare, aggressive – further scans required immediately to assess the spread.”

“Are you looking for a primary tumour?” I ventured. God knows where I got the words!

“Yes, yes,” he said spinning around in his chair. I was shocked and terrified. My niece Aoife was driving me that day. It was traumatic for her. Tim was in Kildare delivering heifers to the heifer rearer. Telling him on the phone and going home to tell the family was horrendous.

Because the cancer is rare, a second expert opinion was sought from London where there is more knowledge of the disease

I watched their faces as they tried to conceal their own shock and worry and I experienced profound love.

The scans were done within days. All returned clear. Because the cancer is rare, a second expert opinion was sought from London where there is more knowledge of the disease. The need for chemotherapy or not would be decided by London. I saw my oncologist yesterday, exactly three months since diagnosis. The intervening months have been hell. London decrees that no further treatment is deemed necessary. I will be closely monitored. My oncologist called me a cancer survivor.

The care has been exceptional every step of the way

A shiver went through me. All things considered, I couldn’t have had a better outcome. The care has been exceptional every step of the way but the unsung hero is the radiographer who went the extra mile to do her job. In something like this; every professional matters.

I’m different

Has this changed me? Undoubtedly. For the past while, when I wake, the first thought into my head is leiomyosarcoma. I hope that will change. It is no way to start a day. A relatively rare cancer means there is not much information and little research in Ireland. That frightens me. I have been lucky to have the cancer removed before it had spread and so it is stage one. I just have to believe it! Each day is new, different and an absolute gift.