The Story of My Diagnosis: A Portal Opens, and a New Journey Begins

Originally drafted on November 12, 2024, and finished on January 9, 2025.

[Note to readers, April 24, 2025: I feel compelled to emphasize here that my chemo treatments are done, and my last CT scan in March was clear. The doom of this post, written when I was still stunned and expecting the worst, has given way to positivity and every reason to be hopeful. I debated posting this horrific account, but I’ve always been a dedicated personal archivist. This account will always be a viscerally upsetting part of my story, no matter how the story evolves.]

The Story of My Diagnosis: A Portal Opens, and a New Journey Begins

Sunday, November 10, 2024, was a magical day. The weather outside was perfect Pittsburgh fall: gusty rain, gloom, wind, and darkness. The girls and I were on our own--Andrew was en route to Peru for work--and after running a few errands, we settled at home for the day. We played two rounds of Unstable Unicorns--our ongoing competition for a chicken statue, which Lucia wins every single time. Then, instead of disappearing to their rooms as they tend to do as teens, Lucia suggested to Greta that they go to the basement.

They got out all of their Calico Critter sets and accessories and spent the next hour or more setting them all up. All the tiny foods, plants, furniture. All the little pots and pans and cookie cutters. They got out the Calico Critters themselves and dressed them. Then they got out their boxes of Maileg mice and exclaimed over those for a while, setting them up as well.

They called for me to see what they’d done. They showed off the elaborate displays of baked goods and vegetables in the bakery and market, sometimes revealing their sly teen humor--Greta had set up a secret “meth lab” in the corner of her bakery--but really just excited to be rediscovering these once-precious things.

And then--then--they got out their American Girls. All of them were taken out of the doll closet; the wardrobes were opened; and all the dolls were meticulously dressed. I wanted to curl onto the floor, close my eyes, and just listen. But I didn’t want to break the spell, so I left them to their play.

Outside, rain and wind. Inside, a portal to the past. Brief, clear, shimmering. I was again the young mom of young children. They were again young children immersed in hours of play while their mom puttered around upstairs. Somewhere, a membrane of the universe had ripped, and we’d slipped into a different timeline. Remember? the wind whispered kindly, generously. Remember how it used to be?

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The next day, Monday, November 11, I took the kids to school then went to a scheduled appointment at urgent care. I’d been having a twinge in my lower right side and back, and my googling suggested gallstones. The feeling was more annoying than painful, and seemed to have abated that morning; I considered cancelling the appointment. But I was already in motion, so I went. They dismissed me quickly, unable to deal with any sort of abdominal issue, and directed me to the ER. Again, I considered just going home. I was supposed to be starting my workday, and Andrew was in Peru; who had time for an ER visit? But again, against all logic, I continued on. 

Blood work, a CT scan, some questions from a young male doctor who was condescending at my aversion to needles. I scrolled around on my phone, alone in the ER room. When a notification popped up that the CT results were in, I clicked into the app and read them.

I’m not a doctor; I didn’t speak the language of the test; but I recognized the grammatical structures and cadence, understood the meaning without having to know the words: ovarian cancer, with significant spread. A nurse responded to my frantic cries; the young doctor followed, now pale-faced and out of his depth as he confirmed the worst; and, just like that, I slipped into a new timeline once again.

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Andrew began making his way back from Peru. Beth spent the rest of the afternoon with me at the hospital, my friend of thirty-four years now a pathologist with all the inside connections. When the doctor returned to the room, advising me keep calling the gyn-onc office to secure an appointment so I wouldn’t “slip through the cracks,” Beth was already on the phone with her preferred surgeon, an appointment scheduled for the next day; she just handed the doctor her cell phone so the surgeon could request additional tests. We didn’t need his help. We were middle-aged moms, taking control of a crisis. 

Mom and Dad went to the house to be ready to pick up the kids. Molly arrived not long after; she’d driven in immediately from Bethesda, jumping in the car without even packing a toothbrush. She and I spent the day together on Tuesday. We walked to Starbucks, the day perfect fall, with golden, blinding sun and blue sky and the same dreadful, electric feeling of catastrophic, foundation-crumbling change we felt in New York and Washington on another dreadful Tuesday long in the past.  

Life accelerated. Surgery was scheduled for November 26. On November 22, Andrew, the kids, and I went to Toronto, long-planned, to see Taylor Swift. (On the outside, absurdly, I was a healthy, energetic person who wore a sequined mini dress and danced at the concert then explored Toronto the next day. At that point I’d already lost ten pounds from distress.) On November 26, I went in for surgery, not knowing whether it would be exploratory only (home the same day; start chemo then have a large surgery later) or a much more complex event (remove it all; then chemo). When the pathology report done during the surgery revealed that I have low-grade serous ovarian cancer, a rare form of ovarian cancer that is slower-growing and less aggressive but does not always respond well to chemo, the surgeon decided to remove everything. 

The surgery lasted seven hours: hysterectomy, ovary removal, appendectomy, bowel resection, and lasering to remove still more disease. I was in the hospital for eight days. My foot-long incision was held together by silver staples. I went on leave from work. I joined a clinical study and was randomized into a treatment plan (six cycles of chemo followed by letrozole) that began on January 8. The surgery was just the beginning of a long, long road ahead.

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Downstairs, the dolls and toys have been bundled back into the closet. The kids are back to being teenagers, and the basement is dark. That blustery, eerie November day is long over. Those hours of return--to a time that glows with good fortune and innocence--are gone. I can’t help but believe the portal appeared that day as a kind of benevolent warning--Remember this. Remember how it used to be. Life as you know it will never be the same.