Joan Meyerhoff

December 2018

My first grandchild, Rosland, was born on October 3rd. Early each morning in the first week of her life, I rose to hold her for several hours while her parents slept. Looking into her sweet infant face, I felt peaceful joy and wonder. Last August when I was diagnosed with stage 3C ovarian cancer, I couldn’t have imagined that in a year I’d be feeling good and welcoming a grandchild into the world.

My experience with ovarian cancer was like that of many other women: mild bloating, irregularity (my friends in their sixties could relate) and then finally a feeling of slight pressure in my pelvis that was the catalyst for making a doctor appointment. My physician thought it was likely just stress. I was scheduled to retire in a few months and tying up ends at work was taking its toll. He ordered a pelvic ultrasound which led to a CT scan and a CA125. The tests revealed cancer had spread throughout my abdomen. I was devastated and in deepest grief believing my wonderful life was going to end very soon. I fell apart in the arms of dear friends who listened to my grief and fear.

Within days, I was in the office of a gynecological oncologist with my daughter and a close physician friend. I braced myself for the possibility of a hospice referral. My new Gyn Onc laid out the information one piece at a time. The facts were terrible: a CA125 of 1000 etc. She recommended surgery followed by chemotherapy. I shrank before the news and closed my eyes. Then she said these words, “It is possible for this cancer to be cured.” I knew the odds were bad, but her words powerfully shifted my focus. I marshalled my energy to fight for my life.

The week before my surgery was overwhelmingly stressful and at the same time filled with grace. So many details to attend to! I completed a will, an advance directive and a power of attorney and had port placement surgery, all while trying to wrap my head around the new reality that I had cancer.

It’s hard to put into words the juxtaposition of my fear, the beautiful love of my family and friends, the strength I found within my own spirit and the remarkable encounters I had with healing people.

I’ll never forget the love in the eyes of my daughter and son-in-law on the night of my diagnosis. My daughter took weeks away from her work as a physical therapist. “Mom, how can I go to work and help other people heal when my own mom needs me?” My brother came from California with his reassuring, loving presence. My sister-in-law cooked and helped me face the scary chemo binder. Friends surrounded me with an outpouring of love and offers of practical support.

In the week prior to surgery, I crossed paths with several people in the healing arts who inspired and empowered me: a naturopath, a Reiki master and a yogi practicing energy healing. I knew and trusted these people, so I opened up to what they offered. I experienced a deep stillness which helped me tap into my own spiritual strength. I decided to suspend doubt and let all the love in.

Finally, the day of surgery arrived. My family and I loaded up in the car and my daughter cranked up a soundtrack she had created for the occasion starting off with Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day.” If you haven’t listened to this song, do yourself a favor when you’re having a bad day. By the time I got to the hospital, I felt resolute and told my Gyn Onc to “go to town with your scalpel!” I will never forget waking up to the loving smiles of my family and my doctor telling me she’d been able to do optimal tumor removal and felt optimistic for me.

Then, the “Chemo Spa Posse” was created! My dear close girlfriends, women of strength, humor and love accompanied me to all my treatments. Our time together was an unexpected gift. The chemo nurses were wonderful as well. I weathered the treatments well, and never had a truly sick day. I attribute this to improvements in chemotherapy, a fasting regimen recommended by my naturopath and the support I received.

A sweet man I’d begun seeing (despite my concern that it would be too complicated to remain with me after my diagnosis) has seen me through treatment and recovery, bringing his lightness and companionship.

I am participating in a clinical trial for a PARP inhibitor thanks to my doctor. After initially struggling with anemia followed by a dose reduction, now I am tolerating this well. I have also partnered with a naturopath specializing in oncology. I want to know that I am taking full advantage of all the knowledge available to increase my odds. Working with a naturopath and adopting healthy dietary and lifestyle practices makes me feel more empowered and engaged in my own wellness.

Today I’m fourteen months out from my diagnosis and gratefully retired after a long, meaningful and demanding career as a social worker. I feel strong and am engaged in what I have always loved most: enjoying being outdoors in nature, following creative pursuits, and spreading my love around to my family, friends and the wider world by engaging in environmental and economic justice advocacy.

While living fully and doing everything I can to fight this disease, I consciously allow space to face the fear of recurrence. Avoidance saps one’s energy.

I draw strength from many sources. I have known several remarkable people who have lived and even died with cancer most admirably. I know it can be done. I meditate. I read books by a wide variety of writers, whose wisdom about living with uncertainty, facing cancer and healing help me find strength. Most recently, I am reading The Five Invitations, What Dying Teaches Us About Living Fully by Frank Ostaseski. Fear and sadness come up, but I know there is much more to this life and to me than ovarian cancer.