In January of 2000, at the age of fifty-two, I underwent a fairly simple surgery to remove fibroids. I came out six hours later without fibroids but with a diagnosis of ovarian cancer stage 3c. They said it was a sarcoma on my right pelvic wall and was a very rare type'aggressive, high grade, with no protocol for treatment. I was told I had from six months to five years with no forecast on a quality of life during that time. Upon being released from the hospital, I set out to map a wellness plan, to keep track of all my medical tests, blood draws, CT scans, x-rays, and surgeries. I felt if I had control of my life, I could control my future. I gave myself the right to have hope. Hope to track, control, and fight this with everything I could. I knew I trusted my doctor with my body, but I needed to give myself hope to control my visions, anxiety, and emotions and how I treated myself. So I devised a fighting plan. I became my own health advocate. I kept up with all my tests results, my blood draws, my surgeon's reports and kept a paper trail. After my twenty-two-month journey, I was pronounced NED on September 11, 2001. I kept my catheter in for two and half years for a just-in-case moment, and then for my Christmas present to myself, I had it removed in my surgeon's office. That day was when I knew I had made it. I accepted my positive attitude, my plan, and the fact to feel the self-control and not let something control you doesn't define who you are. A great friend told me that ?cancer is only a word, not a sentence,? and I proved him right!
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