The Silent Killer
On April 9, 2024, I lost a dear friend to ovarian cancer. This friend was never a fan of the gender related parts that he was born with, so I found it exceedingly cruel that these parts were largely responsible for his exit from this plane of existence. During our last conversation, he told me to remind all uterus and ovary owners that Ovarian Cancer is called the Silent Killer.
The timeline of his battle with cancer is disturbing, as there are reasons to believe he might have had a better chance of survival with better care. While I can’t say with any certainty, in retrospect, after learning about the symptoms of ovarian cancer, I believe his battle with cancer actually started in 2022 when he had a bout of terrible constipation. We’ll address the easy-to-overlook warning signs in another post.
In April of 2023, he landed in the hospital in excruciating pain and during that time they discovered a mass on the ovary, and planned on surgery to remove it, and perform a biopsy. During the surgery they discovered that he was full of cancerous mucus, as well as having a mass on the ovary. It was via a text conversation post-surgery that I learned of the cancer diagnosis. The nurse present in the surgery said that the mass on the ovary was full of cancer, and suspected Stage 3 or 4.
My friend’s sister shared a recording with me of the surgeon talking with them post-op about the surgery, and the surgeon said he had scooped a bucket full of mucus out of my friend’s body with his hands. That same surgeon said that the cancer my friend had was very slow moving and “you’ll die of something, but it won’t be cancer.” Clearly, this surgeon was wrong.
In May of 2023, the Pathologist reviewing the case stated that it was Stage 2 cancer, no need for chemo or radiation, no plan for after care or check-ups.
Fast forward to October 2023, and a new cyst was discovered. At this point a board of oncologists were called in to review the case, and chemo was prescribed. It was also at this point that the diagnosis changed from slow, and not a concern to rare, and aggressive.
In March of 2024, after months of chemo, my friend was back in the hospital again in excruciating pain. At that time he learned the chemo treatments had no impact on the cancer, and was given the grim prognosis of six months to live. Typing those words, even now, is still like a kick in the heart.
When he was feeling up to it, we had a long phone conversation. In his words - “I’m *%!#@-ed from the ribs down, and if this is what my life is going to feel like from here on out, I don’t want it.” I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t ask any of the questions I thought of after losing him. He painted a picture of a miserable day-to-day existence, and couldn’t enjoy doing any of the things he enjoyed: friends, food and adult beverages - preferably at the same time.
He was gone within two weeks of our phone conversation. I am still shaking my head in disbelief. It felt like he willed himself out of this world, out of the pain, out of the frustration and lack of joy that he found himself in. We made a plan to see each other on Sunday, April 7, and when I asked if he was still craving broccoli and cheese quiche, he said “no, I’ve stopped eating.” I foolishly asked why, and he responded in his signature sarcastic tone, “I think it’s called Cancer.”
On Sunday morning, I got a call from his phone number, but he’s not the one on the line. The voice tells me that my friend is very weak, but would like me to come down, and I should do so as soon as possible. I burst into tears as soon as I hung up the phone, and hopped in the car.
The scene that met me when I entered my friend's home was bleak. Hospice treatments had already started, my friend was largely lost to a heavy dose of Delaudid. The first thing he shouts when I walk near his chair is “I’m halfway dead!” He is clearly uncomfortable, and just trying to rest. He complains about not being able to articulate his thoughts, and I just sit next to him, holding his hand. That day a number of friends and family came to be by his side. It was surreal, and devastating. There were a few light glimpses of my friends sharp wit, but primarily it was just torture to see him that way.
The lovely humans caring for my friend knew it wouldn’t be long. In hopes of spending more time with him, I took a personal day off from work on Tuesday. However, when I woke up on that Tuesday, I noticed a missed a call from his sister in the wee hours of the morning. I knew what that meant.
In the days and weeks after his departure, I craved the company of those who knew him and loved him well. He was the charismatic hub of several large groups of friends. He had plans on his calendar almost every day due to his self-proclaimed FOMO. He was wise, he was opinionated, he was funny, and he was always the person you’d gravitate to at a party. He was a writer and a poet, and thankfully, a friend convinced him to allow his work to be donated to the Mazer Lesbian Archives. Common phrases that friends use to invoke his presence were his signature phrases, “Dear diary…” and “What had happened was…” These phrases would often be paired with his signature gesture - smoking a phantom cigarette.
After his funeral mass, I learned that his cousin had been pestering him to seek a second opinion after the cancer diagnosis in 2023. His cousin had gone through her own battle with cancer just the year before, and was on a routine check-up schedule. She was shocked and concerned that he wasn’t receiving the same after care. I’m not sure why he didn’t seek a second opinion, but this news was a troubling reminder that one should always view your medical care with a critical lens. I also learned that some of his friends suspected that he chose to stop eating to expedite his exit from life.
After witnessing what my friend went through, and hearing his voice in my head warning uterus and ovary owners about “the silent killer” I did a bit of research on the warning signs for ovarian cancer. A common introduction to these symptoms state they are “vague” or “easily overlooked.” My next post will dig into these symptoms.
