“Your tumor is about the size of a watermelon,” my oncologist said.
I just saw him five minutes ago. I sat in the emergency room hallway, waiting to be told when I would have surgery to remove a tumor the size of a watermelon.
“The good news is that tumors this large rarely become cancerous,” he added.
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Famous last words.
Two days later, I woke up from a surgery where my oncologist removed an eight-pound tumor and one of my ovaries. This is cancer. During the surgery, I lost nearly three pints of blood, along with the life I once knew.
One morning in 2020, I woke up with an unshakable feeling: I had cancer. I don’t have any real symptoms other than fatigue, and who hasn’t been exhausted in 2020? Still, the feeling was so persistent that I scheduled an appointment with my primary care doctor. This is important because I used to avoid going to the doctor. I’m a nurse and we have a reputation for being the worst patients.
The blood tests they performed came back normal. I was relieved and dismissed my fear as paranoia. But deep down, I still felt like something was wrong.
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Over the years, I kept going to doctors, convinced that each new symptom would eventually explain how I was feeling. But that wasn’t the case, and eventually, I felt too embarrassed to continue going to the doctor, so I stopped.
But then my symptoms worsened and I could no longer ignore them. Extreme fatigue. Severe acid reflux. Pelvic and abdominal pain. Persistent bloating. Irregular menstruation. I felt so uncomfortable that I finally decided to see the doctor again. She took one look at me and sent me straight to the ER.
After a pelvic B-ultrasound and abdominal CT examination, a tumor the size of a watermelon was discovered.
After the tumor is removed, an important question remains: Where did it come from? Two pathology reports and one Dilation and Curettage (D&C) Helped doctors determine that it might have originated in my uterus. I was told it needed to be removed along with “everything else”. By “everything else” I meant my fallopian tubes, cervix, and remaining ovaries.
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At 28, I had a total hysterectomy Bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy. I immediately went into surgical menopause. The hot flashes, insomnia, and depression that occurred immediately after surgery were the worst symptoms I had ever experienced.
Until then, I had been able to maintain a fairly optimistic attitude. Finding the tumor felt like progress. Therapy feels like action. For me, cancer was like a temporary obstacle. Menopause feels permanent.
Coming to terms with this part of my healing took time. It was necessary to save my life, but this knowledge did not take away the sadness.
The author postponed her third round of chemotherapy so that she could attend the Eras tour in Nashville. Photos courtesy of Kathy Holtmann
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A few weeks later, though it felt longer, I received my third and final pathology report. I was officially diagnosed with stage 3A endometrial adenocarcinoma, a type of uterine cancer that starts in the endometrium, or endometrial tissue. It is the most common gynecological cancer in the United States. In addition to my two previous surgeries, my oncologist recommended chemotherapy and pelvic radiation.
After my diagnosis, I learned that endometrial cancer most commonly affects women over 45, but anyone with a uterus is at risk—as my diagnosis in my 20s can attest. Additionally, the most common symptom is irregular or postmenopausal vaginal bleeding. While I did have irregular periods, I didn’t associate them with my other symptoms.
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I want to feel informed and prepared when I start treatment, so I follow social media. When I looked for support, I discovered that many people were sharing their cancer stories online. Yet, endometrial cancer is rarely talked about. I wonder if it’s because they feel embarrassed or even ashamed to be associated with gynecological cancer.
Regardless, I decided to share my own story with endometrial cancer.
At first, I didn’t expect anyone to watch my videos. Posting is just a way of processing what I’m going through. My first video was “Get Ready With Me” (GRWM) when I was getting ready for a hysterectomy party.
I gathered my friends and we ate pizza, danced, sang, and said goodbye to my uterus. The video really resonated with people and the response to it encouraged me to continue sharing to spread awareness and help break some of the stigma around gynecological cancer.
I posted a video recording Every round of chemo, my unexpected symptoms, my small victories and practical tips to help me get through treatment. Over time, an online community formed. Someone who supported me and each other, and ultimately got me through some of the toughest months of my life.
The author rang the bell after completing 6 rounds of chemotherapy Photos courtesy of Kathy Holtmann
After five months of chemotherapy, two months of radiation, two ringers, and countless GRWM videos, I was done. My final scan showed no evidence of disease. I’m done. Or so I thought.
One of the hardest lessons I learned after cancer treatment is that you are never truly done. I often joke that although I am cancer-free, the cancer is not gone from me.
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Learning to live after treatment has been one of the most difficult challenges of my life. I can’t describe it in words, I just feel “alternative”. While my friends were getting married, buying houses, and having kids, my life revolved around getting clean CT scans and staying cancer-free.
I tried to reassemble who I was before, but they had been surgically cut and radiated into something that no longer fit. I am no longer the carefree woman I was in my 20s, even though I just want to be like her again.
It took me some time to figure out who I was “after.” I’m learning to accept and even love this version of myself that has been shaped by trauma and survival. While a part of me still misses my old self, a large part of me does not.
I believe I’m going through this for a reason. By sharing my story, I hope to encourage others to advocate for themselves when something doesn’t feel right. I want women to feel empowered to speak out about their symptoms, even if they feel uncomfortable or embarrassed. I want them to know that their health matters and we all deserve answers.
Endometrial cancer is most treatable when caught early, so trust yourself. If something doesn’t feel right, start a conversation with your doctor. Ask questions. A statement today could mean more tomorrow. And, for anyone going through a cancer journey, I want you to know this: You are not alone.
Casey Halterman is a South Carolina nurse, endometrial cancer survivor, and paid spokesperson for GlaxoSmithKline’s “Don’t Be Embarrassed Endometrial Cancer” campaign. For more information, please visit DontBeEmbarrassed.com and follow kathy Instagram and Tik Tok.
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