I’m not going to lie, sometimes I forget that I have/had cancer. That brief moment of bliss and detachment is the hardest part to cope with because once I snap back into reality, I wonder why. Why me?
I am 22 years old. Young women are not supposed to get ovarian cancer, let alone cancer in general. The first thing I did when I got home from my original appointment where I was diagnosed, besides cry of course, is go to Google. Everyone tells you not to look at the internet, especially in situations like this, but I couldn’t help it. I got such few answers from my doctor that day, but that was expected. She didn’t know much either. They had to wait until they cut me open and run all the tests.
But alas, I turned to not only WebMD, but also academic research. Being in graduate school at a top research university and having two parents with doctoral degrees, I was taught the importance of research and data. There was so little to find about girls my age with ovarian cancer. What type is it usually? What stage is it usually caught at? What is the chemotherapy regimen for these patients, or radiation, if any at all? Finally… what is the prognosis? For the next 3 weeks, my family and I went back and forth with each other sharing articles that say I have a high chance that I would live, but also some saying that I was most likely going to die. Some said I would survive this time, but when it comes back, I won’t. It was draining to read it all, wondering what side of the statistics I would be on.
The magic word in all of this, that has been imprinted on my brain, is the word statistics. My parents have said, “The statistics show you will be okay and that chemo works.” I was confused to know my sister hadn’t cried over the whole situation, but her reasoning was rooted in rationality. My sister told me, “I’m not even concerned, look at the statistics. You’re gonna be fine. Relax.” I’ve been told to trust science, my doctors, and the statistics. But honestly, the statistics failed me the first time.
The most interesting part of it all is the fact that I was on the wrong side of the statistics. I did so much research to try and find where I fall on the curve. One source shows that every year, there are thousands of newly diagnosed cases of ovarian cancer. However, this source broke down their data by age group. The age group of 65-69 year olds has the highest yearly rate of 3,172 new cases. I fall into the age group of 20-24. There are only a mere 176 new cases per year. Ages 15-19 see 118 new cases while ages 25-29 see 233 new cases. So, less than 1,000 women under the age of 30 are diagnosed with ovarian cancer each year (Fayed, 2020; Healthline, 2020; Ovarian Cancer Research Alliance, 2020). How did I end up as one of those 1,000? How did I end up to be 1 in 14.5 million to get this horrible disease at such a young age?
What makes things more compelling is that the cancer I was diagnosed with was a rare form of ovarian cancer. It is a germ cell tumor, meaning that the cancer formed out of germ cells, otherwise known as the egg-producing cells. These cells are the start of life and can grow into multiple organs such as tissue, bone, and hair, all of which were present in my tumor (yeah, it was gross). Only 3% of ovarian tumors are germ cell tumors. But, my germ cell tumor was an immature teratoma - another step in the direction of rarity, as most germ cell tumors are mature (aka benign) (Fayed, 2020; Healthline, 2020; Ovarian Cancer Research Alliance, 2020).
The emotions I have felt throughout this whole process have been too many to keep track of. But, there are a few emotions that do stick out to me. Sometimes I feel cursed by God. Is this punishment for not going to church every Sunday? Maybe I could have prevented this and it’s my fault that I got cancer. I eat horribly, I hate washing my hands, or I could have been using bad products on my body. After all, Charles Darwin became famous for a reason. Sometimes I feel special, as if I was singled out by God to go through this horrendous journey to become a better person for those in my life - that being a better sister, daughter, girlfriend, social worker, mother (hopefully in the future), and friend. I could share my story with the world. Better yet, my body could and will be used for science to improve ovarian cancer treatment for those who come after me. I'm currently working with my oncologist and treatment team to see if I could possibly be included in some academic papers that are currently in the works. I also felt that out of any point in time, why now? I finally had my future figured out, or so I thought. I was in my first year of my MSW program, I had been going through therapy to work on my mental health, and I was finally thriving as a young, single woman. I feared that if the cancer would take me now, I wouldn't have even been able to get a chance to live out my dreams. I was confused, because I felt my purpose was to help people. If I was taken from this earth too soon, so many children and families would not receive social services and mental health therapy because of a traumatic life event that I had no control over. But, I remembered the statistics.
I am 1 in 14.5 million people that are diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
I am 1 in 7.594 billion people on this earth.
It is hard to conceptualize a billion units, let alone millions. But I know for sure that I am not the only one that has felt they were on the wrong side of the statistics. There are many experiences that happen to people that we just cannot fathom or understand the reasoning behind. I thought, maybe I just had bad luck. But don't we all have bad luck at some point? How many people are diagnosed with cancer each year? Forget ovarian cancer. Let's think about all types of cancer. 18 million people are diagnosed with cancer each year (World Cancer Research Fund, 2020). Now, so many people go through other traumatic events that force them to face their mortality earlier than we feel is deserved. Let's think about car accidents, drug overdoses, domestic violence, war, and the list can go on and on. Let's get real - we are in the middle of a world pandemic and the odds of contracting COVID-19 are generally low (please don't take this comment lightly as the virus is still extremely contagious - wear your masks people).
When I was first diagnosed, I imagined God looking down on earth at the 7.594 billion people and pointing directly at me to give me ovarian cancer. But, that now seems so vain of me to think I was special enough to go through something so horrible. I could have been dealt many other cards besides cancer that would have sucked (probably) just as much. I mean, get over yourself!
So, why not?
Why not get cancer? My experience and my life seems so minuscule when I view the statistics. If I go, someone else will be there to help the people I wish I could have helped. My family will move on eventually and continue doing the activities they have always loved. My friends would carry on with their life goals and dreams. The earth will continue rotating around the sun as it has always done, taking 365.25 days to do so.
Using the word minuscule may seem that I am invalidating my own experience and the gravity it has on my life and the lives of my loved ones. But, for me it is almost comforting. Realizing I am 1 in 14.5 million, better yet 1 in 7.954 billion, has taught me to not be afraid of the statistics. After all, they are just numbers. We are able to manipulate them to serve our own personal motives. Researchers do this all the time. Heck, politicians do this all the time. But let's not go there right now, especially in this political climate...
So while the statistics are always evolving, so am I. Regardless of where I fall in the midst of all those numbers, I can choose whether I to pay attention to them or not. I choose whether or not to give those numbers meaning and give them control over how I live my life. Because I fell on the wrong side of the statistics, does that mean my life stops? Does that mean I should safely move throughout my days in order to protect myself and others? I don't think so. I do not have control over the statistics, but I do have control over whether I look at them, manipulate them, or give them power over me. I will be safe, but I will not be fearful. While I know what may come before me in due time, I refuse to let that stop me from living.
Links to the articles referenced in the blog post: