Having grown up in a family of long-lived people where the sickest anyone got was a once-annual stomach flu, it wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that my diagnosis came out of left field. Thirty-four, healthy as an ox, regular exerciser, fried-food-avoider, I had to force myself to make my annual check-up appointments because nothing ever happened. My pregnancies had been uneventful, my deliveries quick. Never even a broken bone.

Starting in the early winter of 2005-06, I started to have some pelvic pain with, um, marital relations. Just in certain, er, directions, and usually around the time I ovulated. I decided that it was an ovulation thing and let it go. I was also really tired, but what mom of two active boys, ages 18 months and 3 ½ years, isn’t? My daily nap was a foregone conclusion. But as spring progressed and my pants got tighter in the waist, I couldn’t ignore the cascade of symptoms any more – something was not right. I never expected a dire discovery, though, and even with two inconclusive ultrasounds and an elevated CA-125 blood test, the scheduled laparoscopy didn’t freak me out because I was sure it was just a cyst.

When I woke up seven hours later, with anxious faces all around me, I knew it wasn’t a cyst. The diagnosis was Stage III-c papillary serous adenocarcinoma: ovarian cancer, and pretty far progressed. Cue the Twilight Zone music.

I’m fortunate that my OB-Gyn works with one of the top GYN-Oncologists in the Boston area, and with her treatment (aggressive and unpleasant, but effective), I was in remission within eight months. Bad news: once ovarian cancer has reached the stage where mine was discovered, no matter how thorough the treatment, it usually comes back. And it has, twice. Good news: the longer I fight, the more technology progresses, and the greater my chances of survival.

Here are some things I wish I’d known in 2005: