I’m writing this at the very beginning of my journey, only two months in, and I’ll be honest, I feel completely overwhelmed.
What began as a routine hysterectomy at the end of September took an unexpected turn. Two hours into the operation, complications meant the surgery had to be abandoned and an additional specialist team was required. Three samples were taken, the procedure was recorded, and I went home to wait. Six long weeks later, the results came back showing some abnormal cells. There was still no sign of cancer anywhere – my ovaries, tubes and uterus all looked perfectly normal—but something unusual
had been spotted on my omentum.
My hysterectomy and bowel resection were rescheduled for 8 December 2025. The surgery went well, and after three nights in hospital I returned home, grateful to be recovering and slowly regaining strength.
Twelve days later, everything changed. My pathology results showed Stage 3 LGSOC. It was a shock to all of us. My gynaecological oncologist had been cautiously optimistic – after all, I’d had no symptoms, my CA125 was normal, two CT scans had shown nothing, and even the earlier surgical video hadn’t revealed anything alarming.
The pathology told a different story. There was no cancer in my ovaries, tubes or uterus – only on my omentum. I was told that all visible disease had been removed, but chemotherapy was still recommended.
And that is where I find myself now: preparing to meet with the oncology team to discuss my options.
I’m 66, not a “spring chicken”, but certainly not done with life. I still feel I have many good years ahead of me.
Of course, death is inevitable for all of us. But what weighs on me most is the quality of the life I have left. It’s been only three weeks since my diagnosis, and already my world feels consumed by phone calls, emails, appointments, and an endless stream of cancer-related content popping up on my screens. I know this will only intensify.
The decision about chemotherapy sits heavily on my mind. Treatment may help, but it will almost certainly change how I feel day-to-day. There’s no undoing it once I begin. Perhaps that’s a small price in the grand scheme of things – but I don’t want to spend the years I have left feeling unwell, preoccupied, or unable to do the things that bring me joy.
Through all of this, the greatest comfort has come from talking with friends – some who have faced their own cancer battles, others who work in healthcare. Their honesty, warmth and steadiness have been a lifeline.
The best way I can describe this experience is through a comparison to the TV show “Who Do You Think You Are?” It feels as though I’ve suddenly discovered an unexpected, unwelcome relative – a dark, unsettling presence I never knew existed. Now I have to figure out how to live with them. They may stay, they may leave, they may return without warning. I didn’t invite them into my life, and I certainly don’t want them dictating my future.
But here we are. And like so many others who have walked this path before me, I’m learning- slowly, reluctantly, bravely – to make space for this new reality while still holding on to the parts of my life that matter most.
We are grateful to Susi for sharing her experience with low-grade serous ovarian cancer and for helping us raise awareness. If you would like to share your story too, find out more here.
