D-Day
“The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”
From my earliest memories, I always felt destined for something significant. I have always had this innate belief that I had a purpose, a mission to make a meaningful difference in the world and a deep desire to incite change.
Writing has always been my first love. It has always been a cathartic process, a way to express myself through the magic of words. But as I sat down to write this first blog post, I have found myself rewriting it countless times. I have cried, laughed, and sobbed, but beneath all these emotions, I continue to dig for the right words to encapsulate this surreal moment in time.
Sometimes, I feel like I am in a movie, waiting for someone to shout "cut" so I can saunter off and have a G&T with the cast and crew. This cannot be real. This was never supposed to happen to me. I am neither young nor old. With our children grown and gone, this was supposed to be our time—Bayan and I, ready for new adventures. But this reality was starkly different from the one I had exquisitely imagined in detail.
I remember the morning of April 18, 2024, with crystal clarity and yet, it's all a blur. I sat opposite a kind man I had never met before, and we were about to share an intimate exchange that would forever alter my life. His face was clear and honest, adorned with a bow tie, as he delivered news that would shatter my world. This office, once a safe space for baby scans, annual check-ups, and fertility treatments, now felt like a nightmare.
"Am I going to die?" I asked, my voice trembling. No one could answer me. My oldest brother later reminded me, "We're all going to die." How could anyone possibly answer that?
As I lay on the examination bed, waiting for the ultrasound, a part of me still hoped he was wrong. I had so many appointments that day and a flight to catch for my niece's wedding. I wanted to arrive in full "Glamorous Aunt Mode," not limping through the airport trying to stick on lashes.
But the ultrasound confirmed my deepest fears: it wasn't a cyst; it was a tumour—a new, unwelcome addition to my body, roughly the size of a 22-week-old baby. At that moment, as the doctor's mouth moved, I couldn't comprehend his words. I blinked hard, unsure if I was trying to hold back tears or desperately trying to wake up from this nightmare that had suddenly descended upon me.
I felt utterly detached from my body. All I heard was, "We have to operate tomorrow. This is the best course of action. We need you to have an urgent CT scan to confirm what we suspect, and then we need to prepare." Prepare for what? Suspect what? I still couldn't fully grasp what he meant.
Linda, the wonderful receptionist I've known my entire life, was there. We grew up in the same neighbourhood and were together in Brownies. She followed me out the door and said, "Go have a coffee. Let me see what I can do to get this scan done quickly, and then we'll take it from there. Get a coffee, add some CBD oil, and I'll call you."
I looked at her, feeling the gravity of the situation. "Linda, this is really messed up, but I'm going to have three cigarettes and a coffee right now."
She replied, "You do whatever you must do right now."
I walked out of the hospital, coffee in hand, knowing deep down that I needed to call Bayan. I needed to tell him, and I knew that by telling him, it would make it real. If I could have this coffee and around three to ten cigarettes, I could pretend that none of this was actually happening.
I instinctively knew the moment I made that call, the beautiful, carefree existence we shared would disappear. The year filled with big celebrations and beautiful holidays on the horizon would be replaced with... well with something else. I wasn't sure with what, but I knew it would all just... go. Before I could speak to anyone, I needed to speak to him.
Bayan was in San Francisco at a conference. With the time difference, I knew he would be asleep. He wasn't answering, so I used "Find My Phone." He called me back.
"Angel?" His familiar and grounding voice caught everything in my throat. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I cried.
"Angel, what is it?" he asked, his concern palpable through the phone. I couldn't reply; I tried, but I couldn't even understand the conversation I had just had.
"It's not good, Bayan."
"What isn't good?" he pressed gently.
"It's not good," I repeated. Eventually, through broken sentences and garbled words, as if watching someone else speak, I gave him the only words I remembered. Tumor... surgery. Up until this point, the word "cancer" had not even crossed my mind.
I called my best friend Tonia. Every word was stuck in my throat, but I managed two words: "Please come." I didn't know how she knew where I was or where she was, but I knew she was on her way.
I can not remember in what order a series of events unfolded. It felt messy, chaotic, and rambling. Bayan and I agreed that we had to speak to the children before anyone else. I had to make fast decisions on instinct, but I knew I couldn't trust myself to make any decision. Between Tonia (the practical biology teacher), Caroline (the planner), and Bayan on the other side of the world, they managed to get everything together. They knew what was going on; they seemed to make sense of it, and I simply did as I was told, absorbing nothing and comprehending even less.
I remember being in and out of the doctor's rooms, not wanting to leave because if I did, everything would change. I remember needles, CT scans, and waiting... the long wait. I had no idea what was coming next. Surgery was scheduled for tomorrow, but I was desperately sad, knowing that if they operated, I would miss not only my niece's wedding but my son's wedding, too. I had a deep sense that whatever I would find out in the next hour would ultimately change the course of my life.
Sitting back in the same place where I had started my day, I was no longer alone. I had Tonia, Caroline, and Bayan on a phone screen and this kind, beautiful man. I looked at him, wondering if he had woken up this morning, knowing his day would go like this. I certainly hadn't.
I was supposed to be on the Grand Beauty Repairs & Maintenance tour today, rounded off with a lovely lunch with my daughter, followed by some really nice wine. Nothing about today resembled that plan. Instead, I felt as if fate had dealt me a harsh hand, sprinkling a thousand grey hairs on my head and deep lines on my face for good measure.
He started the conversation by referring to reports, scans, measurements, and words I had never heard before. After a barrage of alphanumeric sequences, I knew he must have explained everything beautifully and considerately, with the care he had shown all day. But all I heard was, "You have Ovarian cancer. It has spread, so there is no point in operating tomorrow. You will need chemotherapy before surgery; I strongly suggest you fly home. Celebrate your family this weekend, and start treatment."
Everything goes dark.