Where I Live

My life ended when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The doctors at the hospital where I was treated always called it “ovary cancer.” It seems like a small point, but to me, it symbolized how far I had strayed from the normal world—even the normal world of medicine where I work. I was treated in this alien place for 9 interminable months, surrounded by other words I had had no personal connection with before: optimal debulking, stem-cell support, second-look procedure, peritoneal port. Having had no personal experience with serious illness of my own, I found it horrific beyond description—one revolting sensation after another accompanied by fear and despair. The fatigue alone was nightmarish; it was not the familiar and pleasant aftereffect of exertion but a strange sensation of being trapped and held in place by a smothering force. I am in awe of those, like my patients, who can undergo medical interventions on a long-term basis.

After my first round of therapy, the news was grim. The residual tumor was not shrinking; on the contrary, it seemed to be growing despite maximally aggressive treatment. After an additional round of intraperitoneal chemotherapy with a different agent no longer in common use, I was pronounced finished with treatment and scheduled for outpatient follow-up and monitoring. When …