Ovarian Rhapsody
comments 35

Nice to Meet You, I Have Cancer

It was the first time I’d been out to a restaurant since having a cyst removed, and only a few days after learning I had ovarian cancer.

> Insert record scratch sound here <

Yeah, I know, I know. That’s some big news right there. But hold on, let me finish my lede…

I’d spent the last week and a half recovering from surgery and, up until that November night, had been pretty much down for the count. A Percocet-induced haze of Broad City binge-watching and crushing fatigue. So by the time my friend Shelly came to Brooklyn for a visit, I was ready to shake up my bed-couch-bed routine and feel somewhat normal again. What I wasn’t quite ready for was having to share my big news with the outside world.

We decided to go to a red booth and burger joint right around the corner from our apartment — a place where my husband and I were semi-regulars and would often sit at the bar and order dinner. I’d gotten to know Tommy the bartender a bit, a gregarious, white-haired host who reveled in making us spontaneous cocktails. “Whatcha feel like tonight?” The lot of us would chuckle about being the aged folks in the room — how no one at work remembered ‘80s college bands like Hunters and Collectors. Nor, should they?

But this time, we didn’t want to gab at the bar; I needed a more comfortable seat to house my recovering nether regions, and I just didn’t want to face Tommy. I wanted to eat a quiet meal and not have to deal with explaining anything. Or so I thought.

We shuttled to a back table, but, of course, Tommy was unavoidable. So when he went in with a swing for a handshake I returned it.

“How have you been? Where have you been?” he asked while pulling me in awkwardly for a kiss on the cheek. I got a good whiff of whisky, beer and mops.

“I’ve been sick; I’m recovering.”

“Oh, I had no idea! You’re better though?”

“Actually…” I paused for a minute. I hadn’t told most of my closest friends and family about my two-days-ago diagnosis. Do I tell random bartender? What the hell…

“No,” I replied.

“Aw, I just kissed you,” he laughed, grabbing both of my hands.

I’m not even sure what I said next, but it was something like:

“Cancer. Fine. Early. They think. More surgery. Soon.”

“No…” His face fell into super serious face.

“It’s ok, it’s ok. They think it’s very early, so, you know. It’s ok.” There’s a lot of reassuring of other people when you have cancer.

Tommy looked at me with pained eyes, and I wanted to run away. I thought, Don’t feel bad for me, please. I’m the same person! I am about to try and wolf down your special burger! Which I probably shouldn’t now that I have to go on an anti-cancer diet so maybe I am not but you know what I mean!

Suddenly, I felt a hand plop over my shoulder. It was my neighbor. I hadn’t noticed that she’d been standing right next to me. She was clearly loaded.

“Heyyy!” she said, wide-eyed. “Wow!!”

I didn’t know if she was saying wow because she’d heard what I just said or she was plastered. So I asked.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“What?”

“That I have cancer?”

“What?”

“I HAVE CANCER.”

She looked at me like I was crazy and just said, “Wow…”

Now who was drunk?

Me. Drunk with information.

There’s no easy way to share the news. There’s no possible couched, soft-blow lead-in. My husband describes it like, “Yeah, man, did you see that game last night, man? Knicks looked good. Melo dropped 27. Oh, how is my wife? She has cancer.” And then they respond, “What the hell man? Why didn’t you start there?”

Why and how and who and when do you tell someone you have cancer? It’s all very confusing. I am just letting me lead me, which is what they tell you to do. They do.

[pullquote]My husband describes it like, “Yeah, man, did you see that game last night, man? Knicks looked good. Melo dropped 27. Oh, how is my wife? She has cancer.”[/pullquote]

Technically, the first person I told was my younger sister. Which is fascinating to me. Here is someone I love dearly but with whom I have drag-down fought with all my life (I once threw a birdcage at her). We don’t talk all the time; in fact, probably not enough. But she was the absolute first person that came to mind. The practical one. My genetic co-conspirator.  You realize in a moment like this who truly matters and who is your go-to team. She was also an easier tell than my parents or my husband. I started there.

(Sisterly Edit: She reminded me that I used to make her go first at everything: Getting our ears pierced. Going in for the dentist appointment. It only figures I would tell her about this first. Ouch.)

Everyone had wildly different reactions. The aforementioned Shelly, my B-52’s partner in crime, immediately said, “Think of the wigs!” (Which is why I adore her.) Some people just want to hold your hand. Others want all the gory details, and you can tell they’re seconds away from phoning their own gynecologist. One person, a colleague, actually didn’t say a word; she just kept talking to me like I hadn’t told her any news at all.

My husband, who is African American (it’s sort of relevant here), told one person in his family and his cousin wrote me about five minutes later: “You must have known when you told one person you opened up the family prayer line.” It makes me weep to think about my in-laws calling out my name in a Virginia church. I feel like saying don’t pray for me, I’ll be just fine. But yeah, ok, maybe pray for me.

I debated posting anything on Facebook because, Facebook. But for some reason, when my musical everything, David Bowie, passed away last Monday from cancer  — he who wanted a “minimum of fuss” and virtually no one to know — I felt the urge to take the opposite tack. It was the exact same day I was going in for my first chemotherapy treatment. Maybe I needed the likes.  No matter. As Rebecca Pedersen suggests in a fist-pumping piece in The Hairpin, “Make a Facebook status letting everyone know you have cancer… The only thing more exhausting than chemo is having a face-to-face conversation with everyone you’ve ever met about your battle of wills with a murderous tumor.”

Post!

Screenshot 2016-01-19 13.47.59

Sitting in a room at the NYU Langone Medical Center with Benydryl and then Ativan and then steroids and then Taxol and then Carboplatin pumping into my vein, I scrolled through the responses, the prayers, the cheering, the FUCK CANCERs. It felt good. And freaky. This shit was real. Tell someone else, and it’s real.

As the week progressed, the likes and comments edged into the 300s and, of course, the more popular a post is, the more it finds its way to that old boss you forgot you were friends with. People I hadn’t spoken with in years were reaching out. The guy who played a butler to my maid in the high school play. The college buddy turned born-again pastor. Old clients. Now it was getting weird. Especially when a long-ago ex chimed in, “Cancer?? What?” and then never reached out.

And now I’m telling you.

I am a 48-year-old lady with stage IIA ovarian cancer, discovered by my gynecologist after a seemingly benign cyst removal. In two weeks, I’ll give you the origin story; more about the diagnosis, wig shopping, drug-taking and whatever else comes up, but for now it’s good to just get this off my chest.

No guarantees people, we’ll see how this rolls me — but writing is cathartic, and I want to share this with you.

Read more of Margit’s column, Ovarian Rhapsody:

35 Comments

  1. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Margit. I love Tue Night and I’m happy to see you back and to read your posts. Would a hug from Karen’s mom help? If so, here it is. (())
    Gail

  2. Elise Brown says

    I have always enjoyed your writing, Margit. You just have a new subject to explore, and I suspect it’s one that’s going to bring you closer to others than perhaps any you’ve tackled previously. XO from Philly!

  3. Judy McGuire says

    I announced my melanoma on Twitter because I thought it was funny, in an awkward way. You can never predict how people are going to handle the news, but just feel free to just shut the crazies down. This is about you, not them. People will blow you away with their kindness, but some may seriously bum you out with their stupidity. It would be so handy if life came with a “mute” button. Wishing you much love and health. xox

  4. Cherisse Gardner
    Cherisse says

    Girlfriend how serious, I mean really SERIOUS are you about this wig thing? Because once I turn my drag and burlesque friends lose this shit in ON!

  5. Beautiful devastating words. Margit you are a fucking rock star. Cancer is a piece of you but it will never define you.

  6. Amy Paturel

    Margit, I adore you! And I agree, your words are beautiful, authentic, and heart-wrenching. Thank you for sharing your story and giving us the privilege of praying for you (even though you’re understandably uncomfortable about that notion). You’ve got this!

  7. Amazing story. And my heart goes out to you. Hugs and aloha. As much as you need.

  8. Jeff grill says

    Thank you for sharing , I just finished 12 treatments of chemo , I found out in June I have colon cancer had surgery in July and started chemo in August , at first I didn’t want to tell anyone almost like if I didn’t tell anyone it wasnt real or it would go away , that lasted a day or two then I started to share it , what I found was a tremendous amount of support and as I talked about it I started hearing other people’s experiences , and I found a tremendous amount of inspiration in hearing how others delt with it , the truth is it sucks , and sometimes depressing, but I’m a survivor and I’m determined to try and not give in , thank you for writing your story , hang in there , I wish you well

    • Margit Detweiler

      I completely get the “not telling” thing. I kept thinking mine was maybe an accident, like they mixed up my biopsy tests with someone else! Thanks so much for your wisdom and congrats on finishing treatment!

  9. You Go Margit! Having cancer is becoming wayyy to common among us but we do have to own it. Here is a poem I wrote in my journal during my treatment:
    Cancer makes you angry
    Cancer makes you sad
    Cancer makes you crazy
    It’s not that bad
    I am blessed
    I will be just fine
    It’s not about you!
    This cancer is mine!
    Cancer makes you stronger
    Cancer is a gift!
    If you’re not my friend
    I don’t need to take your shit!

  10. Michele says

    First of all, wishing you a full and speedy recovery. Second, you write amazingly well. Best of luck on your new journey.

  11. Great piece, Margit! You have touched and inspired so many people over the years and I’m glad you’ve gone public so we have an opportunity to reach out!

  12. Dan F. says

    Hi Margit. Not sure if you will remember me but you were my boss back at AOL. I was very touched by this article. Please know that there are a lot of us out there cheering for you.

  13. Those funky cells picked the wrong opponent; I’d almost feel sorry for them, were it not for FUCK CANCER. You got this, Margit.

  14. Been a fan since your Philly days. I love your writing and will watch your journey as you beat this damn thing.

  15. Saw your status on Facebook, so glad you chose to share. Really great post. I’m not family but I’ll go right ahead and add my prayers to the prayer line xoxo

  16. Sehreen says

    Margit, thanks for sharing. FUCK cancer indeed. Sending you prayers and vibes for a speedy recovery. xoxo Sehreen

  17. As always, you have fresh insights. I hope the treatment is as headache-free as it can be. XOXO

  18. I’m a passing stranger, just here to say that this is exactly my experience — I had no idea how to bring it up in conversation, and the super serious face really started to make me twitchy after a while. I had a flashback to Charlie In Party of Five, of all things, explaining that when you tell people this news, they get “cancer face”, and suddenly it all made sense. Hope you travel well through chemo. It’s a big river that’s tiring to cross, but there’s firm ground on the other side.

  19. Jon Wilson says

    Being terrible at staying in touch, I haven’t messaged Mark in ages, but now that I’ve read your post I can’t not comment and reveal the fact that I occasionally read your articles even though I’m not the target demo–I just find them to be so well written and always delving into unique subject matter!

    I’ve read that support correlates positively with recovery, so while I’m pretty far away, I expect every bit helps. Get better Margit!

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