The fear of leaving you

I returned for my transvaginal ultrasound. It was unpleasant at best and painful, especially with what was later diagnosed as stage four endometriosis. Finally, we had found the problem: a mass in my left ovary, 5 cm in size, repeatedly rupturing and causing excruciating pain.

Cysts tend to rupture and be absorbed back into the body, so I didn't need any medical intervention and was told to come back in three weeks to check if it had resolved. This is what I should have been told. This is what should have been explained to me.

I should not have left the room having heard the words "cancer" and "endometriosis" while my questions were ignored. I should have walked to my mum in Costa Coffee, happy that the pain would soon come to an end. Instead, I left feeling confused and scared.

My mum should not have had to march into the gyne ward and demand a copy of the scan report to clarify that I was not being diagnosed with cancer. But sadly, I did leave in tears. I left confused and feeling unable to explain what was happening and that I would now have to wait three weeks to be told whether or not this was something serious. I left with the words ringing in my ears: "Let's do bloods, just to check the tumour markers."

After three weeks, I went back, feeling hopeful yet anxious. I had convinced myself that everything would be fine, but deep down, I was terrified. Three painful weeks passed, and I returned.

I sat down.
The doctor asked, "How have you been feeling since I last saw you?"
I replied, "Still in pain and bleeding a lot."
The doctor said, "Let's do another scan."

The growth was still there. I was not told this directly, but I overheard the conversation between the two doctors while I was being scanned.
"Ovarian cancer, maybe endometrioma. Book her in for an MRI. MDT tomorrow. They'll probably want the MRI results, but we don't want to wait that long. Make the MRI an emergency."

So I asked, "What does that mean? What is wrong? Why has it not gone away?"

But the doctor said she didn't have enough information yet. She was going to look at the scan along with my raised tumour markers. "Excuse me, my what?" I thought, while I had my bloods done. Then she would discuss it with me.

So I left, went into another treatment room, more blood was taken, and I waited, terrified, praying she would tell me she was mistaken. She never came. The nurse returned and told me the doctor didn't need to see me again and that I could leave.

I didn't want to leave. I wanted to cry and beg for more answers and tests. But I left, got in the car, and drove myself back to work. I taught about the Normans, the Industrial Revolution, the history of medicine, all while thinking:

"Will I see my tiny human grow up to this age?

Please do not be cancer.

Please do not let me leave my baby alone.

Please let me see him grow. Please. Please. Please."

My heart hurt. I looked at him and wished I could wrap him up in my arms and tell him everything was going to be OK. That is my job. As a mother, I am meant to be able to keep him safe from hurt. But right then, I could not guarantee that. I had failed. Please let me be here to save him any hurt.

I understand that jobs, even the most emotional of jobs, can become repetitive. However, in this line of work, I do not believe that there is a place for becoming complacent or forgetting that you are dealing with lives and futures. No response to a patient should ever seem 'repetitive’ as every life is different. Each woman deserves to be treated as an individual. Fear is always going to be a part of illness, and I am beyond grateful to some incredible nurses and doctors. However, there can be no anomaly amongst doctors. That one who treats each case as 'just another day' increases fear and stress among the hundreds, if not thousands, of patients they see.