Remember Me as a Writer, Not a Survivor

I soon learned she was a voice in the wilderness. Every researcher on the planet, it seemed, thought clear cell the worst ovarian malignancy.

Panicked, I found an online group of "ovca sisters" and asked if they'd heard any good news about clear cell. In a word: nope. But they were glad I'd found them.

Every day I read messages from women who shared my limbo existence. Those of us in remission could imagine our futures in the grim posts of the ill.

Some members gave up good-paying jobs to become activists. Ah, civic duty. I just couldn't hear the call. However, I did have a standing invitation from the local paper to write on any subject. I suggested a personal essay in time for Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month.

The next day an editor phoned. "I hear you're writing a piece for us." "I already wrote it," I said. My productivity surprised even me. On Sept. 2, 2002, almost one year after my surgery, "Everything Changed" ran in The Kansas City Star. I got calls and letters.

I helped form a local support group, but I warned the members I was not a "group person." I might have only months to live, so I had to be choosy. Only one project really appealed to me. On the Internet I found cancer poems and asked friends to read them at an event, "Women, Interrupted: An Evening of Music and Poetry Dedicated to Cancer Survivors and Loved Ones Lost."