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I woke up on 29 July, 2020 with a severe pain in my right side, around where my gallbladder is. I tried to go back to sleep, deciding that if the pain was still there in the morning, I would call for medical advice. When I woke up still in pain, I was directed to A&E immediately.
I arrived at the hospital at 7am, alone. We were in the middle of lockdown, so my husband had to drop me at the door – he was not allowed to come in with me. I had bloodwork done and an ultrasound. When the radiologist announced that she was going to check whether she had enough images, it did not occur to me that there was anything wrong. Little did I know, she had spotted a tumour in my abdomen and had gone to seek further advice. On returning, she suggested I undergo a transvaginal ultrasound. But I still didn’t think that there was anything serious going on.
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A little later, the A&E doctor called me into a room and told me that he had good news and bad news. The good was that I did not have gallstones. The bad was that I had ovarian cancer.
In hindsight, the signs had probably been there. I had noticed that I was urinating far more often than usual, but with it being lockdown, I could not see a doctor in person. I had been prescribed antibiotics over the phone for a suspected urinary tract infection, but these hadn’t really sorted the problem. I had also been feeling full, but had put my lack of appetite down to work stress. As Assistant Deputy Minister of Communications for Health Canada and the Public Health Agency of Canada, I had been working 18 hours a day, seven days a week since the start of the pandemic. I was sure it was exhaustion and anxiety that was putting me off my food.
‘I had no idea how serious ovarian cancer was’
My diagnosis came as a huge shock and my first reaction was to ask the consultant if it could be anything else. He explained that the size and shape of the mass almost certainly pointed to an ovarian cancer diagnosis. Of course, I had heard of ovarian cancer before, in the same way as I had heard of other cancers, but I had no idea how serious it was. Four years on, I recognise that I am one of the lucky ones to still be here.
You never really know what path your cancer is going to take, so I have never liked to dwell too much on the statistics. But the fact is that around 50 per cent of ovarian cancer patients won’t survive five years after their diagnosis and nearly 80 per cent will see a recurrence of their disease. I am aware I have been lucky.
I am a very resilient person. I did not feel angry or wonder ‘why me?’. I simply went home and broke the news to my husband, who was shocked, and my two children (who were 29 and 27 at the time). My daughter took it well. My son asked me if I was worried, and when I reassured him that I would go through treatment and be fine, he accepted that. There was no falling apart. I am naturally a very positive person, and I had confidence that science would be on my side.
Within two weeks, I was referred to an oncologist and two weeks after that, on 28 August 2020, I had surgery: the removal of my uterus, cervix, fallopian tubes and ovaries, as well as numerous tumours. My recovery was reasonably straightforward, and I started chemo on 1 October. Miraculously, this stayed on schedule, and I was able to have my required dose every three weeks, finishing in mid-January 2021. My CA125 readings – a blood marker used to diagnose ovarian cancer – were down to 19 after three rounds of chemotherapy, compared to 920 when I had first visited A&E in July. I knew this was a robust test and a good indicator of the cancer levels in my body, so I was relieved I had responded so well to the treatment.
Image: Jennifer and her family
‘I tested positive for the BRCA2 mutation’
By now, pathology results following my surgery had revealed my tumours contained evidence of the BRCA2 mutation, so I was referred to genetic testing to see whether this mutation was in all my cells or only within my tumours. There had been no cancer in my immediate family, although my mum’s sister and several first cousins had been diagnosed. A few weeks after finishing chemo, I got the results and received the news that I had tested positive for the BRCA2 mutation. My mother was subsequently tested and was found to not carry the same gene mutation as me, so I knew that it was passed down to me from my late father.
Carrying the BRCA2 gene mutation was described to me as good news overall. While it put me at higher risk of getting other cancers, it meant I had more options available for the treatment of my ovarian cancer, and I was more likely to respond well. It also meant I was eligible for additional therapy, namely the drug olaparib. I was able to start this almost immediately, a month after completing my chemo.
With the knowledge that I was at a significantly higher risk of getting breast cancer than someone without a BRCA mutation, I decided to start the conversation regarding preventative surgery. I was referred to a breast surgical oncologist who explained to me that a bilateral mastectomy was the best option to reduce my risk of developing breast cancer. While I had tolerated the chemo for my ovarian cancer well, I was concerned about the cumulative effects on my body of any further cancer treatment and, having seen friends deal with breast cancer, I was keen to avoid the anxiety around it all.
While these conversations were going on, I was unlucky enough to get a second, unrelated cancer diagnosis. In April 2021, I visited my family doctor, having noticed a small itchy patch on my bottom. I was referred to a dermatologist who carried out a biopsy and in November, I underwent surgery to remove what was found to be perianal skin cancer, probably caused by the Human Papillomavirus (HPV). This was followed by 25 rounds of radiation therapy in early 2022, the side effects of which were brutal.
I recovered from this unfortunate setback and, for over a year, life seemed settled. I was doing well on olaparib and was aware my journey with ovarian cancer had been pretty miraculous. My blood results were good, and I was not suffering any toxicity issues from the drug.
In July 2023, my bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction went ahead. But three weeks later, I developed an infection in my right breast and my right implant was removed. Further surgery in September 2024 also resulted in a complication, with one of my implants rupturing just four weeks after the operation. I am currently waiting on further surgery to have this corrected.
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Image: Jennifer at the Terry Fox Run in Wrexham
‘Continued research will defeat cancer’
Despite this, I was able to travel to the UK to take part in the Terry Fox Run in Wrexham in October, having won a contest to do so. Being Canadian, I was well aware of Terry Fox’s story. I was around 13 when he undertook his Marathon of Hope to raise money for cancer research by running across Canada. And while I went through my own cancer recovery, I learned more about Terry and was truly inspired by what he achieved despite the daily pain he endured.
I first took part in a Terry Fox Run in 2021, following my ovarian cancer diagnosis, and have been involved each year since then. The importance of raising money for cancer research is not lost on me and being able to take part in the Wrexham event, raising funds for the ICR, was particularly meaningful. After all, research carried out in the ICR in the 1990s is giving me, a Canadian diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 2020, a better shot at a long, healthy life than I might have had if diagnosed in the 1970s like Terry Fox.
Given that ICR scientists identified the BRCA2 gene mutation and that it was the ICR’s research that underpinned the development of olaparib, I have directly benefitted from its work.
No matter where cancer research is conducted and how it is funded, it contributes to global knowledge of the disease. And this knowledge can benefit people around the world. Research in the past has led to developments in surgery and chemo. Nausea-reducing drugs to minimise the effects of chemo exist thanks to research. The HPV vaccine was not around when I was a child, but now we have a real opportunity to eradicate cervical and other HPV-related cancers thanks to the development of this vaccine. Science only knows what science knows today. But with continued research, we can hope for developments and discoveries that will help defeat cancer in future.
I consider myself to be 75 per cent optimistic and 25 per cent realistic. So for me, the future looks bright. ‘Cure’ is not a word that is frequently used in ovarian cancer circles, but I am hopeful that my scans will continue to show no evidence of disease. I have recently come off olaparib, which appears to have done its job, and hope that I can continue life with a low risk of cancer recurrence. I have done what I can to reduce my risk of breast cancer. I can only hope that I will continue to be one of the lucky ones who, thanks to science and research, will be able to say ‘I’m cured’.
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