Mi cáncer endometrial se mantuvo oculto durante la menopausia

Spanish

As reported to Erica Rimlinger

I didn’t know I was going through menopause. I was experiencing “the change.” Like many women of my generation, I grew up in a home, in a community and in a society where there was not much talk about “change” and the “problems” that arose when you reached a “certain age.” I learned from past generations of women in my family and community that clear words should not be used in polite conversations. I didn’t know what a normal menopause looked or felt like: I just knew that we should gossip about menopause, bleeding, and uterine health, if we ever got to talk about those topics. Consequently, I knew “nothing” or, rather, nothing about the normal and abnormal symptoms of menopause and when I mention these symptoms to my doctor.

Despite that, I thought I knew a lot, or at least enough, about women’s health. I have always cared about my health and in my work as a fitness instructor, I am proud to help my clients prioritize their health. She always assisted with all of my annual visits with my OB-GYN and scheduled all of my routine mammograms. I had a healthy lifestyle and was an example for my students.

But I didn’t recognize an important symptom of endometrial or uterine cancer because I thought occasional and infrequent bleeding They were a normal part of the menopausal process. Well, that’s what I thought. In fact, it didn’t even occur to me to count the months since my last menstrual period. I wasn’t monitoring it.

After a few years of having these symptoms, I happened to casually mention to my doctor that I was still having spotting and bleeding, which was becoming increasingly heavy. He stopped what he was doing, looked at me and said, “you shouldn’t have that anymore.” He requested an ultrasound.

I had the ultrasound but a few days later I moved to a new city with a different doctor and a new insurance plan. Health care in the United States, or more specifically, health insurance, does not accompany us from place to place throughout our lives. The radiologist indicated in the results that the mucosa of my uterus was a little thick. But my doctor never followed up with me to talk about the ultrasound, so I thought everything was fine.

My next appointment with an OB-GYN, nine months later, was a nightmare. My new doctor was concerned about my symptoms and insisted that I have an exam. biopsy. He said I would have a little discomfort, but nothing too serious, so he did the procedure without anesthesia in his office. I had never felt so much pain in my life as she cut out a piece of my uterus on the exam table. I don’t normally complain about pain, I’ve had two vaginal births with only a light dose of relaxing medication during one of them, but the procedure I was undergoing now was a bloodbath. The doctor gave me antibiotics, made an order for another ultrasound, and referred me to a oncologist. He told me that another person accompanies me to that medical appointment and that he keeps him informed.

Since I never had any illnesses or major surgeries, broken bones or hospitalizations, I was unfamiliar with most medical terms and didn’t know what an oncologist was! When she returned home, my daughter informed me that a referral to an oncologist could only mean one thing: She had cancer. That surprised me.

On the day of the consultation with the oncological surgeon, a friend accompanied me. The doctor spoke quickly and used medical terms I was not familiar with. My friend, who is not shy, asked the doctor several times to speak slower and explain to us what he was saying. My friend did it politely but increasingly assertively while the doctor explained the plan to us, without speaking more slowly and without explaining a word of what he said. The entire appointment, from start to finish, lasted 15 minutes. I was shocked and more confused than before the doctor’s appointment.

Overwhelmed, at the doctor’s office she agreed to have surgery over the next two weeks. It was supposed to take two hours, but it actually took four hours.

In my post-surgical evaluation, he informed me that I had endometrial cancer 1B category 3 and that no cancer was detected in my lymph nodes. Even the type of cancer was another medical term I didn’t clearly understand: endometrial cancer. Unfortunately I learned then that this referred to uterine cancer.

My surgeon told me I would need six to eight rounds of chemotherapy and five to six weeks of pelvic radiation. Again, I felt like the doctor was speaking without regard to whether I understood the information or not, so he decided to get another opinion. Another doctor recommended four to five rounds of chemotherapy and five weeks of pelvic radiation. Each of the doctors had a different plan, and none of them seemed to listen to my concerns or answer my questions comprehensively in a way that I could understand. Up until this point, I had attended doctor appointments confused and shaken. But I reacted then and understood the following: I needed more from the medical team that was in charge of saving my life. I deserved to be an active member of my own team. I decided to get a third opinion.

That’s when I met Dr. Kemi Doll. She was different. When he talked to me, he looked me in the eyes. He took time to listen to my questions, explained treatment options using simple English, and made sure I understood what he was saying. I was wondering, “what did you just hear me say? “What did you understand from what I told you?”

He recommended that you consider the brachyradiotherapya type of radiation that is applied internally and is less harmful to nearby organs. It’s still invasive, and not just because it involves inserting a probe into the vagina. It always seemed to me that I was examined and provided therapy by an overly personal doctor at these medical appointments. Throughout my treatment, Dr. Doll motivated me to believe in my healing, telling me that I was going to be okay.

Dr. Doll was doing research to get answers to an important but simple endometrial cancer question: Why are black women twice as likely to die from endometrial cancer even though they are diagnosed at rates similar to black women? Women’s? white? I wanted to build a community and support group for black women so we can make connections and learn about uterine health. He wanted to study how education and awareness could improve survival rates. He asked me to found ECANA (African American Endometrial Cancer Action Network), together.

“Do you wish to be my patient and partner?” he asked, after my last chemotherapy session. I said yes, not fully understanding the implications. But that has been very important in my life. Currently, ECANA is trying to eliminate disparities while building a community of Black women fighting endometrial cancer. We have movement classes, support groups, education sessions and more.

Throughout my process and my work with ECANA, I understood how little women talk about uterine health, even with their own families. My sister told me that my mother had had a hysterectomy a little after he turned thirty and had fibroids, just like me. We never mentioned it when we talked to each other, even though many uterine health problems are genetic.

Currently, I am in remission. I have four granddaughters and we talk openly about uterine health in my home. I want my girls to understand what a healthy uterus works and who they should go to if they have concerns about their health.

I wish previous generations of women, just like my mom and I, hadn’t grown up in a culture that made uterine health taboo. I always recommend women talk about their endometrial health. Encourage your daughters to keep journals. Talk about bleeding. If you’re tempted to ignore a problem you consider “embarrassing” or hide it out of embarrassment, confusion, or misinformation, say what you think anyway, and keep doing it until you know you understand all your options. It is too important a topic for you to remain silent.

This educational resource was prepared with the support of Merck.

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