One of the things that comes with this diagnosis is the inability to make plans too far into the future. During chemotherapy, you can sort of plan from one treatment cycle to the next. Anything beyond that? Better not get too attached to the idea. My oncologist reviewed my PET scans and told me that things were improving, but that surgery didn’t seem likely just yet. We scheduled another round of chemotherapy, and he also referred me to a multidisciplinary review meeting because they wanted to see me after the scans.

“So they’ll just tell me that surgery isn’t an option yet, and then I’ll go home again?”

“Hmmm…”

That was the extent of the answer. As a result, I didn’t think much about the meeting with all the specialists. I even postponed it by a week because my grandmother had passed away.

She had cancer too.

When Friday finally arrived, I attended the meeting. About six doctors were there, along with several nurses. The room was full.

“Good morning. Why did you cancel your original appointment? When was your last chemotherapy session? We need to schedule surgery as soon as possible.”

Surgery?

I blinked.

“We’ll start with a laparoscopy so we can have a look inside. If everything appears operable, we’ll remove everything that needs to come out.”

“What exactly is everything?”

“The second ovary. The fallopian tubes. The uterus. The omentum. We’ll assess the bowel. You still have a remaining metastatic lesion, although the area isn’t particularly easy to access. And we’ll clean up everything we can see.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll be admitted on Tuesday morning. Surgery is scheduled for Wednesday.”

Ten minutes.

That was it.

The original plan back in November had been simple: four rounds of chemotherapy, surgery, more chemotherapy, and then hopefully the finish line. So in reality, things were progressing exactly as planned. The problem was that when my oncologist told me surgery didn’t seem likely, I had mentally abandoned that possibility entirely. I wasn’t prepared for this conversation. It took me a while to process.

I’d finally healed from the first operation. I could function more or less normally again. I could run. I could jump. I was thinking about buying a new swimsuit. And suddenly I was staring down another recovery. This time, however, it would be different. The first surgery had removed things that clearly didn’t belong inside me. The cancer. The visible disease. I wanted that operation. This time, alongside the cancer, they would also be removing organs I would have preferred to keep for a little while longer.

At thirty-eight years old, I was about to enter surgical menopause.

That phrase feels surprisingly clinical when you’re sitting in a hospital office. Much less clinical when it’s your own body. The reality is that overnight, my ovaries would stop producing estrogen and progesterone. One chapter of life would end immediately, whether I felt ready for it or not. The logical part of me understands why. The surgeon’s goal is simple: remove everything that could potentially allow the cancer to return. The emotional part of me is still catching up. That’s one of the strange things about cancer treatment. You spend months learning to live with uncertainty, and then suddenly everything changes in ten minutes.

One appointment.

One conversation.

One new plan.

And just like that, the road ahead looks completely different.

Again.