The Story
Narrative arc from diagnosis through surgery, recovery, and chronic lymphoedema, explicitly separating lived experience from clinically verified record claims.
DAPHNE
The narrative arc, start to present.
This site distinguishes lived experience from medical documentation.Deze site onderscheidt geleefde ervaring van medische documentatie.
Narrative arc from diagnosis through surgery, recovery, and chronic lymphoedema, explicitly separating lived experience from clinically verified record claims.
Diagnosis, surgery, treatment decisions, fertility, and recovery, told in nine parts.
Reflection essays: mistakes, surprises, and things I would do differently.
Entry point guiding new visitors to the journey that fits why they came.
Every significant referral should identify the next owner and expected timeframe. Important treatment and consent decisions should be provided in accessible writing. Correction mechanisms should be simple and traceable. Return-to-work should be designed around function, not appearance. Chronic-condition pathways should account for time, money, and administrative labor of self-management.
I am not asking systems to remove uncertainty. I am asking them not to manufacture avoidable uncertainty.
Do not make the sick person carry the coordination failure.
Before the diagnosis I was highly functional and work-focused. I was accustomed to pushing through discomfort and keeping life moving. The first significant physical warning I remember was abnormal bleeding and cramping while travelling in Greece in early 2019.
Very little. I could tell something was wrong, but I kept looking for ordinary explanations.
The important part was not that I failed to understand cancer. I was not qualified to diagnose myself. The important part was that my body had changed and deserved investigation.
You do not need certainty before you ask for care. A symptom does not have to become dramatic before it deserves attention.
Journal notes, GP/referral sequence, PAP 3B result, colposcopy and biopsy records where available.
On Syros I noticed vaginal bleeding while out with my sister. I went into a bathroom, saw the blood and improvised protection with toilet paper. Then I went back outside. That detail matters because it captures how I lived then: contain the disruption first, ask questions later.
Only that it was abnormal.
Continuing the day did not make the symptom less real.
Your body does not need permission from your calendar to interrupt you.
At the end of June 2019 the hospital called while I was travelling to a business meeting in Utrecht. I was initially on a crowded bus and asked them to call me back. When they did, I stepped away from the commute and was told the biopsy showed an aggressive cervical tumour, an adenocarcinoma. The diagnosis was later described as Stage IIB / Stage 2B.
The world continuing normally around me. My work calendar still had meetings in it. Traffic still moved. Other people continued their day. That was one of the first lessons of serious illness: your world can stop without the world stopping.
Cancer. I did not yet understand treatment, staging, prognosis or what the diagnosis would cost physically.
You are unlikely to absorb everything said in those first conversations. Write things down. Take someone with you. Ask for copies.
I was presented with major treatment decisions, including chemoradiation and radical surgery. I eventually underwent a radical hysterectomy on 23 August 2019 with lymph-node removal. My ovaries were preserved. After surgery I had a catheter and needed bladder retraining. I was restricted in what I could lift and how I could move. Postoperative pathology did not lead to chemotherapy or radiation at that time.
How much of cancer treatment is not the operation itself. It is forms, consent language, waiting, fertility decisions, pathology, bladder function, mobility, dependency, work clearance and the uncertainty after everyone else thinks the "treatment" is over.
Loss of my uterus and the ability to carry a pregnancy. Postoperative catheterization. Changed bladder sensation and retraining. Physical weakness and lifting restrictions. Later lymphatic complications following lymph-node removal.
Work did not pause. I received the diagnosis on the way to a business meeting. While waiting for surgery, career opportunities and work events continued. After surgery I wanted to return faster than my body was ready for. Occupational health subsequently classified me as not fit for work for a period. Bills, meals, home life, relationships and administrative responsibilities also continued.
Serious illness did not remove ordinary life. It made ordinary life harder to carry.
I would not reduce the entire experience to one moment. One of the hardest periods was the waiting after surgery for final pathology. I was home with a catheter, recovering from radical surgery, while waiting for calls about what had been found. Sleep became fragmented. I woke reaching for the phone. Eventually I was told there was no indication for chemotherapy or radiation at that time. In the same period, I was also told that the hysterectomy might not have been necessary.
Relief and grief arrived in the same conversation.
Recovery was not the clean ending I had expected. I thought surgery would create a before and after. Instead there were layers: catheter removal, bladder retraining, physical weakness, occupational-health restrictions, fertility grief, fear around follow-up, the pressure to return to work, the need to appear functional, and years later, lymphoedema.
The body can leave hospital long before it leaves the experience.
The surgery permanently changed my body. My uterus was removed. Lymph nodes were removed. My relationship with bladder signals changed during recovery. Years later, my right leg developed chronic lymphoedema.
I became much more attentive to wording, consent, records and what institutions write about a patient.
I also became more aware of the difference between appearing capable and actually having capacity.
I would avoid turning this into "cancer made me a better person." It did not. Cancer made certain bargains impossible to ignore. I became less willing to give institutions, work or other people automatic authority over what my body meant. I became more deliberate about consent, documentation, boundaries and where I spend my energy.
Capacity is more important than appearance. Consent becomes real when refusing has practical meaning. Documentation is part of self-protection inside complex systems.
Accuracy protects me better than performance.
The lesson that cost the most was learning that pushing through can look identical to strength from the outside.
I minimized symptoms, assumed referral meant coverage, returned toward work too quickly, and sometimes let work take time intended for treatment or recovery.
Efficiency can become denial when the goal is to prevent the body from changing the schedule.
My most expensive mistake was assuming that being able to continue meant continuing was wise.
The biggest surprise was that after treatment did not mean finished. Recovery included retraining, restrictions, surveillance, uncertainty, and eventually chronic lymphoedema.
The procedure may be one day; the consequences can occupy calendars for years.
The operation ended. The consequences did not end on the same date.
Photograph and date unusual symptoms earlier. Keep one medical timeline from the first abnormal test. Confirm referral destination and coverage before arrival when possible. Ask for important decisions in writing. Treat return-to-work as rehabilitation, not proof of character.
The cumulative record matters more than solving each problem in isolation.
If I could restart 2019, I would begin the record on day one.
Illness taught me that bodies, institutions, and records interact. What I felt mattered, but what the file said could determine access, treatment, work status, or the next conversation.
A record is necessary, but it is not the whole person.
A file can organize my care. It should never become the full definition of my life.