The last time Dusty Matthews went all out for a
birthday
party, she was 10 years old. About a week before the
big bash, she was hit by a truck and dragged almost
two blocks. She escaped with a broken jaw, cuts and
bruises, and went on to celebrate her survival with
gallons of ice cream and a crowd of kids.
This year, on Feb. 19, more than 50 people cheered
Matthews' big 5-0. She put on her high heels and danced
the party away as James Brown sang "I feel good."
Matthews didn't treat this birthday like an unwelcome
guest who'd come to remind her that 40 years have
passed since a little girl ran across the street without
looking both ways. She embraced this birthday like
a friend she thought she might never see again.
Last year, Matthews was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
Though ovarian cancer is not the most common cancer
of the female reproductive system _ that distinction
belongs to uterine cancer _ it's the most deadly,
said Dr. Kevin Davis of Rocky Mountain Gynecologic
Oncology in Englewood. It's called a "silent killer"
because more than 70 percent of victims don't know
they have it until the cancer has spread past one
or both of the ovaries, making it difficult to catch
up with and cure. Ovarian cancer is "a real quiet
thing until you get advanced," said Davis.
There's still no accurate and inexpensive way to
screen for ovarian cancer, Davis said. The disease
may be picked up through routine pelvic exams, since
the ovaries are usually enlarged, he said, but ovarian's
symptoms, like bloating and fatigue, can be vague
and easily confused with other conditions. The best
way to detect it may be listening to your own body
and, sometimes, making sure doctors hear what you have to say.
In January 1999, everything checked out fine at Matthews'
annual gynecological check up. But she started feeling
full all the time. She was walking a lot and eating
well but not losing an inch. She shrugged it off.
"I'm 49. It doesn't come off as easily," she thought.
But it didn't come off at all. Pants no longer zipped
up. She felt so bloated, she couldn't bear to sit.
She felt sleepy all the time.
She saw a doctor. He thought she might have a hernia.
She saw another doctor. He didn't find anything wrong.
She thought she had severe constipation. She went
to someone to get her system flushed out. "I looked
like I was nine months pregnant," she said.
At that appointment in April, the nurse felt Matthews'
distended abdomen, then looked at her. Matthews remembers
the moment, she remembers the word.
"They said 'oncologist' and my world just went ...
I just, my world _ I couldn't _ I just couldn't think
at the time," she said.
Her cancer was in the third of four possible stages,
meaning it had spread beyond the ovary.
By the time she had surgery in May, she had a gallon
of fluid generated by the cancer in the lining of
her abdomen. Doctors took out her ovary and appendix,
and scraped some cells off her colon and diaphragm.
She was in the hospital for two weeks. She started
going to chemo sessions every three weeks in June.
In the months since, Matthews has drawn courage from
other women who have survived ovarian cancer.
One of those survivors, Judy Winegarner, called Matthews
to offer support even though they never had met. Winegarner
had gotten Matthews' name from a mutual acquaintance
who knew about both women's battles with ovarian cancer.
"I knew what she was going through, even though I
didn't know her," said Winegarner, who went through
two bouts with the cancer in the early 1980s and has
been cancer-free for about 15 years.
"Cancer can be such a lonely disease. Not that you
aren't loved; not that you aren't supported. But you
feel so alone in the process of fighting this disease.
"No one knows unless they've walked those miles."
Matthews and Winegarner talk about the comfort they
took from their family, friends and the surprisingly
large circle of people they've met whose lives have
been changed by cancer.
Matthews' husband _ whom she calls "my Rock of Gibraltar"
_ her two grown daughters, three grandchildren, and
friends both close and casual kept careful, caring
watch over her, from before the surgery though chemo's
wake, when she lost her hair and thought she "looked
like a thumb with two eyeballs."
Matthews is still getting blood tests to check for
signs of cancer; the last one looked good. But doctors
will keep testing her every three months, then every
six months, until they feel confident it's not coming back.
"It's like a person who's an alcoholic; I'll always
be a cancer person," she said, then revised her words.
"I'll be a cancer survivor."
Today, Matthews keeps a picture of actress Halle
Berry sporting a short hair cut that Matthews wants
after her hair grows back. Like Matthews, it's spunky,
chic, with a bit of an attitude.
But after wondering whether death had come for her,
Matthews says all those things that can seem so crucial
_ the hairdo, the wardrobe, the size of the TV, the
make of the car _ don't mean much of anything.
She's working on an heirloom quilt she began before
she was diagnosed with cancer. She's making it for
her grandchildren to tell them a bit about their grandma.
A Spanish fan symbolizes her heritage. A knitted glove
will help the children remember how their hands fit
into hers. She's not sure how she'll weave in the
past year, but she's thinking about color.
Blue for the sad times, red to catch the eye and
remind everyone to look out for themselves, and yellow
for the happiness she had even during the darkest of days.
At her 50th birthday party, Matthews hung a banner.
It didn't say "Happy Birthday."
"I had them put 'Celebrate Life,'" she said.
