You may be one of the 21 million American women who get vaginal infections annually (according to the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey), but did you know that vaginal discharge can actually be a sign of endometrial cancer? I certainly didn’t, which made what happened to me last year much more terrifying.
It began in the spring of 2024, starting with (sorry, but) watery discharge; I was dismayed, thinking it was a sign of incontinence. Then one of my besties told me she’d had the same issue, which had turned out to be a vaginal infection. I felt relieved as I marched off to see my gynecologist.
I wasn’t alarmed when the “infection” didn’t go away after the first round of treatment, and felt confident the second round would do the trick. Still no luck.
I trusted my gynecologist of 25 years, despite the fact that she wasn’t as communicative or available post-Covid as she’d been before. So when, last June, she told me to proceed with a trip I’d planned to France and Italy, I went. The discharge worsened while I was away; the consistency wasn’t watery, but instead had become thicker, with a slight odor. I began wearing mini-pads and even called my doctor about heading home a week early, an idea she nixed.
The results of the pap smear I’d taken before my trip had been negative — a huge relief — but my gynecologist did want me to schedule a pelvic ultrasound if the discharge persisted, mentioning the possibility of a polyp. I panicked, but the friend I was traveling with said she’d once had a polyp and it wasn’t a big deal. How reassuring! Those were the words I wanted to hear.
An ultrasound was scheduled upon my return in late June, but postponed to July after I tested positive for Covid. My doctor had the results within 24 hours, but it took her a week to tell me I had a polyp. She didn’t indicate any urgency about removing it, nor did she ever say it could be cancerous. I ignored that first red flag — now I really wish I hadn’t.
During July, the discharge worsened; occasionally there was spot bleeding or slight cramps in my lower abdomen. I felt anxious, monitoring my “condition” daily; I truly believed the cause was the polyp. My doctor didn’t seem overly concerned, so I wasn’t, either.
But I was jolted into reality when my husband, Archie, said something that made my blood run cold: “I think you might have cancer.” At first I was stunned and upset. I knew he had my best interests at heart, but he was also confirming my worst fear, especially since my middle brother had gone through a hellish year of chemo treatments, and my late father had kidney cancer. I panicked, but deep down I knew Archie might be right.
So I scheduled my polyp surgery, pronto — for early August — but then things went awry. My husband had emergency orthopedic surgery that week. The next obstacle? My gynecologist wasn’t available for the remainder of August, and offered me a mid-September appointment instead. Then she cancelled, rescheduled the surgery for even later, then cancelled again. By late September, I was angry and a nervous wreck. Now I look back and ask myself why I didn’t seek a second opinion, or find another doctor.
After the surgery, my doctor said everything was fine. I was relieved, though I felt a jolt of nerves when she casually mentioned that the polyp was being sent to a lab as a matter of “routine.” She called a week later to give me the information I had been dreading for months — a diagnosis that left me shocked and distraught: I had endometrial cancer.
The dreaded big C? Me? I was initially in a state of disbelief, feeling frozen in place, but when I called Archie and said the words “I have cancer” for the first time, I burst out crying. And my normally stoic husband started to cry, too.
In hindsight, I realize I was in denial.
It didn’t take long for the shock to wear off — and for both of us to go into high gear, researching hospitals and doctors. There was no doubt that Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York was the hospital for me. (Wherever you may live, choose a hospital with doctors who work together as a team — and one with a portal system, allowing easy communication, is a huge plus.)
The next step was a full hysterectomy. Fortunately, I recovered quickly. But then, more bad news: My cancer was Stage 1B, not nearly as insignificant as I’d hoped. That diagnosis meant there was a 50% chance the cancer cells discovered in my abdomen could spread. This time, it was my doctor who went into high gear, coordinating with two other doctors on my team. Three radiation treatments were scheduled, followed by six chemo treatments, one every three weeks. I felt hopeful and confident — but nervous. My mantra became FDR’s famous line, “You have nothing to fear but fear itself.”
I tackled cancer head-on, determined not to let it get the better of me, and I made a conscious decision to handle it courageously — no self-pity or complaining allowed. Throughout the process, my husband was my North Star, and my incredible friends and family buoyed me every step of the way with phone calls, text messages, flowers, dropping off homemade soups or meals, and accompanying me to chemo treatments. I had to put the brakes on some friends who went overboard with their care but, nonetheless, I was touched. But it wasn’t all smooth sailing, socially — two of my close friends ghosted me after I told them I had cancer. I was devastated to realize they weren’t close friends after all. But I had bigger things to worry about.
My final chemo treatment was on March 11, then came a CT scan in early April, followed by a meeting with my extraordinary (and handsome) oncologist, Dr. Paul Sabbatini. I was, of course, anxious for that meeting, my stomach roiling as I sat on the exam table in my paper gown. But when Dr. Sabbatini and his head nurse walked into the room, both smiling, I knew I was cancer-free.
What have I learned? In hindsight, I realize I was in denial — not only about my condition, but also about my apathetic gynecologist, whose lack of urgency was inexcusable. I replayed a tape over and over again in my head: Why didn’t my doctor recognize that abnormal discharge could be a sign of cancer? Why didn’t I do my own research, or get a second opinion?
Finally, I knew I needed to put the gnawing question, Could I have prevented my own cancer? to bed, and focus on the positive. I’m alive, I feel fantastic, and I’ve resumed my normal, action-packed schedule. And I’m grateful for all of it, including the modern technology that allows me to get CT scans every six months to monitor my health. I learned my lessons the hard way, but you don’t have to. Be your own advocate — and remember that the only dumb question is the one you don’t ask.
Judy Gordon Cox is currently producing a documentary on New York’s famous and enigmatic building, the Dakota; she was an associate producer on the HBO documentary The Price of Everything and co-produced two theatrical productions, God Looked Away starring Al Pacino and Building the Wall, written by Tony Award winner Robert Schenkkan. For decades, Judy worked in television and was the former on-air style editor on NBC’s TODAY Show, doing most of her segments with our very own Katie Couric.
