This year almost 7,000 women will be diagnosed with ovarian cancer and 4,400 will die. Chris Haskell shares her story to encourage women to 'talk' more and potentially save lives…

…and Prof  Martin Widschwendter of the Department of Women's Cancer at UCL comments on her experience and the need for women to break down the wall of embarrassment and get talking.

Chris's Story

It was the end of 2009 and a good friend of ours had just passed away after a very short illness... NOT cancer. I remember being at work and thinking about how lucky I was; not only did I have my husband, a happy marriage, both employed in jobs we enjoyed (most days), and a wonderful family with two fabulous grandchildren.

A couple of weeks later I went to my doctor about something completely unconnected - I can't even remember what now - and at the end of the consultation I said, "Oh, Doctor could you just check something please, I keep holding my side without realising and it aches - do you think I've got a hernia?"

She examined me and almost immediately realised it wasn't a hernia. "How long has it been like this?" Thinking about it, I'd noticed the pain the previous September but thought I'd just pulled my side. We next discussed my family history - a lot of cancer on my father's side. Other symptoms? Bloating? Yes, but doesn't everyone! Loss of weight? I wish! My side had begun to hurt when having sex BUT I'm 58 and had a hysterectomy at 42 (still had my ovaries) so vaginal dryness was common.

From that appointment to the ultrasound to seeing a Gynaecology Consultant took just under 3 weeks. After examining me, the Gynaecology Consultant explained that an operation would be necessary and that with my family background she would remove the stomach wall as well just in case anything 'nasty' was lurking there... And it was.

I had my operation on 13^th February, 2010 - everything thing from there on became surreal. On Monday 22^nd February I had my follow up appointment and the bad news. This was the point it became US and not me. My husband Geoff usually worked in London during the week, travelling down on a Sunday night and returning Thursday evening. After the operation, he became my carer and didn't go back to work. For a guy who'd thought the microwave was just a large digital clock, he could now do a great slow-cooker goulash and stir-fry.

Bad news comes in different forms… 'Stuck in a queue and the till breaks down just as it's your turn'; well it's irritating but not life threatening... 'You've just turned the radio on and Sally Traffic tells you that your road up ahead is blocked'; frustrating but it shouldn't reduce you to tears… Your tests have come back and it's not good news. 'IT' was in both ovaries and, the stomach wall and was stage 3… Now THAT'S bad news. The most upsetting thing for me, I think, was the look on Geoff's face - the utter astonishment that it was happening to US… WE were supposed to grow old together and now we had chemo and 'statistics.'

That night I sobbed. I haven't allowed myself to do that since because I don't do a 'pretty' cry - it's full on; red nose, bulging eye lids and bags down to my chin the next day and also it's exhausting. I have become more emotional, as has Geoff, but sobbing is out.

Next was the oncology experience. My oncologist and his team were fantastic. He told us exactly what was going to happen and answered any questions we had e.g. will I lose my hair? Yes.

I had my chemo changed several times as I had reactions, body rash, shortness of breath, and I needed oxygen at one point but the third time it was fine. Then the chemo had to be extended. It was an on-going joke with us all that I'd become 'special', then 'unique', then a 'challenge' to my consultant and God Bless him that he wouldn't give up. The camaraderie of the oncology unit helped no end. When I lost my hair, the wig I bought was considered so good the nurses would say, "Chris, can you come and have a word with this lady, she's going to have chemo, come and show her your hair." It was lovely to be able to say that I'd had the same thoughts and fears as her… A rabbit caught in the headlights syndrome... And was handling it and getting through it.

Seven months on it was September and I had a scan… It came back CLEAR. More tears but the good kind this time.

Some of the things I've learned during this journey are that partners are affected as much as you. It's not just about me; Geoff has been as scared and apprehensive as I have.

We've been surprised by the people who have supported us… And also by those who have stayed away.

There's a lot of 'IT' about. Every kind of cancer needs research money.

As I've gotten over my cancer my hair has grown back… What's with all the curls! Mine hair looks like a granny's bad perm! Is there no end to this suffering!

Chemo does something to your brain; you think one word but say another… A bit like pregnancy brain but with chemicals!

I said in January that I felt lucky, I still do. What a back-up team I've had; my own doctor for taking notice of my concerns and acting upon it; my gynaecological surgeon for successfully completing the op and getting everything out in one piece; and my oncologist and the team for making the 'chemo experience'  bearable. The rest is up to me now. How do I let go of my 'security blanket' of chemo? Can I really believe it's been successful?

I owe it to my husband, my family, my huge network of supporters and to my body to believe it. I am a positive person and a bit stubborn too, so I know I will, but goodness... What AM I going to do with my hair!

- ends -

Chris was given the 'all clear' in September 2011 - one year after diagnosis

for further information

Liz Engel, Press Office, The Eve Appeal

Tel: 020 7299 4430/07812 150832

email Liz

The full release can be found here.