This is the first in a series of posts in which I plan to share and hope to make some real-time sense of my experiences with endometrial cancer. The “making sense” part will draw on sociological and anthropological fieldwork I carried out among women in Okinawa (Japan), Israel, and the United States throughout my career. This work explored questions of health, illness, gender, suffering, belief, power, birth, aging, and death — so I figure I must have learned a few things along the way that will help me make sense of my current circumstances! And while I likely will be pre-occupied with learning how to navigate the intricacies of my own particular situation, I promise not to lose sight of the wider contexts of health and illness in this time of federal attacks on science and medical research, on women’s reproductive health, and on the environment.

A Quick Catch-Up

On May 2, 2025, the eve of my 70th birthday, I was diagnosed with high grade serous carcinoma of the uterus — an aggressive endometrial cancer with a poor prognosis. The diagnosis was quickly followed by a total hysterectomy to remove my uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes. The surgery went as well as it could and the surgeon was optimistic, reporting that she didn’t see any metastases. However, due to the “sneaky” nature of this particular cancer I would need some combination of chemotherapy, immunotherapy, radiation, and a bunch of other things I wish I didn’t have to learn about. The particulars would be determined by the pathology report, due in about two weeks.

During those weeks I worked out a five prong plan for making the best of my time on earth. I decided on the fairly modest goals of trying each day to do one kind act, one meaningful act, one task from my to-do list, one fun activity, and one bit of physical exercise. This felt like a do-able plan that would put a bit of structure in my days and ensure that I wouldn’t drown in a swamp of self-pity.

I began by selecting a super-sized calendar I’d received from the Massachusetts Association for the Blind and Visually Impaired (my eyesight became impaired several years ago due to a series of retinal detachments.) Each date gave me sufficient space to jot down my five accomplishments. And while I didn’t complete each task perfectly each day, the plan gave me some sense of being able to control the chaos that was building up around and inside me. On some (good) days I even patted myself on the back with the thought that I was pioneering a system that could help others deal with difficult life circumstances.

Even the best laid plans …

The pathology report finally arrived, showing fairly extensive metastases but offering hope that the cancer might respond to immunotherapy or one of the new targeted therapies, in addition to the traditional nasty chemotherapy cocktail of Carbo / Taxol. (Turns out that the report raised false hopes, but that comes later in the story.)

This is what I wrote to my friends and family: I do not plan to be a brave warrior in my fight against cancer. I do not see cancer treatment as a “battle” or a “journey”. I’m furious that in nearly a century of scientific research, cancer treatments still boil down to poison, radiation, and cutting away organs.

Don’t even consider telling me that God never gives you more than you can handle, or that when one door closes another opens. That’s the kind of bullshit that preserves inequalities and structural violence. Definitely don’t tell me that optimism has healing powers (which I interpret to mean as pessimism will kill me and that seems a bit of an unfair burden to put on anyone.)

And please, double down on your political engagement and opposition to the murderous regime currently in the White House and Congress. For me, right now, it’s personal. My best hope for a decent lifespan is research and clinical trials. Gynecological cancers have been under-studied in the past and it’s only recently that scientists have launched crucial studies. Much of this has already been shut down as part of Trump and cronies’ vendetta against Harvard, science, and Massachusetts. More will be shut down in coming days and weeks. I do not intend to hide my anger and hope that all of us will channel our anger into vocal opposition and resistance.

Coming Up Next

Looking back with the new-found wisdom of having endured my first chemotherapy treatment (two days ago), those words sound so brave.

In the next post I timidly tiptoe into the chaos of cancer treatment and bravely stride into a discussion of chaos as a social and a philosophical concept. But for now, a quick teaser: The morning after the first chemotherapy treatment my noble five-prong-plan calendar deteriorated into a convenient place to jot down and keep track of which anti-nausea, anti-constipation, anti-anxiety, anti-anti pills I was taking.