Romana Rogoshewska

Montreal, 2019, Christmas Eve, 11 pm: I got a call from the hospital where my mother was dying of heart failure. I, her only child, told to come soon. Rushed, I slipped on the ice in the parking lot. Bad fall, hobbled to ER thinking I suffered a fracture. The doctor walked in with my X-Rays. “Good news.” Party time… “No fracture.” Ready for jingle-bells… “But…” There’s always a but. “We found something else.” Drum roll. “Ovarian mass.” Large. Slow-motion. I thought they got the wrong file. No symptoms–a jogger, nutrition savvy, no family history. My Christmas world slammed into the wall. I thought I was immortal. That was just the starter. The sequel would come 4 years later. I have a Ph.D.in Eng.Lit.& Language, and professional artist, but this wasn’t Shakespeare. My name was on that report not Lady Macbeth. I remember little else except thinking “cancer.” Brain crashing. “…cancer…cancer..” Waiting for more results, in a daze I made it up to Mother’s room facing St. Joseph’s Oratory lit up with Christmas lights. Joy to the world. I babbled cheery gibberish about snowflakes. Faked it. Praying for a miracle. We’re both dying, Ma. Who goes first. She would. Fast-forward: my cancer nightmare began that Silent Night. Problem: I’m high-risk for general anaesthesia plus PTSD following a miscarriage in my ‘twenties and suffered heart failure on the operating table. Since then I take no medication but care for my body to avoid it . As result, my “difficult” file was redirected by the gynaecologist to neighbouring Jewish General Hospital’s renowned Segal Cancer Center where he’d trained under a top specialist. In the midst of the emotional whiteout and Mother’s death a few days later, I got lucky. Serendipity. Risk vs. Benefit: Dr. Walter H. Gotlieb is considered pioneer of robotic surgery in gynecologic oncology. That said, I’m pro-active i.e. difficult. It’s my body and the only life I have. I’m not a medical doctor but trained in deconstruction and research, and went Google-crazy. My large mass “appeared” benign, size here doesn’t matter, but no certainty without surgery.

The axe hung over my head. Options a gamble: I could either die on the operating table Monday or take a risk and die next year. More research, listened to my gut, and Mother’s guiding presence vs. Lady Macbeth:. “Looks like an innocent flower but is the serpent under it?” I refused surgery. And medication. We opted for wait-and-see screening every six months, fresh drama each time: Meanwhile, I took maxi-charge of my body. Cleanse, increased jogging-walking 3miles daily, and went into monastic-mode heavy on scented candles. I would have dressed as a rabbit if it helped. Four years later, my final tests indicated, “Good news. The mass has shrunk.” I thought it was finally champagne time. I was invincible ! Wrong. December 23, 2023: Santa’s back. I was readying for flying reindeer when I saw blood in the toilet. Thought it was the damned ovary–The Silent Stalker’s payback time. Jumped into a cab and went to ER. Echoes of years earlier plus waiting for results with others in various stages of decay. ER doctor and Resident walks in. Serious stuff. Familiar drum roll. “Good news. Not the ovary.” But. They found-something-else. MRI would indicate colorectal tumor. I don’t remember much after that except “colon” and “appearance of.” Regardless my fancy Ph.D., I didn’t even know where the colon was except nothing to do with Colin Powell. I thought it was a guy-thing. Like prostate. And went into deconstructionist denial again. “You mean it has the ‘appearance of’ but not necessarily…” Doctor cut me short. “Romana, it’s cancer. The real thing.” I don’t recall how I got home but jingle-bells are still synonymous with “the real thing.” Nightmare Rewind. Due to my PTSD fear of anesthesia and medication, I plunged back into research, more denials and delays. It’s “slow growing” I reassured myself, ”probably been there ten years.” I wanted another summer in my garden as if cancer can take a rain-check .For the next months, I drove my Dream Team nuts with data. Plus colonoscopy, scans, and shadow dancing with my silent stalker, Dr. Morpheus. Either you go haywire while waiting and eating kale, or you paint. After a decade of avoiding my studio due to nightmare divorce litigation (15 yrs. “Royal Neverland” marriage to King Charles’ cousin) plus Mother’s slow decline, I bought art supplies and five large canvases. Started compulsive painting as therapy and dedication to my Dream Team surgeons with support of the remarkable JGH Foundation, my new allies of encouragement. Five paintings later and more tests, came final showtime. My colorectal surgeon by now friend, Dr.Allison Pang rang. “Romana, the tumor has grown.” It was either now or I’d signed my death certificate.

The Turning Point: I agreed to brachytherapy radiation that targets the tumor directly. Dr. Vuong is internationally renowned in that field. Next, D-Day with my Dream Team on full alert and reassurance of minimal drugs. Day prior, I delivered my last painting because I didn’t think I’d return home. PTSD talking. This vision will remain forever etched in my memory as I was rolled to surgery: doors fling open; Dream Team standing on alert like centurions at the gates of Before and After. Two weeks later, I’d be opening my front door. Minimal medication, minus ovaries and colon bits. The “resectioning” surgery to permanently re-sew me would be in three months. Verdict: “Good news.” No need for chemo, “Cancer gone.” Getting used to my new body still pending. Donated boxes of skinny jeans to skinny people. Skinny Jeans: either you sit back and let Life roll over you–like giving the car keys to a total stranger–or you take the wheel and make the turn yourself. The latter preferable. Five paintings now hang with dedication plaques at the JGH. At the annual cocktail of The 1934 Society, I (in black tunic plus leggings camouflage) was presented with a memorable plaque for the paintings–and probably for surviving cancer with my Dream Team’s patience. “Everything happens for a purpose,” Mother would say.”You just have to find it.” Followed by her silent codicil. “Darling, let’s face it. You can’t cook. You marry the wrong men. You mess-up. But I love you. You’re a survivor and I know you’ll do the right thing.” I did.