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Elli Jacobs
Every day, 19 ladies in Australia are recognized with a gynaecological cancer whereas six lose their lives. It’s a statistic that Brisbane-based Dr Andreas Obermair, certainly one of Australia’s main gynaecological oncologists and the founding father of Cherish Women’s Cancer Foundation, returns to typically and one he says can largely be traced again to a single, persistent downside: late detection.
“Ovarian cancer is the biggest contributor,” says Obermair. “The disease is notoriously difficult to catch early because symptoms often appear only in advanced stages. As a result, most women are diagnosed at stage three or four, when outcomes are far less favourable.”
At the identical time, Obermair warns that endometrial most cancers, now the commonest gynaecological most cancers, is rising in deaths and will quickly surpass ovarian most cancers because the main killer.
Listening to ladies’s tales is central to early prognosis. “Many describe symptoms that are subtle, overlapping or easily dismissed, both by themselves and by healthcare providers,” says Obermair. “Women presenting with combinations of symptoms should be offered a physical examination and appropriate imaging, and staying up to date with cervical screening is critical. Early attention can make the difference between life and death.”
Here, three ladies open up about their gynaecological most cancers journeys, revealing how vulnerability, consciousness and braveness can save lives and encourage others to do the identical.
Nicola Du Thaler, 58
‘I felt embarrassed to talk about vulvar cancer’
“My journey with vulvar cancer began in 2018, just six months after a hysterectomy for adenomyosis, a uterine condition. Then, six months later, I noticed a row of itchy, sore lumps. If I scratched them, they bled non-stop. The pain was relentless.
A biopsy confirmed it: vulvar cancer. I was stunned. I didn’t even realise such a cancer existed, so the shock hit hard. Another major health battle, so soon after surgery, felt almost cruel. But then my gynaecologist said, ‘It’s treatable. We can get rid of it.’ And that was the thread of hope I clung to.
She also mentioned how I was the only woman in Brisbane with vulvar cancer at the time. Hearing that made me feel oddly special and completely alone simultaneously. To cope, I told myself, ‘Just get through the six weeks. One day at a time.’
I endured 30 rounds of radiation, six long chemotherapy sessions, and burns and blisters that made even sitting unbearable. But through every appointment and every tear, my husband, Richard, was there. He drove me, cared for me and held me together. It was the hardest chapter of my life, but it showed me my own strength and deepened our bond in ways I never expected.
Three years later, the cancer returned, requiring radical surgery and a stoma that deeply affected my self-image. With psychological support, I learned to adapt: relearning my body, redesigning my wardrobe and underwear, and enduring a long, complicated recovery marked by pain, infections and limited mobility.
Then, in 2021, my world changed again. Richard was diagnosed with incurable bowel cancer. He passed away in December 2022. Prior, we talked openly about what my future would look like, and he encouraged me to move into public speaking.
I’ve found purpose in speaking about cancer survivorship, at everything from the Clinical Oncology Society of Australia conferences to charity events, earning standing ovations and connecting with women who thanked me for voicing experiences they hadn’t known. I also share my story with nursing and medical students, including radiation therapy students in New Zealand via Zoom, helping them understand the lasting impact of treatment beyond the hospital.
I contribute to the Australia National Vulvar Cancer Trial (ANVU) and support a campaign advocating for QR codes on feminine hygiene products, so women can easily access information about gynaecological cancer symptoms. Early awareness saves lives; I’ve already seen this firsthand. One of my daughter’s friends noticed an itchy spot, got checked and discovered an autoimmune condition linked to vulvar cancer.
I’m still physically adjusting to life with a stoma and weakened muscles, learning to pace myself day by day. With my psychologist’s guidance, a simple routine of small morning tasks followed by rewarding afternoons became an anchor.
My message to women is clear: never ignore your body, seek help early, and accept support. It can make all the difference.”
Meredith Johnston, 53
‘I speak for the women who are no longer here’
“I still remember the day everything changed, back in January 2019. I was at a Pilates class before work, lying on my stomach, when a sudden pain shot through my abdomen. At first, I brushed it off – maybe it was something I’d eaten. But when I rolled over, I felt how rock-hard and unnaturally distended my stomach was. I knew something was wrong. And still, I didn’t want to admit it.
When my workmates in the Science Team at the University of the Sunshine Coast – two of them working in pathology – wouldn’t let it go, their response was immediate and unequivocal: ‘You need to go now. Book an appointment.’ Their urgency cut straight through my denial.
Less than two weeks later, I was in surgery. An ultrasound revealed a 15-centimetre cyst filled with fluid and tissue, which made it visible on imaging. Yet nothing about it initially suggested cancer. During surgery – a full hysterectomy – the truth emerged: stage 1A ovarian cancer.
When I was told the cyst was cancerous, I was unexpectedly calm. The reality only fully landed at my follow-up appointment, when I learned I would need six rounds of chemotherapy. This became one of the darkest periods of my life, despite having generally strong mental health.
I was sustained by my support network – my husband, family and steadfast friends – and by work itself, where even short days in the lab offered grounding moments of normality. By the third week of each cycle, I would slowly resurface, gathering just enough strength before the next round began.
I received my first all-clear in September 2019, when post-treatment scans showed no evidence of disease. The definitive all-clear came in April 2025, when I passed the five-year benchmark for ovarian cancer and was discharged from follow-up care with my gynaecological oncology surgeon.
Now, I volunteer with Survivors Teaching Students, a program that brings ovarian cancer survivors into medical classrooms to share our stories directly with future doctors and other health professionals. Speaking about something so personal is never easy, but I’ve learned how necessary it is.
At first, I questioned whether my experience truly mattered; after all, they treat patients with far more devastating outcomes. But in 2022, I lost a friend to ovarian cancer. Her death was a stark reminder of how fortunate I have been. Over time, I came to understand that the value of my story lies precisely in that luck. Early detection saved my life, and that lesson matters. As one fellow STS volunteer once said to me, ‘You are here, and we need you to tell the story for the women who are no longer here to tell theirs.’”
Amanda Webb, 47
‘Sharing my story has been healing’
“In my early 30s, while preparing to start a family, a routine pre-conception Pap smear in 2012 revealed stage 1B cervical cancer, a devastating diagnosis I never expected.
Because I still wanted children, I chose fertility-preserving treatment: chemotherapy followed by a rare radical trachelectomy [most of the cervix, nearby tissue, and the upper part of the vagina are removed]. The surgeon made no promises, saying only, “This is your best chance.” I knew I’d remorse it if I didn’t attempt. The remedy was brutal, bringing menopause signs, fatigue and hair loss, however the surgical procedure confirmed no remaining most cancers and clear lymph nodes.
Eighteen months later, with my husband, Ryan, we turned to IVF. The first cycle failed. I reassured myself the following would work. The second failed. By the third, I let myself imagine it would lastly occur, however once more, nothing.
By the tip of 2014, after exhausting all fertility choices, my specialist suggested contemplating an alternate path: surrogacy. After preliminary makes an attempt with a surrogate in India and later exploring a clinic in Cambodia and Ukraine, in 2018 we related with a beautiful Australian surrogate by means of a personal Facebook group. We spent 4 months speaking on-line earlier than lastly assembly in individual. Within two days, she provided to hold a child for us, and later even donated her personal eggs. On the fifth IVF cycle, we lastly obtained the information we’d been praying for: we had been going to be dad and mom.
While ready for our surrogate’s six-week scan in 2020, I felt off, skilled haemorrhages and struggled to eat, fearing my most cancers had returned. During the ultrasound the nurse requested, ‘Have you tested for pregnancy?’ I stated, ‘Oh, I can’t get pregnant.’ Then they flipped the display and there it was: a 13-week child in my stomach, conceived naturally, at age, 41. Suddenly, we had two infants on the best way, and I simply misplaced it, in the easiest way. Disbelief, pleasure and aid .
My being pregnant was sophisticated, and our son, Ashton, was born prematurely by way of emergency C-section, spending 70 days in intensive care. In distinction, our surrogate’s being pregnant went easily, and I used to be there to chop the twine as our second son, Brodie, arrived wholesome and robust.
Enduring most cancers, infertility, surrogacy, being pregnant and months in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit pushed my husband and me to our limits, but in the end it deepened our bond. Sharing our story has been therapeutic: nonetheless painful, however steadily lighter, serving to me make peace with our journey and providing hope that with time, endurance, resilience and assist, you possibly can attain the opposite facet.”
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This web page was created programmatically, to learn the article in its authentic location you possibly can go to the hyperlink bellow:
https://www.theage.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/i-felt-completely-alone-why-no-one-is-talking-about-this-rare-cancer-20260527-p601b9.html
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