Two days ago, The New York Times published this story: Chris Evert Beat Cancer. Then It Came Back. So She Beat It Again.

As I've shared previously, Evert was found to carry the same pathogenic mutation in her BRCA1 gene as her sister Jeanne, who had died of ovarian cancer in 2020. Upon learning the results of her genetic testing, Evert opted for preventive surgery. When cancer was subsequently detected in the tissue removed during surgery, Evert underwent a second operation. A few days later, her doctor called to say that the cancer had not spread. She was assessed as Stage 1 and was told that, following chemotherapy, she would have a better than 90% chance that her cancer would never return.

But cancer did return. As the Times article explains, "A little more than a year after she was in remission, a precautionary CT scan in December revealed a cancerous mass." Evert went through treatment again.

She appears to be remaining positive, noting to reporter David Waldstein that "Doctors are always hopeful."

But she's also realistic, telling Waldstein: "Obviously, if something returned the second time, there’s more of a chance that it’s going to return. Some people have cancer once and it goes away, and they live for 30 or 40 more years. That’s a wonderful story. It’s not always like that."

That's especially true of ovarian cancer.

Evert's story was on my mind today when I went for my monthly blood work. Would this be the month that my CA125 would be a number other than 7, 8 or 9? Would my 3½-year run of a normal CA125 come to an end?

When my test results popped into MyChart, I seemed to be in a dead zone for cell phone reception. I clicked on the results, watching the circle spin in the centre of my screen. I clicked again. I turned my phone's airplane mode on and off to try to re-establish my connection. Finally, I set my phone aside for 10 seconds then tried the link again. And there it was: another heavenly 7.

All stories of ovarian cancer—ones like Evert's and ones like mine—are valuable. They represent the many faces of this disease.

While I tend not to dwell on my cancer, every single dot on the chart, below, represents a day when I thought about the possibility of recurrence, when I held my breath, when I exhaled audibly, and when I felt lucky to be alive and well.