Tonight, I learned that a woman I had befriended a year ago died yesterday of ovarian cancer after having been diagnosed with the disease in February 2023.

We first spoke in July 2023 after a friend of a friend of a friend had passed my name on to her, thinking that my experience with ovarian cancer might be helpful. Over the next 12 months, we maintained a semi-regular back-and-forth. I checked in with her every few weeks, celebrating with her on the promising options and commiserating with her on the many disappointments.

Her first written communication to me was in August 2023, after reading a post I had written called The land of little victories. It was just five days after I had had emergency surgery to remove a breast implant that had become irrevocably infected. In that post, I had written:

A friend wrote this to me this afternoon: "You're authentic and when you write about real and specific things that you're dealing with (e.g., surgical scars), you give people something to think about. That helps others process what they're dealing with and/or be more empathetic." I hadn't really thought about that—being, admittedly, caught up in my own sadness and loss—but it's true. Somewhere out there, someone who bears a mastectomy scar or a hysterectomy scar (see My lumpy, bumpy belly) is reading my blog and feeling a little less alone because of it, just as I have felt a little less alone as others have reached out to me.

My friend with ovarian cancer replied minutes after I posted the article to say, "I am that person who feels so less alone because of your blog. Thank you so much."

We last communicated just a few weeks ago. Though she said then, "It's terminal, just a question of when," she was still holding out hope that she would have the stamina to participate in a clinical trial for which she was eligible. When I asked whether it was helpful for me to continue checking in with her, she replied: "I may or may not answer...and you will know why if I don't. I have hit a wall mentally."

I was heartbroken. She was the first friend diagnosed with ovarian cancer after me that seemed to be running out of options. Still, I didn't expect to hear—just 10 days later—that she was gone.

Sadly, her reality may be more typical of people with ovarian cancer than mine. Coincidentally, today I participated in a quarterly meeting of the Board of Directors of Ovarian Cancer Canada, whose mission is "to boldly and unapologetically take action against ovarian cancer until the number of deaths from this disease is zero." Today, more than ever, I feel that this mission is critical.

As my friend was not a public figure (unlike former Ottawa councillor Diane Deans, who died of ovarian cancer in May 2024), I do not feel that it is my place to share her name. But I will keep her in my heart and honour her memory as I walk in Ovarian Cancer Canada's Walk of Hope on September 8.