Normally by now, all the gifts are wrapped and tucked neatly under the tree. Christmas is just days away, and here I am—not a single gift wrapped. This year, the holidays feel different. I can’t seem to get into the spirit.
“I feel off. I’m not saying anything major is wrong—it could be minor. I just know something is off.”
That’s what I kept telling my friends and my husband over the past several weeks. And do you know what they said? “Tracey, you’re getting older.” I laughed and said, “I’m not that old!”
Old age or not, I decided to see my doctor, hoping we could figure out what was going on. She quickly diagnosed me with perimenopause. Peri-what? At 36 years old, perimenopause wasn’t even on my radar. I didn’t even know how to spell it when I first googled it.
Hearing the diagnosis was oddly relieving. Relief that, at least according to her, nothing seemed seriously wrong. But even as I tried to sit with that, a small, persistent voice inside me whispered, “This isn’t it. This isn’t what you’re dealing with.”
That quiet inner compass—so faint it’s easy to miss—told me to seek a second opinion. I trusted my doctor, yes, but I trusted that little voice more. So, I made another appointment.
This new doctor, after discussing my symptoms, also didn’t think perimenopause was the issue. She ordered a pelvic ultrasound. I always say, “No news is good news,” but hours later, my phone rang. My doctor’s voice on the other end immediately made my stomach drop. I knew instinctively—it couldn’t be good.
She explained I had fibroids in my uterus, but that wasn’t her biggest concern. She told me I had two ovarian cysts—complex cysts. Complex. Shadowing. One small, the size of a grape, the other much larger, the size of a large lemon. It was the large one that worried her. She wanted me to see a gynecologist—stat.
It was Friday night, and I had to sit with this all weekend. I hit the internet, and what I found escalated my worry to pure terror.
I decided to tell no one. I thought I was being brave, selfless even. I didn’t want anyone else to feel the way I did—swirling between calm and panic. I kept thinking of my struggle reminders, especially the one that says, “You are not meant to go through this alone. Who are you leaning on?” But the answer was me, myself, and I.
Ryan was on a hunting trip, 14 hours away, with poor reception. I only received a few texts and didn’t want to worry him. If this turned out to be serious, I wanted him to enjoy his trip without anxiety.
So I turned to the next best person—my mom. I texted her casually, “What are you doing today and tomorrow?” I wanted to ask her to stay with me, but I couldn’t. She was busy caring for her grandchildren, and I didn’t want to add to her stress.
When she called and left a message, gently saying she was there if I needed her, I finally responded. I asked if Noah could go with her to see Christmas lights, giving me time alone to process my emotions. One thing I know about myself: when my emotions are high, I need to calm them before letting others in.
A long, cleansing shower followed, with Christian music streaming softly in the background. Peace washed over me, if only for a moment. Saturday was spent deep-diving into medical research, trying to prepare myself for the gynecologist appointment.
Sunday morning, Ryan called. Hearing his voice, even after days apart, was a balm. I told him about the ultrasound, downplaying my anxiety. “Well, I guess we can’t worry if we don’t know anything, right?” he said, sweet and naïve. He had no idea I had spent the previous day in tears. But once he got home, I shared the full weight of my fear, and he knew just how worried I was.
I asked Ryan for a blessing, a spiritual prayer for guidance. I remember him saying, “Whatever the outcome, it’s the will of the Lord.” Honest though it was, it wasn’t comforting—it reminded me of the uncertainty ahead.
The gynecologist confirmed her concern over the large cyst. She used words like “suspicious,” ovarian cancer, staging, surgery, rupture, CA125, and gynecologic oncologist. Terms I had researched tirelessly, thanks to a molar pregnancy and osteosarcoma diagnosis years ago. Regardless, she said it had to be removed and referred me to a gynecologic oncologist—my first choice: MD Anderson Cancer Center, the place that saved my life 18 years ago.
Blood work followed, tears threatening, but I held them back. I called Ryan and my studio manager to keep things calm and organized. Deep breaths and repeating, “Tracey, keep your sht together,”* became my mantra.
When I finally called my mom, tears poured. She listened, comforted, reassured. No matter how old you get, a girl always needs her mama.
Ryan came home, we reached out to MD Anderson, and awaited clarity. Blood results returned normal—but research reminded me that CA125 isn’t conclusive. Early-stage ovarian cancer can still exist with normal results. The uncertainty remained.
Ryan and I discussed telling the kids carefully, balancing honesty with protection. Planning for the worst, hoping for the best—that’s been my mantra.
This journey is difficult because I know the reality of cancer now. I know its toll, on my body, on family, on life. And yet, I also know I’ve faced it before—and I survived. I will fight again. I will learn again. I will grow again.
I hope it’s not cancer, but I take one step at a time. I breathe, I allow myself to feel, I trust my instincts, and I keep moving forward.
This Christmas, I’m reminded of what truly matters: my health, my family, the memories we create, and the fight that’s still ahead. I’ve got so much to live for—four incredible children, a devoted husband, and a life worth every breath.
All I want for Christmas this year…is my health.
