MOST MORNINGS I'm out of bed, downstairs and making tea before I remember that I'm not supposed to be alive. For months, all thoughts were calibrated against my conviction that time was not on my side. My oncologist, Dr. Elizabeth Simms, was the first to say "three to six months." That was in early February of 2002, shortly after I had taken a bad fall, required a CAT scan and had my worst fears of four years confirmed: There was something more than "just getting older" wrong.

Ovarian cancer, my first kind of cancer, is a killer. Read any book, visit any website. It is usually found at stage four, which is almost always too late to stop it. Very little is known about how to deal with it. Few clinical trials are underway. My treatment was immediate surgery and chemotherapy. The surgery was the bad part.

Charlotte, one of our cats, and I were watering the Christmas tree about 5 a.m. between Christmas and New Year of 2002, when she got tangled up in my nightgown, and I felt myself falling toward the tree with a large, full pitcher of water in my hands. I corrected the fall to go backwards, away from the tree, confident that an armchair was just behind me.

We move the furniture around when it's time for the Christmas tree to come in. The arm chair wasn't there. I landed, awkwardly, on my back, full force on a terracotta crouching lion that is about four feet in length. It was a sudden and severe hurt, and I was immediately drenched as the pitcher crashed on the tile floor.

After about two minutes, I was able to get up….Charlotte unable to run and ask for help. I was painfully stiff, but seemed unbroken.

Four days later, my torso was completely distended and tight. I called my doctor.

During the examination, she assured me that I was "fine:" probably a small hernia that would be an "easy fix. Let's just have a CAT scan to be sure, she said."

I first made the appointment with the surgeon to correct the hernia, and, later that day, made a CAT scan appointment. The hernia was "minor" and would be very easy to fix. In and out the same day, nothing to worry about.

The CAT scan was more foreboding. I arrived, met the two charming technicians and positioned myself for the procedure while we chatted about fashion and the frustrations of medical technology. But within 60 seconds of beginning to send scanned images to the read-out room, silence had fallen. When the scans were completed, both young women rushed to each side of the scan platform to help me up. A shift of some proportions had taken place in how they viewed me. They knew I was ill, and it showed.

"Call your doctor right away. Try to see her today. Shall I walk you back to reception? Is anyone with you?"

"All right," I answered. "Does it absolutely have to be today? I think I can make it, I made it here. No, I'm alone."

"You must see your doctor today. We'll fax the information over right away."

Gloom descended.

I am a healthy, energetic, independent individual with a high tolerance for pain.

Childbirth and one fibroid surgery fifteen years ago in Boston were essentially my medical record. Never smoked. Had been through menopause, or was at least on the down side of it.

During the four years previous to my cancer discovery I had felt lethargic….my waist was disappearing, no matter what I did, and I really needed a nap in the late afternoons. All these indicators are also in the ovarian cancer books and websites…but I was assured repeatedly by my doctor that I was fine, if a little long in the tooth.

It is now two years, four surgeries and six months of chemotherapy later and I'm still here to write about it. Many who know me well have insisted that I get down on paper what happened to me, and what I thought about it to ensure that other healthy, energetic, independent individuals who think something might be wrong are encouraged to believe they're right.

This column will chronicle my experience with cancer, and will, I hope draw on the experiences of others who are willing to share their stories with us. My email is gcudaback@yahoo.com. Talk away to me and I will do my best to get the word out.

Living with cancer simply means we share many fears, frustrations, goals and ideas. We know great doctors, and we know medical professionals who should be drummed out of the corps. We are stronger in some ways than we every thought we'd be, and in others, we are so delicate that we are very bad company at times.

Our sense of time is somewhat distorted, and our planning capability is considerably shortened. But we know a lot about how we've changed, and we should share those insights. We should also make certain that people who've helped are recognized, and people who need help are better informed.