NZ Hiking Adventures - my Vulva Tried to Kill me but I Walked it off
Chapter 3: Surgery and Recovery Number 1
My pre-op appointment was on May 28th. It was brief—more of a formality than anything. Just a quick visit to St George’s Hospital in Christchurch to complete the paperwork, sign consent forms, and ask any final questions. But even though the appointment itself felt procedural, the weight of what was coming hung heavily over me. I kept waiting for it to feel real—some moment where it would sink in—but that moment never truly arrived.
Surgery was scheduled for June 6th. I remember marking the date on my calendar in a shaky mix of dread and hope—dread for what it might mean, hope that it would mark the beginning of moving past this unknown.
They told me I’d be fine to go back to work after a week, and honestly, that didn’t sound so bad at the time. But when I asked the more important question—“When can I go hiking again?”—the response was firmer: “At least two to three weeks.”
That hit harder than I expected.
I’d been holding onto the idea of getting away for Matariki weekend like a lifeline—getting out on the trail, up in the hills, breathing clear air and leaving everything else behind for a while. But now I had to cancel. Another loss. Another “no” in a growing list of limits and setbacks.
Still, I had something to look forward to: Mt Herbert on June 28th. I clung to that hope like a thread. It wasn’t a multi-day adventure or an epic remote trail, but it was a mountain—and right now, that was enough.
I told myself, Just get through the follow-up appointment. Ask then. Maybe you’ll be cleared in time.
Dave drove me to the hospital the morning of my surgery. We left early to make it to St George’s by 8 a.m.—my surgery was scheduled second on the list. The roads were quiet, and we didn’t talk much on the drive. Not because we didn’t want to, but because neither of us quite knew what to say. What words could possibly make sense of the day ahead?
St George’s is a private hospital, and the calm, quiet atmosphere was exactly what I needed. As we entered, the staff welcomed us with warmth and kindness, which helped soften the anxiety sitting heavy in my chest.
He stayed with me as I was checked in, sitting quietly while a steady stream of medical staff filtered in and out of the room—nurses, anesthetists, assistants. Each one asked their questions, ticked their boxes, gave their instructions. He held my hand, or simply sat beside me, a calm presence through the chaos of preparation. No big speeches, no clichés. Just his being there—solid and steady—meant everything.
Eventually, it was time for him to go. There was only about 45 minutes left before I would be taken into surgery, and by then, all the prep was done. I had on my compression stockings, grippy hospital socks, gown, and a fog of nerves. We said a quiet goodbye. He would wait for the doctor’s call once the surgery was done. I stayed behind with my thoughts and a podcast, Aotearoa Adventures, playing softly in my ears, trying to drown out the fear rising in my chest.
Walking into the operating theatre, I was greeted by the full team—gynaecologist, anesthetist, assistants, nurses. As I stood there in that sterile, bright room, a sudden wave of vulnerability hit me. I realised, in a very physical way, what was about to happen. I would be unconscious, with my most intimate parts exposed and operated on by strangers. There was no dignity in this moment—only trust.
In what felt like an instant, I was asleep.
When I woke up in recovery, the world came back into focus slowly but surprisingly gently. I felt clear-headed, not groggy, and there was no immediate pain. Whatever they’d given me at the end of surgery had worked well. A nurse came over, smiling. “It all went well,” she said. “We’ve already called your husband.”
That meant so much—knowing he’d heard the words I needed to hear before I even opened my eyes.
The gynaecologist came in to check on me and explained what had happened. She said she’d had to take a larger area than initially planned—once she got a proper look under anaesthetic, there was another spot that concerned her. It was a curveball, but she’d done what needed to be done.
Once I was fully awake and had eaten, I called Dave to come and pick me up. It felt surreal to go from surgery to sandwich to home in the space of a few hours, but I was ready to be anywhere other than a hospital bed.
He arrived quickly and helped me into the car, careful and gentle, not speaking too much but watching me closely. The hour-long drive back to Ashburton was quiet. I was tired, a little dazed, but not in pain. I thought recovery would be straightforward.
In those early days post-surgery, he was everything I needed him to be—reassuring, calm, practical. He helped me get settled, managed the day-to-day tasks I couldn’t face, and made sure I was taking my medications on time. He didn’t hover, but he was never far away either. He let me rest but kept a quiet watch.
He didn’t try to fix everything; he simply stood beside me while I worked through it.
I followed the gynaecologist’s instructions religiously—rest, hygiene, medication. By Tuesday, I started to feel better and thought I could start easing off the painkillers. That turned out to be a mistake. My back began spasming—deep, involuntary jolts that made it hard to move. My wound looked okay, but I wasn’t entirely sure. I called the nurse and discussed my concerns, she said it all sounded fine and part of the healing process, but prescribed antibiotics just to be safe.
As part of accepting the initial diagnosis, the dVIN, I decided to take control of my overall health and well being. As part of that I booked an online consultation with a nutritionist, who specialised in women’s health and sport. I figured if I was going to heal, I needed to support my body properly. Food as medicine. It felt like something I could control in the midst of all the unknowns.
By Monday, I was back at work—too soon, probably, but I was desperate for a sense of normalcy. Fortunately it would only be a short week, Thursday I was booked for my post-op appointment and Friday was Matariki, a public holiday.
*
The follow-up was scheduled for Thursday. I was counting down the days. I had a list of questions scribbled in my notebook, written out so I wouldn’t forget anything important. Mostly, I wanted to know what came next. What recovery would look like. What I was allowed to do, and how far I could push myself.
But then the call came, earlier than expected. Wednesday. I saw the hospital number flash up and felt my stomach clench.
“You’ll need a support person,” they said.
Just five words, spoken calmly—but they carried so much weight. I knew then that this wasn’t going to be a quick, routine check-in.
Fear settled into my chest like concrete. My appointment wasn’t until 4:30 p.m. in the afternoon—how was I supposed to get through the whole day with that hanging over me?
I didn’t cry. Not yet. But I felt like I couldn’t breathe properly.
And that’s the point where it all changed. Just one phone call was all it took.
I knew, instantly, it wasn’t good. You don’t get asked to bring someone for good news. I began spiralling—spinning out with fear and speculation. My mind raced through every possible worst-case scenario.
That Thursday, we drove back up to Christchurch. The appointment was at 4:30 p.m.—the last of the day, the final waiting room. That day was one of the longest of my life. I tried to distract myself but nothing helped. Everything felt distant and irrelevant. My body was sore, my brain foggy, and my nerves were raw. I replayed every possible outcome in my head, trying to prepare myself for all of them.
Dave sat beside me in the waiting room, holding my hand as the clock crawled forward. When they finally called us in, I could barely breathe.
“The results came back. There was a tumour. Vulvar cancer.”
I went still. I didn’t cry—not yet. I was frozen in shock. She kept talking, outlining the potential next steps: another surgery - a larger excision, a CT or MRI scan, lymph node biopsy. A multidisciplinary panel. She needed my consent to move forward.
She asked if I had any questions. I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice cracked. The tears came slowly, one by one. She handed me a tissue. I asked a few small questions—too mild for the weight of the moment. My mind was a chaotic swirl.
Dave didn’t interrupt. He just sat quietly, holding space for me, being present without pushing. I needed that.
After the consultation, she asked to check the wound. Even after everything, the pain still stung with every snip of the stitches. She removed most but left three. “Come back Sunday,” she said, “and I’ll take the rest.”
On Sunday, we made the trip again. She checked and said, “It’s looking really good. I don’t think I need to take any more out.” It was a small win, but we were grateful for any kind of good news.
She promised to be in touch after the panel meeting.
*
The multidisciplinary panel met on June 27th. That same morning, they called to book a consultation for July 2nd, but couldn’t provide any further information. Then later that day, while I was at a work lunch, the gynaecologist called.
I stepped away from my colleagues to take the call. She told me the multidisciplinary panel was recommending further surgery, a CT scan and a lymph node biopsy. All the things she had presumed they would recommend.
I wanted to fall apart—but I didn’t. I finished the call, wiped my eyes, and went back to the table. I sat down and ate my lunch like everything was fine. Dave knew something was wrong the moment I walked in the door that evening. I told him quietly. He didn’t push for more. He just sat beside me.
Everything was moving so fast. It was like being on a conveyor belt I couldn’t step off. No time to breathe. No time to think. But somehow, he made space for that thinking. When I needed to rant, cry, or just sit in silence, he gave me that too.
On July 2nd, I headed back to Christchurch Women’s Hospital for the specialist consultation. I parked near Hagley Park, in the Deans Ave hospital car park, and walked in alone through Hagley Park. I needed the quiet before the next conversation. The meeting lasted 90 minutes. The doctors were kind and thorough. They said things like, “We’re so sorry this is happening to you.” I wanted to scream, “Not as sorry as I am!”
But I didn’t.
I asked questions. I listened. I tried to absorb it all.
Then came the waiting.
CT scan booked for July 4th.
*
On July 5th, I flew to Sydney to spend a week with my parents who were there on holiday. It felt absurd, in a way—life continuing despite everything. Trips still booked, people still expecting you. But I went, because sometimes moving forward is the only thing you can do.
When I look back on that month, it’s not just the medical events I remember. It’s the car rides. The silence filled with love. The quiet strength of a man who never tried to fix it all, but never left my side either.
He was my anchor through the storm—driving me to hospitals, sitting through appointments, picking me up after surgery, holding my hand while we waited for news. He reminded me to breathe. He told me I’d be okay, even when I wasn’t sure myself. He didn’t try to be a hero; he just stayed. That was more than enough.
Cancer doesn’t just happen to one person. It ripples outward. And I know this has shaken him too, even though he’s stayed strong for me. We’ve carried this together—imperfectly, unevenly, but together.
This chapter isn’t just about what happened to my body. It’s about the people who stood with me when everything was uncertain. It’s about love, presence, and resilience—quiet, everyday acts of bravery.
I’m still learning how to heal. Still finding my footing. But I’m not doing it alone.
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