Jacqui O’Sullivan – Finding strength in community

Jacqui O’Sullivan shares a glimpse of her ongoing battle with ovarian cancer and how her community is pulling her through.

You can listen to this article below, or by using your favourite podcast player at pod.link/oncologybuddies

Jacqui O’Sullivan lives in Johannesburg, Gauteng with her husband and two sons.

The past five months have been a whirlwind; an unexpected, life-altering journey that I never saw coming. It began with subtle yet persistent symptoms: weight gain, bloating, and pain in my left groin that lingered for 18 months. Like many women, I chalked it up to perimenopause. The pain worsened, and despite two visits to a gynaecologist, I was reassured that everything seemed fine. 

But my GP refused to accept that. He pushed for a sonar scan, which confirmed his suspicions. A CT scan and series of tests followed. Then came the early call. No doctor ever calls at 06:45 with good news. My CA-125 marker, which should have been around 35, was a staggering 4 368. Ovarian cancer was confirmed.

What followed was a flurry of tests, scans, and preparations for major surgery. In October 2024, I underwent a radical hysterectomy, omentectomy (removal of the fatty layer of tissue that surrounds the abdominal organs), and lymphadenectomy, removing 26 lymph nodes. 

Stage 3 advanced ovarian cancer was a terrifying diagnosis, yet there was relief that it hadn’t spread further. Five weeks later, a chemo port was inserted.

The power of advocacy and community

If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, it’s the importance of having a doctor who will fight for you. I firmly believe that my GP’s insistence for further testing saved my life. Ovarian cancer is known as the silent killer because symptoms often appear too late. The GP’s advocacy meant that I caught this at Stage 3 instead of Stage 4, and for that, I’ll always be enormously grateful.

Beyond medical intervention, what has truly carried me through are my people. My incredible family, rock-solid friends, and unwavering support system. They have held my hand, made me laugh when I needed it most, and quite literally put food on the table when I didn’t have the energy to cook. 

Two friends helped me choose a wig in advance of the inevitable hair loss. 

My friends, current and former colleagues showed up with meals, flowers, and care packages filled with chemo-friendly goodies and consistent messages of support and love. These acts remind me that I’m never alone in this fight, even on the bleaker days.

The unexpected camaraderie in the chemo room

I’ve come to appreciate the unique environment of the chemo room. It’s a space where backgrounds, careers, and social statuses fade into insignificance. No one cares what you do for a living, only how you’re feeling and what you’re fighting. Some days, the room is quiet, filled with resting patients. Other days, it’s lively, filled with shared jokes and mutual encouragement.

The nurses are nothing short of angels, greeting each patient by name and creating a sense of familiarity in a deeply unfamiliar situation. There’s an unspoken camaraderie, moments of disappointment when someone’s bloodwork isn’t strong enough for treatment, and moments of celebration when another reaches a milestone.

A battle against the body

People often ask, “Are you feeling better?” The truth is, no. With each session, the fatigue deepens, the side effects intensify, and my body weakens. I’ve gone from someone who juggled countless daily tasks to someone who considers a short grocery run an achievement. 

The swelling, nausea, headaches, mouth sores, and sleepless nights from cortisone have all become part of my new reality. But oddly enough, knowing these symptoms are normal is comforting, as it means treatment is working.

The need to move my body, despite feeling poorly is a struggle. To boost circulation and lymphatic system I use my trusty rebounder. Even just a few minutes make a huge difference. 

Gratitude amidst the struggle

I’ve always loved my work; however, cancer feels like my full-time job, one I never applied for but must see through. As I get closer to completing chemotherapy, I think more about the risk of recurrence, but I know I have a team of experts who have my back no matter what happens . 

Through the exhaustion, pain, and uncertainty, I remain deeply grateful. Grateful for the unwavering support of my husband, whose dark humour keeps me smiling. Grateful for my employer that has given me the gift of time with a medical sabbatical to focus on healing. Grateful for my friends, who check in, who lift me up, who simply sit with me when I need company. Grateful for my community, who remind me every day that I’m not alone in this fight.

Life isn’t always a highlight reel; it’s filled with challenges, detours, and moments of deep struggle. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that community is everything. When you surround yourself with the right people, those who lift you up with no expectation of reciprocity or gain, you can weather even the darkest storms.