I have found the last decade challenging. I survived breast cancer twice. Once in my late thirties and once in my late forties.

After many operations, severe complications, extensive and prolonged treatment, I was at last starting to get better. I carried the scars of the operations, lymphodema, partial loss of feeling and pain. However I was relieved and grateful to be alive. I went back to my career as a children's and young adult author and became involved again in the marketing of The Hughenden Boutique Hotel.

However my greatest joy was getting back to my family, especially my adolescent children, Jamie and Victoria. My famous quiche and stuffed capsicums were once again dinner favourites and I enjoyed cooking for the family. Life was looking good. Then the monthly urinary tract infections started. These infections were so severe that I was often bedridden.

It took six months before I was referred to a urologist. That marked the beginning of a series of investigations, operations, biopsies, and surgeries that took over my life. Every morning was agony as I tried to unblock my bladder. The rest of the day involved coping strategies. Increasingly I was becoming weaker and more exhausted. My body felt out-of-control as my blood pressure soared. Bruises from the interventions and tests spread down my good arm, bladder infections were only partially controlled, allergic skin rashes covered my body, my heart beat was erratic and my rheumatoid arthritis became very active.

Despite all this, I felt positive and enjoyed being with my family and friends, wrote and worked. However it was becoming harder.

During a cystoscopy, the urologist discovered a large pelvic tumour that was pressing against my bladder. The tumour seemed to take up nearly the whole pelvic space. No one knew what it was. How it got there. What to do with it. No one seemed to be able to remove it. No one explained to me what I was to go through, the likely results, or what was happening.

In August 2004, I was scheduled for removal of the pelvic tumour in hospital. I fasted, took the bowel preparation and was waiting for the surgery, when the surgeon called me aside. He wanted to talk to me. Would I sign an authority that he could remove my bladder and bowel. I was shocked. Then he said that I could choose palliative care instead. He believed I had cancer. I opted for investigative surgery and time to think and prepare my family.

The round table discussion at home with my two children and husband was very difficult. It was the second time in the past three years that I had told them that I was going to die. My daughter Tory in particular, had suffered emotionally during my last bout of cancer. The complications from that cancer had lead to prolonged complications. At fifteen, Victoria had dressed my wounds daily for many months and acted as my nurse during the year long recovery.

That experience of Tory's care, has bonded me to her in a special way. The card Tory wrote me is one of my greatest treasures. It said:

'I am willing to drop out of school to be your live-in nurse! Change your poo bag, do anything. No matter what happens I am so lucky for everything and I am glad we went away together. Remember if you need anything tell me!
I love you heaps.
Always Tory.'

Now I was sick again. Victoria was shattered. She wanted to do anything to help me survive. I just wanted her to get on with her life, go out, study, enjoy her friends. My daughter was strong and determined in front of me, but I heard afterwards that she cried at school and her friends comforted her.

I made my will, told my family and friends and organised my life. My husband wanted me to do anything to survive. He is not a man of many words, but I will always remember him asking me, 'Even if the doctor takes out your bladder and bowel, you will still be Susie, won't you?' He waited, then continued. 'Then that will be all right. As long as you are still you and alive.'

I believed that my prognosis was poor. I accepted death because I felt that I had lived a productive life. As the child of post war Hungarian refugees, I had the privilege of growing up in Australia. I had been a teacher, educational consultant, hotelier, author, part of an extended family and most importantly a wife and mother of my two children. I was sad that my dying meant the people I loved would be unhappy.

When subsequent biopsies and surgeries resulted in the news that the tumour was benign, my surgeon was relieved and went on holidays. I was totally confused. Did this mean I was going to live? It did not feel like it. My bladder had all but ceased functioning now and my pain was extreme at times. I waited for many weeks before the doctor scheduled me for major abdominal surgery to remove the tumour. The surgery was a great failure and I was no longer emotionally coping.

Another surgeon was called in and more painful tests resulted. Christmas was a hard time. I started to feel like a fraud. Was I dying or not? Did I have a problem at all? Was this some awful joke? I didn't know what was happening. The only thing I knew was that I was in pain, the procedures were dehabilitating and there seemed no end to it. When I told my cousin who was a doctor about it all, he strongly advised me to seek a second opinion from Professor Hacker. He said that Professor Hacker was the best pelvic surgeon in Australia.

I was embarrassed to seek a second opinion. None of the doctors had suggested it. I didn't want to do it. I felt too weak and sick to change course. However my cousin harassed me. Unable to face the surgeon directly, I faxed him a letter. I was going to see Professor Hacker.

As I waited in the Gynaecological Cancer Centre's reception room at the Royal Hospital for Women, hope started to flicker inside my mind. The receptionist was kind to me. Professor Hacker's registrar took my history. It took a long time, during which the registrar was actually interested in my medical conditions. He looked up reports on his computer. It was the first time I had been told what was in the pathology report from the tumour biopsy. Then I saw Professor Hacker. Time was not an issue. Professor Hacker was interested and concerned about my condition. He acknowledged that the tumour was a serious problem. He explained that it was pressing on key organs and was life threatening. He discussed my condition and for the first time I felt validated, no longer a fraud. It was the first time I felt I was in safe hands.

The nursing sister, Ellen Barlow, was kind and respectful, Professor Hacker's examination thorough. The process was different to all other times. There were consultations with the physiotherapist, the nursing staff, pre-operative tests organised, and preparations made for the next round of surgeries. There was a professionalism and care, which comforted me.

The surgery was very tough. However Professor Hacker and his team came every day. The pain clinic doctors came many times every day to adjust pain relief, physiotherapists helped me, the acute care staff were attentive and caring. When I finally went back to the Gynaecological Cancer Ward, I experienced more care. I felt that my life mattered.

Professor Hacker beamed as he told me that the removal of the tumour was a success. My tumour was being sent abroad now to Ireland, where it was going to be investigated. I thought that was very unfair, as I had never been to Ireland. 'You will have to take that trip now without your tumour. Ireland is beautiful.' Professor Hacker smiled.

Professor Hacker had saved my life. Given me a chance to continue writing, working, be part of the community and most importantly, still be a mother to my children.

The experience has taught me that patients must have a voice. Ask for that second opinion. It has shown me the result of excellence of care through Professor Hacker and his team. I consider myself fortunate to have found the Gynaecological Cancer team at the Royal Hospital for Women. My children and my husband say thank you.