By Virginia “Ginny” Marable
If you came to Susie’s house, you didn’t just arrive. You arrived at a plan.
There was a custom menu. A printed itinerary. A guest room ready before you’d unpacked. Your favorite beverage waiting in the perfect vessel. She thought about what you’d need before you knew you needed it.
Aunt Susie brought the party. She brought the fun. She knew how to make people feel special, and she was fully, authentically herself. She didn’t take any nonsense.
She was my aunt, and she was like a second mom to me. She spent nearly four decades in Washington public schools, from teacher to superintendent. On August 2, 2026, she died of clear cell uterine cancer. She was 67.
This September, for Gynecologic Cancer Awareness Month, I’m asking you to learn the name of the cancer that took her.
Know the Name
Clear cell uterine cancer is rare, making up fewer than 5 in 100 uterine cancers. It tends to occur in older women, often at a later stage, and is an aggressive subtype.
Susie’s story began in November 2024 with bloating and swelling in her belly. She knew something wasn’t right. She didn’t wait. That instinct sent her to the ER to have fluid drained and set off weeks of tests and biopsies. In the first week of January 2025, she was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer.
The warning sign most often linked to uterine cancer is abnormal vaginal bleeding. Susie’s first sign was bloating and swelling. Every body tells its story in its own way. Listen to your body. When something changes, say something.
Her Journey
At first, doctors thought it was ovarian cancer. Months of testing and imaging pointed elsewhere, and her April 2025 hysterectomy confirmed clear cell uterine cancer.
Chemo brought her numbers down. She lost her hair but felt pretty good. Immunotherapy slowed things. Then, in December, she joined a clinical trial. That meant a new lead oncologist, rather than the gynecologic oncologist who had treated her from the start. Answers became harder to find. She felt more like a number than a person with real concerns.
In January 2026, her numbers were the lowest they’d ever been. She wasn’t cancer-free, but there was real hope. The side effects were brutal, though — cystic acne, nausea — and she felt worse than she had on chemo. Cancer also kept showing up in her lymph nodes.
In March, she rode her horse and realized the neuropathy in her feet had become a safety issue. Horses had been part of her life since she was 14, so she boarded him elsewhere to make sure he got the exercise he deserved. Even then, she was thinking about him.
By April, her left eye was blurry, she was nauseous, and she had no appetite. She stopped the trial. Procedures were lined up one by one, starting with eye surgery on May 5. We got an appointment at MD Anderson in Houston and felt hopeful, but radiation for a new tumor on her liver came first, and she couldn’t make the trip.
In July, she checked into the ER on a Monday. By Wednesday, she learned her cancer was terminal. It had compromised her liver, and there were no treatment options left. By Friday, she was discharged. In true Susie form, she wanted every i dotted and every t crossed, and she started making her end-of-life plans.
She began hospice. Eighteen days later, she died.
My Perspective
I’m a gynecologic cancer survivor, too. I had cervical cancer. Watching Susie go through her cancer stirred up everything from my own journey. It felt unfair, painful, and devastating.
When it was my turn, Susie showed up. Weekly care packages. Constant check-ins. Tremendous support. She bought me every pineapple-printed piece of clothing and every accessory she could find. She couldn’t relate to what I was going through, but she made sure I never felt alone anyway.
Then it flipped. My experience gave her someone to confide in differently during her own treatment. It brought us closer than we’d ever been.
In her last weeks, I felt hopeless and helpless. I couldn’t take her pain away. But I got to spend days with her on hospice, and I’ll cherish every one.
I’m angry at cancer. It took my dear aunt at 67, and she had so much more life to live.
What Susie Would Ask
Susie’s guiding question was: Is this helpful or hurtful?
So here’s what I think is helpful. Learn the name: clear cell uterine cancer. Know your body, and speak up when something changes. Keep asking questions until you get answers.
Susie planned everything down to the last detail. She showed up fully, every time.
This September, in her honor, I hope we all do the same — for ourselves and for each other.
About the Author
Virginia “Ginny” Marable is an eight-year Stage 2B Cervical Cancer Survivor and a health & wellness enthusiast. As a Cervivor Ambassador and Patient Advocate, she loves giving back to the cervical cancer community and beyond by sharing what she’s learned about taking charge of your health, alternative paths to parenthood, and surrogacy.
She is the founder of VM Helm, an executive coaching and HR consulting practice helping leaders move from overwhelm to opportunity with clarity, confidence, and momentum. She is particularly passionate about helping leaders navigate health crises with grace.
Virginia believes kindness is a superpower, loves to cook and travel, and is happiest spending time with her family on a beach. A Seattle native and University of Puget Sound graduate, she now calls Portland, OR home, where she lives with her husband, twin boys, and dog, Bear.
