When I first went to the GP after accidentally finding a weird hard lump that I wasn't even sure was in my boob - her response was, 'don't worry we refer everyone as a matter of course - I've never felt a lump like yours - I'm sure you've got nothing to worry about'.
Off I went the next day to the second interview for a new job and subsequently got my first full time position, back on the serious career ladder, since having my children. They would both be at uni in the next year, and I had spent the last 12 years battling as a lone parent while juggling freelance and part time work. Get back to ‘me’, fill the void when they leave for uni, is the best life plan now .... right?!
Wrong.
I'd managed to squeeze my mammogram appointment in between other things, thinking I'd be in and out in 15 minutes - in my usual planned way. Three and a half hours later I emerged a total wreck, at 6.45 in the evening, after 3 sets of mammograms, ultrasounds, 6 biopsies and a hasty appointment with a consultant – who told me to prepare for the worst.
I was on my own, in shock and probably unsafe to drive. Somehow, I got home.
The worst was confirmed a week later - on Valentine's Day. Grade 3 Ductal carcinoma - 16mm - lymph node positive.
They said I was young and fit (I'll take that at 55), I got it early and that I did well to find such a deep and unusually placed lump. I didn't feel like a ‘well done’. I didn’t feel lucky or clever at all. I tried to focus, but all I could hear was ‘Cancer’ and all I could think about was my son's looming A levels and that as a lone parent - my boys only have me.
All I remember is the consultant kept saying ‘your breast cancer’ at the beginning of every sentence. My head was screaming back ‘you can keep your breast cancer; I don’t want it. It’s not mine!’
I didn't absorb any details apart from trying to plan a date for surgery, that radiotherapy would be a definite afterwards and that there was another test result to come that could be indicative of whether chemo could follow… ‘Her’ something. ‘Need Her to be negative’ – I noted.
‘I'm starting a new, full-time job,’ I said - almost like that would cancel everything out. ‘My boys only have me,’ I said. I wanted these two statements to override everything somehow - but cancer doesn't listen. The consultant kindly and gently replied - ‘So let's deal with this... this is treatment... the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.’
So, I numbly booked an operation date for a few weeks later and left. My head was whirling. How was I going to manage this? I was due to start my new shiny job – next week! One son has mocks and he’s working so hard…. the other is abroad until the summer.
Somehow, I managed to keep all of this to myself for the next three weeks.
Life has taught me to allow myself time to quietly process, and I wanted to save my sons any unnecessary stress during mock exams and other important imminent dates where they had to be their best. I took a deep breath, made a date in my diary where I would tell them together – one in person and with the other on zoom - and then I carried on.
I only told three close friends during that time, while I struggled to wrap all this up in a positive light, which in my head was - quick op (2 weeks), 4-6 weeks later, radio (3 weeks) = job done. All the while very consciously not Googling anything, to try and keep the rising black mist of cancer and chemo engulfing me like my own personal Dementor.
Starting a new job was a breath of fresh air, the only place where I felt like ‘me’ amongst the chaos in my mind – though I felt like a complete fraud – starting with knowledge of my diagnosis. I just wanted them to know me, for at least a few days, before I was labelled ‘Cancer’. This coincided anyway with my pre-op appointment when I’d have more details. I decided it was best to leave any announcements until after that date, hoping I’d have a better timeline and some more answers to the many questions I knew would follow.
But of course, there were no more answers. Apart from being Her2 negative, there were just more and more things to try and absorb. ‘Her2 means less likely chemo – that’s a plus’ – I thought. But at least two weeks off work to heal, three weeks no driving, treatment 4-6 weeks post op – that was enough to take in thinking of my diary – but coming home with a drain still in, managing pain, and how do I care for an armpit that is an incision on my own (my son is NOT doing it!) all whirling around in my mind. One thing at a time I kept telling myself, it will become clear – just worry about telling work and the boys using the essential headlines.
So that’s what I did. Work took the news better than I could have ever hoped – though I feel so terribly guilty to have this diagnosis as a newbie. Logically I know that makes no difference at all, but I still feel that way. As I have found over the last few weeks, more people have been touched by cancer than you ever think and they understand – still, even writing that here – doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.
It was terrible telling my sons and to watch them crumble – but they were remarkably resilient; devastated – upset, but clear and focused that treatment mattered and nothing else did. I thank my lucky stars after years of raising them to be the best of friends and the three of us, the tightest of teams – that our bond is my only certainty.
