I never realised I would need to tell so many people. Or that I would at times have to suppress the urge to tell others who really don't need to know.
Family and close friends obviously top the list and with mine scattered so far and wide I had to resort to phone, email and Facebook private messaging.
My poor husband found out by phone from the friend who accompanied me to my appointment with my gynaecologist. I'd thought I was going to talk about options for treating fibroids; my body had other ideas. She called my husband at work, made the announcement bluntly but compassionately and he was at home within 30 minutes.
But some had to be face to face, most notably my children aged 13 and 10. Initially, on the advice of my clinical nurse specialist, I told them I had some abnormal cells that needed to be removed. When the surgery made clear that the cancer had spread and I would need chemo and radiotherapy, the time was right to introduce the big scary cancer word. They were great - and written resources from Breast Cancer Support were very helpful. With them knowing I have cancer, we can talk about it and there is no risk of them hearing inadvertently from anyone else.
Telling people inevitably means they want to visit. They want to help. Learning to negotiate that has been tricky and it's taken time to learn to say no when that's right for me and yes to the people who really can help. So many can't - like the sister who arrived from the MIddle East for ten days just two days after my first chemo, saying "Let me know if there is anything I can do to help - just don't ask me to do any housework." What did she think I needed? Some assistance identifying constellations in the night sky? A little light trigonometry, perhaps?
The school gates were another hurdle. The first step was the surgery - six weeks of not driving after a hysterectomy so six weeks of lifts needed to get my younger daughter home from her primary school 3.5 miles away. My friends were fantastic and created a wall of women around me to help out. They also guarded my diagnosis although I didn't ask them to. I wrote to her class teacher, asked him to talk to all teachers and teaching assistants who had contact with my daughter. He didn't - but I think he couldn't.
Back in the playground post surgery I met with a barrage of "You look so well! You've lost weight!" and "I really like your new short haircut. It really suits you." With my hair about to fall out with the chemo, I had chopped off my auburn locks in preparation. Tricky to negotiate. "Um, yes, thanks. But actually I am catastrophically unwell. You'd never guess. I've got cancer." It may have been blunt but I couldn't find better words and of course it opened up that so familiar vein of conversation where people tell you all about their granny/uncle/mother/sister in law who had cancer and is doing fine 5/10/20 years later. I've learned to smile and say I'm really glad to hear that and thanks for sharing, and mean it now.
I've also met with incredible kindness from strangers. When my hair started falling out in earnest, a young and incredibly sensitive man at Toni and Guys shaved my remaining hair for me, giving me different looks before the final chop. He was so sweet and so caring. I left the salon with a silly wooly hat , despite the spring warmth, and headed to Fat Face for some retail therapy where the shop assistants complemented my odd headgear, prompting another admission that actually it was covering up a trauma. They gave me the confidence to take it off. Then over to the Body Shop where another young and sensitive woman gave me the most beautiful makeover. It was good enough to take pics and post on Facebook - my reasoning being that any pics of me that got posted from now on would raise questions so I might as well fess up. Scores of good wishes and love from my friends scattered around the world came pouring out.
Now I am wearing a headscarf and sometimes it feels like a badge of honour or declaration of being in the cancer sisterhood. The other day coming out of a garage I was approached by a very nice older woman who wanted to offer her best wishes and talk about her forthcoming reconstructive surgery following breast cancer two years ago. It was sweet and charming and felt supportive. The next day, I was getting out of a swimming pool, bald and bold, and getting very hostile vibes from a mother with her toddler until we stood side by side at the mirror, her with her make up and me with my headscarf. I felt her thaw guiltily beside me and the cogs fall into place in her mind before she turned, smiling, to start a conversation about the temperature of the pool.
And yet, for all my apparent confidence, I have to take a deep breath as I go out into the world and put on my brave face. I feel the urge to explain to complete strangers - shop assistants mostly - that I have cancer. I feel the need to make my vulnerability and limitations explicit. I think I will get over this in time. But it's actually one of the hardest things for me. Who not to tell.
