I was only a few weeks into my fabulous 40s when I found a lump. I was a little concerned, but largely reassured that it was probably a harmless fibroid.
I travelled solo to the CUH’s regional cancer unit to get checked out on a chilly January morning in 2011. My husband was minding our two children, then aged 6 and 2, and I didn’t feel the need to ask anyone else to accompany me.
It was a grim day to put it mildly. The word cancer was never uttered but I knew from the expressions on their faces after my initial examination that it was not good news. I recall the term ‘suspicious’ being used. I sat with other women in the waiting room. They were discharged, one by one, relief etched on their faces as they went on their merry way. I wanted to run after them but instead sat there numbly in preparation for a biopsy.
Several hours later I left the hospital in a daze - bruised, battered and bewildered. They would carry out tests on the sample taken, and I was to return a week later for a diagnosis. Bring someone with you next time, they advised gently. I had a bit of a meltdown trying to find the right car park and remember a kind security guard helping me out.
The week went by in a bit of a blur. I already knew I had cancer, even though nobody had actually confirmed it, so when I was given the official diagnosis there was no shock factor. My husband looked crestfallen but I just sat there saying ‘ok’. I was very calm even when they said the tumour was a chunky 7cm. The words chemotherapy, mastectomy, hormone therapy and radiotherapy were bandied about but there were no decisions to make that day.
Telling people was the hardest. I could cope with my own reactions but not the ones of those nearest and dearest to me. I was emotional but also practical. Dying never crossed my mind. It was a case of ‘how do we deal with this?’ from the offset.
I was put on medication - Tamoxifen - and I’m still on it four years on. There were no major side-effects, I took my daily tablet and got on with things.
A few months later, I was re-examined and the news wasn’t quite what we’d hoped for. The tumour had shrunk to about 5cm but they were hoping for greater shrinkage. I had a choice to make - have a mastectomy followed by chemotherapy, or chemo first and then surgery. Neither choice appealed much that day. I opted to start chemo with a view to further shrinking the tumour which would mean a chance of less invasive surgery further down the line.
As I travelled to my first chemo appointment my husband asked how I was feeling and I replied: ‘Bring it on’. I knew that chemo would be unpleasant but it would also kick the tumour’s ass and so had to be done. The first two treatments were the worst. My hair fell out, I felt nauseous, bloated and tired, and I didn’t feel like I was kicking anyone’s ass.
But things improved. The final four of the eight treatments were more do-able. I didn’t feel as tired, or achy or sick. I managed to work for two weeks out of three. I liked the routine, the normality of work. Also the bills still need to be paid and sick pay doesn’t go on indefinitely.
As the chemo ended, the surgeries began. Initially, there were two lumpectomies - after which the doctors hoped for clear margins - and then a mastectomy when this didn’t happen. The cancer was gone on 9 January, 2012, a year and a day after I’d first found the lump.
The journey doesn’t end there though. I had to undergo five weeks of daily radiotherapy, which I found tough. Then I had to wait over a year for reconstructive surgery which I found even tougher. In the meantime, I returned to work with my newly grown crop of curls (which I hated) and a prosthetic boob (which I detested even more).
I found this time the most difficult. People assume that because the cancer is gone, because you are ‘cured’, that you should be singing from the rooftops. But, for me, this was when it all hit home. There were some dark moments, and plenty of tears.
But things picked up. Writing was cathartic, and greatly aided my recovery. I started penning pieces about medical cards and the side-effects of Tamoxifen, both of which were issues in the media at the time. I also wrote a one-act play as part of a competition. Nothing came of it, but I’m still proud I did it. I started a blog and began to think about writing a book. That’s still in the planning stages, but, hey, you never know.
I’ve met some fantastic people as well, many of whom have fought much tougher battles than me and continue to do so. It keeps you humble. I try to raise awareness and funds, particularly after a much-loved aunt of mine succumbed to the dreaded disease only months after I received the all-clear. Every cent raised, every mini marathon and coffee morning, is a tribute to her.
I am almost four years cancer-free, chugging along to the important five-year milestone. It’s never fully behind you but you try not to let it define you either. There will always be an element of fear, the nagging ‘what if it comes back’ is never too far away, but it’s important not to let it take over. You could drive yourself mad. Baby steps and all that.
People have told me that I’m brave or that I’m amazing. I’m not. You find the strength to fight cancer not because you’re brave or amazing, but because you have no other choice. It’s as simple and stark as that. And not everyone wins the battle, no matter how hard they fight, so I know that I am one of the lucky ones.
