I walk into a small windowless room to the images of my cancer ridden breast on two different screens. I sit close to the small, pretty and petite lady. Weird. No two metes distance here. It actually feels very comforting. She has a pink A4 folder on a small desk – with one white sheet of A4 paper sitting on top of it. It’s only got half a page of printed typeface on it. Not much to say then? I think….. I suppose ‘Metastatic cancer’ doesn’t take up much space does it?
She looks deep into my eyes. She’s done this before. She’s kind and I like her immediately. Already I feel safe – a total contrast to my previous experiences. I let my breath out as she starts to talk to me.
Her choice of words were accurate, simple to comprehend and all draped in a professional compassion I’ve spent years honing in my career. I hope my clients have felt the power of presence I am now feeling.
“The CT scan showed no signs of cancer and the lymph node biopsy was negative”.
The dam breaks. I sob.
Although my right breast is totally out of control right now – the owner of said breast feels back in control. My clever little body has had my back and kept this angry bloody tumor in its cage. Ha. Did it. F*** you. I have done something very bloody brilliant and I have been doing it for months – but had no clue. All this time my machine has been working very hard – a civil war has been raging and I had no idea. I just thought I had a breast cyst.
I am now 12 days on from the first biopsy and 7 days on from diagnosis. Those time frames seem small, but believe me here when I say these days of anxiety and fear loaded waiting, catastrophizing, thinking, analyzing, and wailing are totally debilitating. If you are at that point now please know this is the worst part of this process for you. It takes you to the edges of yourself and your life that were once unknown territory, and just leaves you there. Destitute. Hanging. You can see as far as your eyes and fear will allow you but you can’t move an inch. It’s a sharp, stinging, sensation. It engulfs you and does not ask if you are OK or need any help. Time will not give a shit. It won’t exist. Yet it becomes an existential cloak. Where you life once was – space is now sitting there watching you suffer. Watching you wait.
Another faceless, anonymous human being who examined a little pot of cells knew I had cancer before me. I am just an NHS number to them. Another day in the office. They went about their day knowing something I didn’t know while all the while my days were not really separate anymore. ‘Three sleeps until results’…… it’s like Christmas but without the tinsel. It is really shit. It’s really unfair.
But in those few moments in my new best friends office – the wait comes to an abrupt halt. The feeling is un-describable actually.
Boobs are out again. I have another ultrasound scan and she gets a bigger measurement this time – 40mm. Ouch. The cyst is drained. The marker goes in (to track size during treatment), and I am told I am having another lymph node biopsy to ‘double check’ the cancer hasn’t snuck out. Local anesthetic is applied under my arm and I turn away as the needles are getting prepared. My husband is holding my hand and we are grinning. I can taste the relief coming off him. He is buoyant. I have not seen his eyes so clear since 26/05. He looks totally different as he looks directly into my cloudy puffy eyes. We have hope.
The lovely consultant is tiny and I cannot believe she has the force she does as the needle is injected and pushed into parts of my arm pit I did not know had feelings. I swear someone has swapped the ‘fine needle for a screwdriver just for LOL’s. I scream out. It is excruciating. I can feel the blunt screwdriver twisting and turning and dragging with it my DNA. F***. This is unbearable. She has done for now and has a break. I apologize for swearing. She needs to go back in for something else – I can’t remember what so I brace myself again and concentrate very hard on not letting those forceful little yelps out. My husband will tell you I am total fanny when it comes to pain. So this may not be your experience. But it is necessary and you have to suck it up. You will get used to this mentality!
I am so very very grateful right now that I only have breast cancer and it seemingly is only in the breast. I can handle this – the alternative world would have been devastating. I can’t put my mind there as it feels like a furnace. But I am engulfed with the sobering reality that many don’t get the news I get and won’t have this feeling. I know many get burnt by the furnace and I ache for them. I ache for those who are told they are terminally ill and will die and leave their families, their pets and their lives. You see these stories on the TV and read about them. I would cry at these before. Huge empathy and respect would be felt for those who were taken and those who were left behind. I would cry for myself and my family as the anxieties of me dying would be triggered. I’d grab my husband or my kids and cry, “I’m so glad that’s not happening to me”.
But when it does happen to you. My God. The empathy rockets and expands. It literally fills my entire body up. As I write this I feel it’s banks trying to burst open.
I want to reach out to all of you who are where I am or further up the cancer ladder – hold you – cry with you – and listen to you. You are not alone with this. We are together and we are a team.
In the last 7 days I’ve been overwhelmed with the love and support of my family and friends, work colleagues and neighbours.
It takes us hours to share the news of the day with those we love. People ring, drop in, bring flowers, face-time us. Alcohol flows freely in many of these households as collectively we do what we need to do to interpret the day and what this means for me, for us, going forward. I have a moment to recall, only a few days ago, when I told my ‘welsh best friend’ I had breast cancer. She was so shocked, we were both crying and she kept saying to me “I can’t lose you Heid (this is what she calls me), you’re so important to me”. We have been friends for over a decade but never touched such raw human emotions like this before. I am relieved for her, and all of you who have stood by me since 26/05, held me close and covered me in your care. I wish this was not happening to any of you. I know without this I would have not got to this point in one piece. I had little idea I was cared for this much. This compassion, love and kindness, genuine kindness has had a strong emotional effect on me.
It is getting late and we are starving so order pizza in. The sun is so hot right now and our mood is joyful. My son cracks jokes about me being bald and what I will look like. He shares pictures of people off the internet – “God I hope you don’t look like this!” We are all still sat outside until late. I don’t think any of us quite want these moments to end. Although we have reassurance now, the anxiety and distress we have experienced recently linger in the background. We have spent so many hours in this space during lock-down, enjoying the unprecedented warm weather as well as making the most of these unprecedented times together as a family. I have seen my children properly for the first time in years – and can see their unique, funny personalities developing. I have found things out about them I did not know! (I shall save your blushes my Son).
We found new ways to entertain ourselves, bingo, treasure hunts, Tik Toks, running, themed ‘pub crawls’ around the house, quizzes, games….., like most of the nation. We have drank far too much wine, and enjoyed far too much unhealthy food, but I am so very grateful of this time and will look back on it with affection. Although I got cancer instead of COVID, I desperately do not want this time to be remembered that way.