Part 1 - Diagnosis

 

PART 1

 

I

'It is a solid lump', he said.

I’m not sure what it was about the way he said it. The quiet tone of his voice. The subtle emphasis on ‘solid’.  I lay there, looking at the ceiling. Directly above me was an air conditioning unit and I was wondering whether behind the apparent clean surface there was a clump of accumulated dust which would fall on me at any moment.

I knew then that this was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life. This room. This view. And those 5 words. This is the moment my life changed, on a hospital bed, looking at an air-conditioning unit, worried about dust falling on my face.

II

Two months ago I felt the lump in my left breast. But, while women are constantly told to check themselves we’re also told that breasts do have lumps that come and go. It’s normal. The day before I turned 40 I received a letter from the NHS telling me that I was at a ripe old age, they were offering a free MOT. I had the lump then. I was going to ask the nurse about it. But I didn’t.

I waited. It didn’t go. Two months on it was still there. I asked my husband to feel it. This would be a good test. Usually he couldn’t see or feel many of the peculiarities I happened to have across on my body. But he could feel it. Between him and his brother – who also lived with us – they pushed me to make a GP appointment. I went, still moderately convinced that he would tell me to get out of his consulting room and stop wasting his time. He didn’t. Instead he examined me. The lump moved about. This, he concluded meant it could be a cyst because cancer – he informed me – normally latches on to body tissue and therefore tends to be more firmly fixed. This lump was too mobile. However, it is also extremely probable that he didn't want to worry me unduly. He told me that, either way, I had to be referred.   I received a phone call the next day and shortly after that my husband and I found ourselves in the One Stop Breast Clinic.

I had never had a mammogram before. My mother, however, had regaled me with horror stories. Her breasts are of significant proportions. I did not inherit those assets. At all. So she needed several x-rays per breast and said that, once squashed, her nipple was somewhere near Godalming. She also said the squashing was painful. By way of providing no further reassurance she then informed me that a flat chested friend of hers said her mammograms were even worse. So determined were they to x-ray something, the medical staff pulled skin from around her back before clamping it down before it escaped to its rightful place. So it was with some trepidation that I approached the mammogram room.

An extremely kind medic already knew I hadn’t had one before, so walked me over to the machine and explained it before getting the process underway. The squashing part was completely unremarkable. Not a sensation I would necessarily choose to adopt on a permanent basis but also nothing that caused a wince of pain. And my left breast received less squashing in honour and recognition of its lump. The worst part of it was being placed at an unnatural angle, breast on the cold metal plate, arm draped round the machine to allow an armpit scan and then, having been so awkwardly placed, instructed to stay still. Admittedly having my breast clamped gently into place did assist.

Back in the waiting room we did what the room instructed – and waited. The next test was an ultrasound. Where the radiographer determined it was a sold lump. This isn’t what was meant to happen. He was meant to see a fluid filled lump and get out a large needle. He did indeed get out a needle, but do to a biopsy. So my breast was anaesthetised and two samples removed with the aid of a loud clicking needle. The attendant nurse had an amusing time trying the stop me bleeding, wiping up the blood that had trickled down my side and to my back. Then she pressed on my breast for a few minutes before applying a dressing. I was instructed to do no pushing, no pulling, no straining, no washing up, no cooking, no housework. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all. I liked her. Having dressed, I looked over at the ultrasound man to thank him. He sat in the corner, motionless, looking at me. Silent. And I knew. From the look in his eyes.

I came out and spoke to Steve. It’s a solid lump, I told him. Suddenly this was all going differently to what I had expected.

We waited to see the consultant. She examined me – the fourth person in 90 minutes to touch my breasts. It was a thorough check, including armpits, back and shoulder. ‘Whatever it is’, she said ‘ we can deal with it’. This was the only reassuring thing she said. She told us it was ‘suspicious’ and that she couldn’t say much more until the biopsy results were back. There was no crumb of comfort to cling to, no suggestion that it looked benign but they needed to rule out all possibilities. We all knew what they had seen.

Outside in the hospital car park the situation and discomfort of the biopsy hit me, and I burst into tears in Steve’s arms.

After an obligatory visit to the pub we went home, and I phoned my mother. ‘I have a suspicious lump’, I told her. It was the first time I had said it out loud. And the tears came again. I emailed my father and when we spoke later that day I was composed.

Now all that we could do was wait. I didn’t sleep that night. I wasn’t aware of being worried. It was more to do with the pain in my left breast which was tender, swollen and bruised.

III

The following day at work felt surreal. Nothing had changed, yet everything was different. I felt sick. Cold. Disbelieving of it all. My father was in town so we agreed to meet for a coffee. It was nice to see him and I was determined not to cry. It must have been hard for him – a parent doesn’t expect their child to become ill.

With the power of google I started researching breast cancer. This was silly. The website tried to be reassuring, saying that most lumps were completely harmless. It also said that the visual image on x-rays and ultrasounds could usually discount anything harmless as benign and cancerous lumps looked quite different. In my mind all I could see was the ultrasound man, sitting in the corner, looking at me.

My boss let me go home early. I was due to meet Steve in London to go to a rugby match, but didn’t want to linger in town until later, so took a train most of the way home – then swapped onto the train he was on to come all the way back again. It was a rainy evening and our seats at the Stoop were about 3 inches short of being fully under cover. I watched the rain, felt my knees getting damp and could not have been happier. This was real. This was life. I didn’t even mind that Quins lost (which only happened because Nick Evans had forgotten how to kick – otherwise it would have been a comfortable win). It just didn’t seem to matter so much.

The following day was cold. The Goodwood Revival usually starts cold and warms up. Not this year. But I didn’t mind. The biting chill made me feel alive. Everything was beautiful.

I started to have a need to put photos up. Me, Steve, family. Things we’d done. It was difficult to look at some of them. To see me before. It made no sense. Even now I get a lump in my throat and tightening in my chest when I look at pictures from before. I printed masses. It was important to have them around, to remind us of our life.

My husband and his brother seemed to be struggling a little with the situation thus far. They assured me they were ok but I wondered if they were putting on a show of strength for me. So, over the weekend, we went for a well deserved session at the pub . I started telling a few friends what was going on. They were horrified. Alarmed. With the addition of alcohol my own fears grew. Fear of the unknown, fear of waiting. Just the empty uncertainty. This limbo in which no plans can be made or changed and nothing can be taken for granted. The tears rose too.

Fully inebriated, we foraged for curry and home and in the car I felt unwell. As the curry aroma wafted towards me I longed for our arrival home. As soon as we got there, I fought my way out of the car and was immediately sick on the pavement outside the house.

The results were due back the following Thursday, but we were due to fly to Istanbul that day, so it had been agreed that I would call on the Tuesday to see if the results were available beforehand. The seconds ticked by until the time I was due to call. The receptionist checked the system. Results were still pending. My heart sank a little at the prospect of another wait. ‘I’ll phone the lab and chase them up’ she said. I thanked her for her kindness and help. Two hours later I still hadn’t heard back. This might be good news, I thought. If the results wouldn’t be ready today surely the lab would have said so immediately. Then the phone rang, the noise crashing into the silence around me. ‘I’m sorry’, she said, ‘the results aren’t going to be ready in time. You go and have a really good holiday and we’ll deal with this when you get back’. It was hard to know if she was instructing me to get a good rest in, as things were going to be topsy turvy on my return, or if she was just being friendly.

We would have to wait another week and a half.  Steve had suggested changing our flight times but I refused. If it was so serious that the delay was going to be a problem, I would want to have the holiday. If it wasn’t serious, then I would want to have had the holiday. So either way, there was nothing to be gained by changing our current plans.

During the afternoon, after that phone call, my google research continued. I determined that this couldn’t be nasty. It was most likely a fibroadenoid as this had the mobile ‘breast mouse’ characteristics of my lump. And I felt well, incredibly well. I was young (well, only just 40), fit and healthy. It made no sense. I was slightly embarrassed at having worried our friends and the slight back tracking that would be needed. But these things happen.

My breast still felt bruised. It was little wonder really. My lump was between my nipple and where my cleavage would be if I had breasts large enough to create one. The ultrasound man had gone in from my armpit to do the biopsy, thereby travelling almost the full width of my breast. Admittedly, that isn’t actually very far. But it explained the swelling and yellow bruising.

I was also possibly a bit sore as I had been going to the gym a lot in the week after the biopsy. When I told Steve I’d done a chest day he told me I was an idiot.

By the time of the results appointment, after our return from Istanbul, the only indication left was that I had a blue bruise around my nipple. Step child the younger had helpfully suggested that I draw eyes on it and call it a smurf. Always an upside.

I was at work on the morning of results day. We had a Macmillan coffee morning. A larger employee, who was sitting dangerously near to the cakes, commented that he like being a big chap. 'What was the point of being healthy when one day you could be lying on a hospital bed dying of nothing'. I smiled. My healthy ways hadn’t necessarily done me any favours. But it was all going to be ok.

I had butterflies as we approached the hospital. I have no idea why. We were called through. The results were conflicting, we were told. The x-ray showed cancer. The biopsy showed pre-cancer. Either way, it would be a surgical outcome. But she needed to ascertain whether there was a small cancer inside the lump so that they knew what they were dealing with. So I was booked in for another biopsy the following day. To dig deeper. As she spoke I was aware I was saying ok a lot. But it wasn’t ok.

I suspected that they had known this when I called before our holiday. Another call to the parents. My father wondered why, given there was no family history. ‘Well, someone has to be the first’, I told him. He suggested that I let my elder brother know as he would pray for me (being a catholic priest he has a hotline to the powers that be). It was probably time to tell the family. So I emailed both brothers while Steve updated his family. Bro the elder did indeed promise much assistance from upstairs. It was hard for bro the younger, being so far away (Melbourne, Australia). And I felt terrible telling him just before his first child was due. Given that I was creating family history I hoped he didn’t have a daughter.

I later found out from my mother there was distant family history. Apparently her great grandmother had had it back in the day when they more or less sawed off the affected breast, gave you a beanbag and told you to get on with it. It didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for life. Allegedly, during the war, she would navigate the barbed wire on the beach, with one remaining breast swinging pendulously, muttering that Hitler wasn’t going to disrupt her daily swim.

Steve was allowed in to watch the second biopsy. This time it was a different man. The bed was positioned differently. I wasn’t directly under the air conditioning unit, and I could see the screen. I saw my lump for the first time. A large, black, smudge edged stain on the screen. He stuck the line into me through which the biopsy needle would go. I looked at the screen again, which was a mistake. He took the samples from deep inside the lump. I could feel the pinch as the needle grabbed its cargo. The second sample was bigger than the first, according to Steve, as he saw a small bit of flesh hanging off the needle when it was pulled out.

I asked him what it was like to see bits of my inside being brought out. I was warned that there was a small risk the second biopsy would also be inconclusive. At this rate they were going to remove the lump via biopsy. Keyhole surgery in the extreme.

Again, no pushing, no pulling, no straining etc. I thanked him. Different man. Same look in his eyes.

The line had gone in near my nipple. This wasn’t going to help the blue nipple bruising. But I didn’t get the same amount of tenderness or swelling this time.

Taking the train home the day before new results day was a moment of reflection. This is the last day, I thought. The last day when I wasn't a definite, confirmed cancer patient, the last day of this part of my life.

IV

The hospital was becoming too familiar. When we were called in the doctor told us the second biopsy had confirmed cancer. I felt nothing. I suppose in a way I had known from the beginning that this was coming. I wasn’t numb. Not shocked. Not upset. It had the same impact on me as if you had said it was clouding over outside. If anything, it was almost a relief, for the uncertainty to end. All I could think was what a strange, sad job for the doctors. Telling a waiting room full of women that they had breast cancer.

Because of the size of tumour (in relation to my breast) I would need a full mastectomy. Followed by chemotherapy. Followed by radiotherapy. Christ! She started talking about reconstruction options. I had already decided I didn’t want that. I wasn’t defined by my left breast. As it was small I wasn’t even sure I would miss it that much. Apparently that made treatment options easier – you can’t radiotherapy a reconstructed breast.

We were then sent off to the breast nurse who showed us into a comfortable room with sofas. And a box of tissues.

She explained that the chemo I was scheduled for would make me lose my hair, but that Macmillan would make me a wig beforehand. The wig would be designed to a style and colour of my choosing. Steve and Jon wanted the right to pick the style and that I had to accept their decision – which at the time veered towards blonde plaits, although step child the younger proposed Princess Leia.

The nurse talked in a soft, squeaky voice about all the treatments suggested, then handed us a lot of reading material. One leaflet had a useful diagram depicting a mastectomy. One drawing was of a woman with two boobs. The other was a woman with one boob and a straight line where the other would have been. Enormously helpful. I’d worked that much out for myself. It also talked about depression and that some people can struggle as they face this life threatening illness. Life threatening! I’d been alright until I read that. Now I was feeling a bit depressed.

The boys and I agreed to be honest with feelings at every moment through this. There would be some days when one was ok and one wasn’t. But we were in it together. The 3 musketeers.

Naturally, as a health conscious fitness freak an immediate thought that occurred to me was the potential weight loss. After all, leg amputees lose about a stone. Admittedly a leg is a damned sight bigger than a breast – but the principle remains. I consulted Steve on the matter. ‘About an ounce’, was his considered opinion. ‘Maybe less’.

Then we had to deal with the task of telling everyone. I emailed work. One of the girls was speechless. Then quickly found her voice. I phoned my mother – who cried and wasn’t sure why. ‘You know what causes breast cancer’ she asked, more statement than question. ‘No’, I replied. ‘Men’ she said, ‘pummelling your breasts’. I paused before speaking, slightly bemused. ‘That’s why it’s always the left side, because men are right handed’ she finished. I wondered whether I should mention that my husband was left handed. And did this mean lesbians were immune as the cause was very much associated with male manhandling. I tentatively suggested that this may be bollocks.

The question of cause did however remain. The doctor had informed me that it was not a genetic version. Therefore I was left to wonder whether my decision not to have children and consequent years on the pill had contributed, or my alcohol intake. Or even the deodorant I used.

I emailed my father and brothers. It was tough to receive their responses. The news clearly affected everyone deeply and I sensed their feeling of sympathy, combined with utter helplessness – being forced to watch someone they love go through all that lay ahead.

My father emailed ‘I am so sorry, so sad for you. I had hoped against hope that the early tests would be wrong. Please let me know if there is anything I can do in any way.’

Bro the younger came back with ‘Woah. Thom. I have no idea what to say really. I'm very sorry, it's very sad, I'm very sad. I'm sure you're very sad. Um. All our love to you and Steve, I'm sure you'll fight through it okay, you're a tough 'un. I will rock the bald look’.

And bro the elder ‘Well that is a very horrible blow. I'm very sorry to hear that. Gosh what a shock. I will certainly pray for you and say Mass for you to have fortitude and strength over the coming weeks and months. Do keep us updated with news. God bless’.

As it’s the 21^st century I then posted the news on Facebook. Every response received indicated I was a tough bint. I decided to take this as a compliment. Examples include:

‘you’re tougher than that. I know you will find a way to glam your look’ (the imminent baldness)

‘hope it all goes well. No part of it can be pleasant but I know you’re a strong girl’

‘ chin up..you’re a tough old boot so dig your heels in and knuckle down’.

In a way the hardest part was an October diagnosis. Breast cancer awareness month. It was everywhere. Posters. Papers. Chuggers. I was aware. My family were aware. My friends were aware. It was even in cartoons in the Metro, a play on words about a mastectomy being the removal of a mast from a boat. You didn’t have to be there. It wasn’t funny then either. The Evening Standard magazine had a page advertising items you could buy where an amount of the purchase price would be donated to breast cancer research. One of the items was pink hair straighteners. Not many cancer patients need those – it was like selling bottles of vodka to raise funds for alcoholics anonymous.

As work had had a Macmillan coffee morning – the very same people who would be making my wig – I thanked my CEO and commented that, as work had effectively bought it for me, for a small fee I should get it made in company colours, perhaps with the logo on the back. A bit of low cost branding.

That evening I started chatting to a man who shared my daily commute home. In 1999 he had had testicular cancer. He’d been through all this. We spoke candidly. Once upon a time commuters saw each other every day without acknowledgement, other than perhaps an occasional polite nod to indicate ‘hello’. On rare occasions there may be a discussion about the weather or a witty aside if the train was late or otherwise malfunctioning. But now I knew about his testicles and he knew about my breast. It wasn’t right. It felt like I had let down my country by infringing something so quintesessentially English.

I had been told that surgery would most likely be in 3 – 4 weeks. This gave me time to plan my left breast leaving party. When I saw the DJ in the pub over the weekend I asked if he could do the music. He agreed and suggested some songs, such as ‘so long, farewell, aufwiedersen, goodbye’.

We had a day out arranged for my mother’s 70^th. This was the first time I had seen her or bro the elder since the news broke. She and I travelled up together on the train where she told me a story about a man who had had prostate cancer. Apparently the treatment involved radioactive pellets being inserted into him – which had downsides such as not letting people sit on your lap. Also you’re not allowed to be cremated as you’ll go off like a nuclear bomb. I was unsure what would happen if the man accidentally was burned to death. Anyway, after his eventual death the undertaker refused to bury him unless the widow bought an expensive lead lined coffin. Or take his corpse to hospital for the pellets to be surgically removed. I assured my mother that radioactive pellets were not going to be put into me.

The day out was marvellous. After a hearty breakfast in Soho we popped into a nearby gallery that bro the younger had suggested. Only we went into the wrong door and ended up in what appeared to a porn film studio. Realising our error, we hastily retreated and it must have been a vaguely amusing sight for any passer by to see a young woman, a 70 year old and a Roman Catholic priest emerge from this den of iniquity.

We visited the Shard and marvelled at the view. The London skyline seemed strangely flat from such a height. The Olympic park appeared nearer than expected and the arches of Wembley looked as difficult to get to as they actually were. My mother liked watching the trains come and go from London Bridge station beneath us, like the ultimate train set. This event was followed by a gargantuan Tea at the Ritz, here sandwiches and cakes were brought continuously until you finally admitted defeat. Bro the elder started talking about the ‘wafer thin’ sketch. We didn’t want to think about it. The plate of scones, accompanied by jam and clotted cream, helped to kill us off. Bro mentioned that a parishioner had brought round some scones and trimming to him earlier, and that as soon he got home it was all going in the bin as he couldn’t now face the sight of it. My mother suggested giving it to the homeless but bro thought it cruel to make a homeless person feel as we did now.

To finish off the day we went to the Ice Bar for a champagne cocktail in sub zero temperatures (the instructions outside included helpful information like ‘don’t lick the ice’ and ‘don’t remove your undergarments’) before we parted ways.

For most of the day no one had even thought about my cancer. But before leaving my brother hugged me so firmly and for so long that I recognised his otherwise silent concern.

Due to a body on the line the train home was delayed. Expecting the inevitable sardine tin and standing room only situation my mother was ready to pull her ‘I’m 70 card’ while I was all prepared with ‘I have breast cancer’. There was no need – we got seats.

On the way home I let her feel the lump. ‘Bloody hell’ she said, a look of shock on her face.

V

The inside of my elbow was still sore and bruised from the blood test I had had the day before my pre-op assessment – during which I was told I needed another blood test. So then both arms were sore. ‘You’re going to have your tit cut off and you’re moaning about a bruise on your arm’ Steve observed, trying to apply some perspective.

At one of the blood tests the nurse was harping on about her morning, traffic on the Eastern road, 48 year old baby son falling asleep on the train last night and needing a lift home at 1am followed by a lift back to his car at the station this morning, and so on. Then she looked at my blood test form and the Breast Ca written in the diagnosis box. ‘Of course’, she chirruped, ‘in the great scheme of things none of that seems very important’. I laughed to myself.

At the assessment I was asked an extensive series of questions about every illness I had ever had, and many that I haven’t suffered from at all. It included a question about who I lived with. ‘Him’, I said, pointing to Steve. ‘And brother in law’. The nurse smiled, and noted with comfort that the boys would look after me. Then she turned to Steve and asked ‘Does she snore?’. ‘No’, he said. ‘Well, actually, a little’. I scowled at him. ‘Not much’, he corrected. I continued to glare. ‘It isn’t loud’. He stopped.

The main concern really was that I fart like a trooper. That was also the primary worry about being under anaesthetic. I had asked an anaesthetist friend of ours if anyone let one go while under. ‘Nope’, he said. ‘What, never?’ I queried. ‘Never’ he confirmed. If true, this was indeed a worry as I would surely defy these statistics.

We discussed the process with the nurse in more detail. She explained that my lymph nodes would be tested during surgery and may be removed. This would mean no injury should befall my left arm for the rest of my life – not even having blood pressure taken – as my body would be unable to remove any fluid that would usually be sent there to aid the trauma. Then she showed us the prosthetics. The softie – the one I would initially be sent home with was basically cushion stuffing inside some cotton. The permanent one I would subsequently be fitted with was incredible. It felt amazing. It even had a nipple. She told us it was made of gel, which instantly made me wonder if I had to take it off and put it in a clear bag to go through airport security. I was also curious about getting a new one as I got older – my remaining breast would no doubt shrivel and sag with age while the prosthetic would remain pert. Perhaps I could just leave it out in front of the fire to melt it a bit.

Having omitted to ask what type of cancer I had when at the initial diagnosis meeting, I asked now. Stage 3 invasive ductal carcinoma. The most common type of breast cancer, apparently.

At work a girl, whose mother had had – and not ultimately survived – breast cancer asked what I would do in terms of swimming costumes. It hadn’t occurred to me to use a prosthetic in that situation. The visual appearance of having one breast was not something that particularly bothered me. But none the less she sent me a link to a website where you could get waterproof and chlorine proof ones. I could just imagine swimming in the pool and accidentally dropping it – needing then to dive down and retrieve my breast from the bottom (assuming of course that I noticed it lying at the bottom before anyone else did). Her mother had frequently left her prosthetic on the kitchen table. As a young girl her friends would pop round, pick it up and innocently ask ‘what’s this, Mrs H?’.

It still didn’t feel real, or that I was ill. This still concerned the boys who were worried about when the impact would hit me. Weirdly, it sometimes felt as though random strangers were looking at me differently, as though they could see my cancer as clearly as if the diagnosis was tattooed on my forehead. But the prospect of what lay ahead was becoming exciting. A new, (hopefully) once in a lifetime experience. A character test. The concept of being a one tit wonder held no dread for me at all. Steve tried to temper my enthusiasm. ‘You know what you’re like when you’re a teeny bit ill’ he gently put forward. ‘This will be worse’. Jon threatened to move out into his caravan for the duration. I tried to explain that I knew when I woke from the surgery I would think ‘ooo, that smarts a bit’. I knew I would sleep badly while the drains were in, which in turn would make me grumpy. But none of that had happened yet. So I wasn’t going to let it bother me now. For the record, I’m not a complete nightmare. But I am an active do-er. I don’t like not being able to go about my life as usual. That does annoy me. But I had every confidence in my ability to remain largely unaffected. Even once the chemo started.

My approach towards the chemo was simple. I have for many years had a motto that you can’t control what happens to you but you can control how you react. I didn’t choose cancer. I didn’t choose imminent hair loss. I couldn’t change those things. But I could take control of the situation. I fully intended to do a charity head shave prior to treatment. If I have to lose my hair, so be it. But I lose it when I say so and how I say so. It’s my decision and not the drug’s. I could cut off a ponytail to keep. This served a dual purpose. Naturally it would be a reminder of the hair I used to have.  But also Steve liked me to drape my hair across his wedding vegetables. I’m not sure if it was the feeling he liked, or the proximity of my face to his nether regions. But by having the ponytail, this would still be possible. Although, as a friend pointed out to me, I could give him the hair and leave him to get on with it while I went off and did other things.

I also intended to keep working (from home) once the chemo started. The doctor had looked at me quizzically when I said this and suggested that it was certainly a very ‘noble’ idea. Even the testicle cancer commuter tried to warn me that I would more or less be asleep for 5 months. Still I refused to believe it. They didn’t know me, or my determination not to give in. What they were also forgetting was that I was a woman. I tried to reconcile the lengthy time away as being like a maternity leave, only when the growth was taken out of me it wouldn’t be handed back with the instruction to keep it alive, or else. So really, it was better.

My positive approach was having an impact at work where there was a suggestion to hold a sweep stake regarding the colour and curliness that my hair would be when it grew back.

At the end of the week I received a letter with my surgery date. In 12 days time. Plans could start to be made.

That night I had a bad dream in which I arrived at hospital alone and early. I wandered around to kill time, and then got lost in the maze of floors, corridors and lift areas. The panic increased further as I realised I didn’t have any overnight things with me, and was now running so late that I had probably missed my surgery slot. I woke with a start.

Now that the surgery was scheduled we could take a more educated guess at the dates for the next stage. We have been told the chemo would start 4-6 weeks after surgery, so that I was recovered from the operation before they made me ill. If 6 weeks, the second cycle would be due on Christmas day. On the basis that the hospital was not that mean, we decided that the therapy would start around the 4 to 5 week mark.

My parents were both concerned about the length of time before surgery happened. I wasn’t. It conveniently fell on the day my annual season ticket expired and when we had no plans for the week. It seemed strange for me to be re-assuring them.

I let my personal trainer know the date, and tried to squeeze in the sessions I had paid for, before going away for a few months. He was concerned, and upset. I will take the view it was over me but it was possibly due to the loss of income and imminent bankruptcy he would face without my custom.

When we went to rugby that weekend a friend mentioned that he was aware of my situation and asked if he would still be able to take the piss out of me. ‘Of course you can’ I replied. ‘Good’ he said, ‘I just wanted to check you weren’t going to get all sensitive about it’. I reckoned I would be alright, but had warned the boys that if, when carving the Christmas turkey, they asked me in a suggestive manner if I wanted breast, then I reserved the right not to be amused.

It was our turn to host Christmas that year. My mother in law offered to do it, but I refused. The boys could manage to cook Christmas lunch and if I was struggling, I would simply stay in bed until guests arrived. If it was all a disaster, I could only apologise.

7 more sleeps until M day. The countdown was now down to the last of each day with both breasts.

Steve had started sleeping badly due to work pressures on his mind. In the morning he told me he felt guilty for worrying about work, aware that there were bigger things going on that ought to be bothering him instead.

I saw an article in the paper which claimed that research had shown cauliflower, broccoli and cabbage helped protect against the effects of radiation and had shown benefits in cancer patients. It was worth knowing and trying when the moment arrived. A friend had said that her mother swore by Mackeson’s. Again, no harm trying – possibly having a few if one didn’t appear to have much effect. When I mentioned this at work there was a suggestion that they would send regular crates round to me.

In bed that night Steve started saying ‘Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy cabbage’. I laughed and said that it was ‘hallowed be thy name, give us this day our daily cabbage’. The original version may have referred to bread. But he was not convinced and kept murmuring ‘hallowed be thy cabbage’. We lay there, cuddled up, giggling in the dark.

Dudley, my long serving cat, had been ill for some time. We had taken him to the vet on the morning of my first appointment at the one stop breast clinic (not one stop as it turned out given how frequently I had now attended). He had a heart condition and the vet wanted to do a blood test to check the effectiveness of the drugs he was now on, and he needed his annual booster. During the examination the vet’s face fell and he said there was no point doing the blood test or jabs. He had found what seemed to be an aggressive tumour in Dudley’s abdomen. So we knew that his days were numbered. We had also decided that it would be sensible to call it a day and have him put down before I started chemotherapy – litter trays and reduced immune systems probably not being an ideal pairing. However, he had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. We decided to try and get an appointment for the following evening for him to be put to sleep. When we woke the next day we changed our minds. He needed an appointment first thing. I went to work, not wanting to watch him go to sleep forever. Before setting off for the vet Steve gently cuddled him. As he put him into the basket there was a small groan, and he quietly passed away. It was the nicest way for him to go and there was much comfort in that. This was turning into a month that would be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

Dudley was in the conservatory when I got home, wrapped in a blanket. I stroked him. He was cool, rigid, but still soft. Disturbingly his eyes were still open and reluctant to be closed.

The following morning when I went to work, chuggers in bright pink filled Waterloo, collecting for breast cancer. They lined Jubilee Bridge. I hadn’t expected to find it so touch to see them. But it was like a punch in the chest, so soon after Dudley.  That was a tough day. When I got home that afternoon I dug a hole in the flower bed and buried him. It was an emotional moment and my general good mood and positivity was getting a knock that was hard to shake off. That evening we went to a Trafalgar Night party on HMS Warrior. It was a good evening, but I could barely keep a lid on my emotions, getting moist eyed at embarrassingly regular intervals.

Needing overnight stuff for hospital and not having anything, I wanted to pick up some cheap pyjamas over the weekend. Steve offered to get them but he could not be entrusted with this task based on prior experience. The incident referred to occurred around 7 years previously. I was admitted into hospital late at night via A&E. Steve was sent home to collect overnight things for me. Knowing I needed nightwear – and didn’t have any – he popped into the 24 hour Asda. When he returned he told me sheepishly ‘this is all they had’ before handing me a pink, glittery, Winnie the Pooh nightshirt. All they had! I doubted this. During my stay I was visited by Dr George who was one of the most attractive doctors I had ever seen – and there I was. In a pink, glittery, Winnie the Pooh nightshirt. So this time I would choose.

I hadn’t thought there would be time to fit in a left breast leaving party, but ended up organising one by accident. It was the DJ’s fault. He responded to one of my facebook posts saying he was no good with words but if there was anything else he could do … I suggested he could knock out a few tunes. ‘When?’ he asked. ‘Sunday night’ I suggested. That was fine with him provided it was ok with the pub. So I checked with the Goldie if it would be a massive problem. It wouldn’t.

Crikey. Party arranged. Now just the small matter of rallying some guests. It was a fabulous evening. Dancing, singing, surrounded by friends. Far too much alcohol and too late a night than was really appropriate for a school night – but you don’t have a mastectomy every day. One of our friends amusingly commented to Steve that from now on I would be a right tit.

Monday was a blur and I did not relish my lunch time final personal training session. At the end my instructor hugged me, saying I was an inspiration.

On my last day in the office we went out for a team lunch. I told the girls at work about my plans to raise money from the head shave event and they asked what charity it would be for. One suggested cats and I replied that I had thought something more related to cancer. So I came up with the Cancerous Cats at Home appeal, which she found hilarious. They also liked the idea of finding a way to feed wine through the fixed line that would be put into me when the chemo started.

Only one more sleep to go, the quiet final moments before I become a one breasted cyclops. There was an amazing electric storm that evening, bright lightning which went on for ages, lightning that lit the sky. The thunder rumbled. And then the rain came.

V

The moment has arrived. By the end of the day my severed breast will be in the medical equivalent of a Tupperware box.

 

Now is where the story really begins.