I discovered the lump in my left breast on a glorious weekend in May. I was visiting Scotland with my husband and my sister, and once I got the initial panic under control, I knew that no way was I going to ruin our much-needed break, so I just got on with the weekend. The sun was shining. We had places to go, vistas to view. Reality could wait till Monday.
The lump, I managed to convince myself, was an infection of some sort. I’d checked my breasts religiously, and I knew it hadn’t been there a month ago! Of course, it wasn’t, and it had been.
I think that the easiest way I can write about this is by telling you the sorts of questions that have arisen since my diagnosis, and my responses.
One thing I must get clear from the start, however. This is my experience. I can only tell you how it’s been for me. No two cases are alike. On that understanding, the first question a lot of people ask is:
What was it like, being told you had cancer? A bit scary, I have to admit, until I caught the words ‘non-aggressive’. ‘Oh, so maybe I’m not going to die?’ Many years ago I got so ill (with something else) that I very nearly did die, and that experience certainly helped me get the new threat into perspective. That time I’d sacrificed my colon, and somehow, a lump in my breast didn’t seem so, well, serious.
Then I agreed to take part in a Cancer Research Trial with MRI scan (an MRI is not a routine NHS diagnostic procedure at present, but it should be), and a second lump was discovered in my other breast! Hmmm. Time to get scared? Well, no, not really. . .
Time to pray! As a Christian I might never pass a prayer exam! There are Christians who can start the day with two hours of prayer, but I don’t try to talk to my husband for that long, so why should I try to give God such an ear-bashing? Two minutes seems to be my limit, but those two minutes happen frequently throughout the day. The important thing is that I keep in touch, and I’m very keen to let the Almighty know when I need help.
This time the conversation went like this: ‘God. You know how tired I’ve been for the last, oh, I don’t know, year or so?1 Well, I haven’t the energy left to worry about this ‘double whammy’ in my life, so I’m going to trust you with this one – and this time I promise not to worry!’
There were no flashing lights, no ‘voice from on high’, just a growing, deep feeling of peace, which has not left me since that Friday in May. There were also the words of Julian of Norwich (a 15C mystic) echoing through my days: ‘All will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.’ Of course there have been scary times – waiting for biopsy results; the journey to the theatre; coming round in post-op – but no real anguish, and, interestingly, no asking, ‘Why me?’ (Personally, I think that’s a silly question, anyway. Why should the bad stuff happen to someone else?)
I needed a break more than I’d needed one for a long time, and God gave me one. Later on, when I explained to my surgeon that I’d decided to let my body do the fighting by eating every vitamin and antioxidant that I could cram into three meals a day (plus healthy snacks), and that I wasn’t going to let chemotherapy do the shrinking, he told me: ‘Your present positive attitude is the most important part of your prognosis. If chemo would take away from that, then it’s not for you.’
Oh, honest man! Note, however, the word ‘you’, meaning me. I am not saying chemo is bad. I’m saying that I had a choice. Others have made the same choice. No one can tell you how to handle that one. It’s so intensely personal, but I warn you, the pressure to do everything you can to get well can cloud your thinking here, so I had my own question for the surgeon:
‘Will I die if I don’t have chemo?’ He pulled a non-comittal face. ‘I’ll have to do a mastectomy instead of a ‘lumpectomy’. ‘And if I have chemo, will I keep my breast?’ ‘Can’t promise that,’ he said. ‘No chemo, then,’ I decided, though I left open the option of radiotherapy later.
Can you only be positive if you pray? Christians (or anyone with faith in a power greater than themselves) haven’t cornered the market on positivity. I was continually amazed by the positive attitude and humour displayed by my non-praying inmates on Ward A. I can’t speak for the men in the next ward, but I’d like to pay tribute here to the courage of women facing far worse things that I was called to face.
And, honestly, I do feel I got off lightly. Before the op, the surgeon’s list of ‘things that can go wrong’ was as long as my arm. They have to tell you, but I almost wish they wouldn’t! There was some pain, a lot of discomfort, and some frustration in trying to regain a semblance of balance, and, yes, there were times when my husband and I had to steel ourselves, but 98% of the horrors we were warned about haven’t happened six months down the line.
Was this down to prayer? There’s honestly no way I can know. What I do know is that we were surrounded by caring Christian friends (and strangers) who daily – hourly in some cases – brought our situation to God’s attention and prayed for my healing.
How much say can I have in my treatment? As much, or as little, as you want. Talk to the medical team (oh, and be prepared to bare all in front of several strangers!), discuss options. Most importantly, take your time. Even if the diagnosis is more serious than mine was, a few days won’t hurt, and you’ll feel more confident about the outcome if you know as much as you can in advance. Ask for stuff to read.
Does it help to talk to other cancer sufferers? My jury is still out on that one. No two cases are the same, and some people do seem to delight in telling you in gory detail all that can (or did) go wrong. I chose only to talk to a colleague who’d had a breast removed 27 years ago, and I found great comfort and help with her.
How do I stay positive? By not dwelling on the negative. It’s only natural that you think you might die. What you mustn’t do is convince yourself that you will! There are so many options these days, and medical science really has done its homework.
Don’t hide away, hugging your horrid secret to your bosom (pun intended). Tell carefully chosen relatives and friends, but don’t make a drama out of it, or their alarm might, in turn, frighten you! A friend who had a much more serious cancer than mine, told me: ‘Before I had cancer I was always terrified of getting it. Once I had it, it didn’t seem so bad.’ Remember, most cancers are survivable these days, and a positive attitude really is that important. Keep your mind busy, but rest your body a lot. Tiredness is the result of your body fighting its corner. Help it.
Does it help to cry and let it all out? I can’t answer that one. I hardly ever cry. You may think me odd, but that’s how I am. How you are might be different. If crying helps, cry. If you feel like getting angry, however, watch it. Tears can be healing but anger does awful things to your mind and body. Try to be thankful that you are alive, and better off than most of the world’s population for whom there is no medical help.
Will I ever feel normal again? Not really. You’ll feel stronger and – different. You will be a survivor! And survivors know the secret of living life to the full. Once you’ve almost lost it, or even face losing it, life becomes the most precious thing in the world, and time with loved ones the most important. And do try not to lose your sense of humour. Laughter really is very good for you.
How will I cope with intimate matters? If you have a husband or partner, they will have had almost as great a shock as you. Some respond well. Some don’t. But the partnerships and friendships that were strong before cancer usually stay strong afterwards. It’s a sad truth, though, that women are much better at helping the sick and vulnerable, so you’ll have to tell your feller what you feel, and what you need from him. Watching someone else face a life-threatening illness can reduce strong men to helplessness. You’ll need to help him help you. Keep talking.2
Showing the scars. Should I? If you were in the habit of going about naked in front of your man before your op, try to get back to that. But go easy on both of you! Flashing your surgical wounds the day after the op might not be the best way to tackle it. There was a programme on television in which this hiding of scars had almost caused a couple to break up. She felt he’d be revolted by what he saw and not love her any more. He felt she couldn’t trust his love for her, when he’d done everything to reassure her that he could handle it.
Having said that, some can’t, and if he doesn’t want to see your battle wounds, why force him? Take your time. It really is a great healer.
What’s it like wearing a prosthesis? Absolutely fabulous! You get a free one on the NHS, and they don’t skimp on price. The breast forms, as they’re called now, are amazing. Once it’s in the pocket of your ‘prosthetic’ bra, no one need ever know. You can even get ones that match the droop of your remaining breast, and if you have to lose both breasts, you get to decide what size you want to be for the rest of your life!
Don’t expect to be strutting your stuff too soon, however. There’s a lot of healing to be done, and it was nearly 3 months before I could comfortably wear my breast form all day.
Does radiotherapy hurt? No. It can burn your skin, a bit like sunburn, after several treatments, and you have to follow the medical advice to the letter. Despite the extreme vigilance of the radiologists, the skin under my breast broke down, and the breast itself went an alarming shade of red, but now, thanks to special cream given to me, the skin is fine again and I have stopped glowing in the dark!
Radiotherapy five times a week for five weeks (as in my case), can seem like a prison sentence, but once the first week of a strange routine is over, the remaining weeks really do pass very quickly.
How will I cope emotionally with losing a breast? I can’t answer that. If you feel that losing a breast is just the price you have to pay for life, you will cope. Because I was already on the Cancer Research trial, I simply decided to ‘donate’ my breast to them. They were going to use the harvested material anyway. You don’t cry for what you give away.
Can I volunteer to go on a trial, and will it help me? Yes. And Yes! My MRI scan revealed the second tumour, which would have gone undetected for years – and it wasn’t such a pussycat as the first. It was invasive. If I hadn’t had that scan . . .
Ask your medical team. There will almost certainly be a trial going on in your area. If not, ask if you can have an MRI scan. They can save lives, plus the pain and trauma of a second op as they define the tumour much more clearly, enabling the surgeon to ‘get it all out’ in one go! They can also save the NHS a lot of money!
As I said, I feel I got off pretty lightly. I know other people don’t. All I can do is pray for them. But then, that was all I could do for me, too. Try it. God always hears your prayers, even if you’ve never been on speaking terms before.
I discovered the lump in my left breast on a glorious weekend in May. I was visiting Scotland with my husband and my sister, and once I got the initial panic under control, I knew that no way was I going to ruin our much-needed break, so I just got on with the weekend. The sun was shining. We had places to go, vistas to view. Reality could wait till Monday. 
