I’ve taken a mini-break from posting about my story and diverted to a couple of other filler topics, as this is where it starts to get a bit more emotional thinking and talking about it. Thinking back to that first initial visit to the breast unit, and then the very quick subsequent appointments is a little overwhelming. I’m going to keep this blog a bit more focussed on what happened and a few of the emotions I felt and probably revisit in a later the complex mix of what it was like for me facing my own mortality unexpectedly.

I can’t quite remember exact timescales for this and I’m sure that there’s some elements of it that I may get wrong. I could go back and look at texts or appointment letters to be incredibly accurate, but I don’t think it’s that important and for reasons I’ve just explained, I don’t want to trawl through all of that right now.

The first thing I need to say in this is that every appointment I went to, I went alone. I wasn’t allowed any friends or family in due to coronavirus restrictions. This was hard as I felt very alone, but at the same time, I only had myself to worry about. I didn’t have to put on a brave face for anyone else to stop them worrying.

So I had my appointment at the breast unit. They did an initial physical exam where they felt it and just like the GP, commented that it did feel smooth from the outside. I then went for a mammogram, which if you’ve never had one before, felt exactly like my mum had described them to me:

“It’s like someone squishes your boob between two bricks.”

For those of you wondering, I get my eloquence from my mum.

They then sent me through to a biopsy. It was during this, I knew something was wrong. They started poking and scanning parts that I hadn’t felt there was a problem in. The person doing the scan was quiet and concentrating and the nurse started to try and distract me a little. I was so worried, a few tears came out and she was so lovely and warm in trying to keep me calm.

For those of you that have never had a biopsy, it was like a long needle that has a little claw on the end. It goes in and grabs a lump of the tissue. Afterwards, there’s some bruising, it’s uncomfortable, but I didn’t find it too painful a process.

As I left the biopsy room, I was guided to another room to wait. It was a quiet side room with sofas and tissues on the table. I knew at that point it was bad. I was texting my husband whilst I waited. I was sure they were going to tell me I was going to die. I was petrified and there alone. Looking back at my whole treatment, that moment was one of the worst.

A consultant came in with a nurse and I spoke before they did.

“It’s bad news, isn’t it? You don’t sit people in rooms like this if it’s good news. It’s cancer, isn’t it?”

He replied, “You work in the NHS, don’t you?”

Ah yes, he knew I knew the inner secrets of the healthcare system. If you’ve got crap news, sit them in a room away from others, with a comfy chair, a box of tissues and a cup of tea.

He confirmed my fears. It was cancer. Even if the biopsies came back negative, they were so sure it was cancer that they would send it back and demand the test be redone.

I asked all the stereotypical questions, how bad is it, am I going to die, what can they do, what are my odds… I don’t really remember his answers apart from him dodging a lot of them (and I’m grateful in hindsight that he did).

I don’t remember leaving the hospital.

I do remember sitting in the car park and phoning my husband.

I remember phoning my parents.

I remember phoning my sisters.

I remember phoning my boss at work.

I remember all of their reactions.

I wanted to just get it all out of the way before coming home, so that I could get home and hug my husband and son and shut the door and lock it all out.

I’m oddly grateful that I was diagnosed during the restrictions, because I had to tell people it all over the phone. I didn’t have to sit and see their reactions, their heartbreak, in person.

I haven’t told many people this, but one of the greatest fears I have around recurrances is the potential of having to break that news again.

I really hope I never have to.