Breast cancer diagnosis that nearly drove me back to the bottle
She was a high-flying mother addicted to wine o’clock. Here, in the second part of her candid diary, Clare reveals the. . .
A CAMBRIDGE graduate and former business highflyer, Clare Pooley looked like she had it all when she became a stay-at-home mum to her children, Evie, 11, Kit, eight and Maddie, six. But her fondness for alcohol began to catch up with her and she was soon drinking 100 units a week. On Monday, in Part One of our serialisation of her book, The Sober Diaries, Clare told of her decision to quit for the sake of her children — but, after three months of sobriety, the extract ended with her pouring a large glass of wine . . .
DAY 93
I DIDN’T drink that glass of white. I picked it up and swirled it around.
Then my husband, John, walked in. I jumped a mile, spilling it everywhere. I felt like I’d been caught naked by the man who’d come to read the gas meter.
‘You’re not drinking that, are you?’ John asked. ‘You’ve done so well. Don’t ruin it now.’
So I poured it down the sink and went to bed.
Now I’m so glad I kept going, because today it’s exactly three months since I quit. One quarter of a year. Who’d have thought it? I’ve found that the knot of anxiety I lived with for years was
caused by the drink, not solved by it. My best friend was actually my worst enemy.
DAY 170
SUMMER holidays in Cornwall and my parents have joined us. Here, last summer, my mother gently told me she thought I was ‘drinking too much’. She was concerned about the link between alcohol and breast cancer, as she had breast cancer five years ago and didn’t want me to go through the same thing.
I was aware she was right, so you’d think I’d thank her. Wouldn’t you?
Hell no! I yelled at her and made her cry. I’ve been trying to find the right time to say sorry, but keep putting it off. It sticks in my throat. Eventually I corner her. ‘I’ve been meaning to say something to you,’ I blurt out. She looks startled.
‘When you told me last year that I drank too much, I was horrible to you. But you were right. I’m sorry.’
‘Gosh, I’d forgotten about that,’ she says (probably fibbing), looking rather chuffed. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little blunt. But look at you now! I’m so proud of you — what willpower.’
We hug then cough in an embarrassed fashion. I feel a weight I hadn’t even realised I was carrying shift.
DAY 227
MUM’S first words when I pick up the phone are: ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’
I feel sick. Ever since the conversation when she told me she had breast cancer, I’ve dreaded calls that begin like this. ‘Go on,’ I say, thinking: ‘Stop, I don’t want to hear this.’
‘It’s your aunt. She has breast cancer. It’s aggressive.’ I’m immediately overwhelmed. How is that fair?
My kind, selfless aunt who’s never done anything to deserve this. Unlike me. Which is when another thought starts niggling in the back of my mind: one close blood relative with breast cancer is unfortunate. Two (my mother and her sister) looks like a pattern. I’m furious with myself. This is not about me. But once I’ve hung up, the thought won’t go away.
I go to the bathroom. I’ve heard all the advice about checking your breasts regularly, and I do. But as I work my way carefully round the left I swear I can feel something.
Stop it. You’re imagining things.
I walk over, topless, to the mirror. Either my mind’s playing tricks, or there’s a distinct dent in the bottom of my left breast, where I thought I could feel something strange.
I start to panic. I keep checking. There’s nothing there. No, wait, there is. I’m going to die.
More than anything else, I want a drink. I know it would magically take the edge off the fear. I’d calm down and realise I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, a cancerous tumour out of a small, benign cyst.
I go to the kitchen. There’s no wine in the fridge, but there’s a half-full bottle of vodka. I pour a glass and stare at it. So innocuous looking, like water.
Somehow I don’t turn to booze. I ring my GP instead.
DAY 228
WAITING for my appointment is like the early days of not drinking. I wade my way through each hour as though trudging through quicksand. While the thought of getting lost in a bottle of vino is still horribly tempting, I know it’s not a good idea.
My mum and aunt were in their 70s when they got breast cancer. I’m only 46, fit and healthy. I’ve not been to the GP for years apart from with one or other of the kids.
This is just a salutary reminder we should never take anything for granted. It’s a well-timed wake-up call. Next week, when I have my appointment, everything’s going to go back to normal. Isn’t it?
DAY 231
I’M FEELING strangely calm. I know the GP will tell me she’s 90 per cent sure it’s fine, but will send me for some checks just to be on the safe side.
Only that’s not how it goes. She says: ‘I’m rather concerned.’ My heart stops. Then: ‘I’m giving you an urgent referral.’
I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.
DAY 232
IF YOU are ever unfortunate enough to have a breast cancer scare, try not to do it at half term, when the kids are at home wondering where Mummy has gone.
My mother is looking after the children while John and I are at the cancer clinic, which means I’ve had to tell her about the lump, so she’s now supporting a sister and potentially a daughter with cancer.
The doctor here is the Mr Big of the breast cancer world. He’s dealt with hundreds of thousands of potentially dodgy breasts and is, they say, a genius. He explains he’ll do a quick examination, then more tests. I strip and he checks me over. I’m not expecting any prognosis at this point. That’s what the mammogram and ultrasound are for. So I’m floored when, within seconds, he says, with no preamble, as if he’s just got all his numbers and is declaring Bingo! ‘It’s breast cancer.’ I don’t cry. I’m too stunned. When the tests later confirm his
initial diagnosis — as far as they can tell it’s early stage cancer — the nurse says: ‘Come back in a few days when we’ll be able to discuss your treatment plan in more detail. Now go home and have a stiff drink.’
Ha bloody ha.
DAY 235
I REALLY, really need a drink. I need to take the edge off.
But, at the same time, I know I need a drink like a hole in the head. Because just one drink wouldn’t even begin to hit the spot. It would be a whole bottle.
Then it would be a whole bottle every day until this has all gone away, which, even in the best case scenario, is months away.
And there’s nothing breast cancer likes more than alcohol, after all. It’s linked to oestrogen. Alcohol raises the levels of oestrogen in the body, and most breast cancers are oestrogen-receptive, meaning the hormone acts like rocket fuel — making them grow faster.
Just three drinks a week increases your risk of developing breast cancer by 15 per cent.
And to think how much I was drinking at my peak.
I shouldn’t have got breast cancer. I’m only 46 — not even on the national screening programme.
Yet here I am.
DAY 237
HERE’S the scoop: I have a 22mm, grade 2, invasive lobular carcinoma.
Grade 2, while not as slow-growing as a grade 1, is a damn sight better than a ferocious grade 3. I can also be treated with tamoxifen, the wonder drug.
My lumpectomy is scheduled for a week’s time, and shortly after that I’ll have meetings to discuss chemotherapy and radiotherapy.
As far as they can tell, the cancer’s not spread anywhere else. If it does go beyond the breasts and the lymph nodes, it’s known as Stage 4 breast cancer. If I’ve got that, I’m toast. It’s incurable. They’re sending me for a scan on Monday ‘just to be sure’.
So this is a day off the tests, but I have an equally terrible chore ahead. My empathetic nurse has insisted that we tell the children. They are, she says, bound to overhear otherwise and will panic.
I tell Evie while we’re going to the orthodontist, leaving John to break it to the younger ones.
I take a deep breath: ‘Evie, you know I’ve been having a lot of appointments recently? It turns out I have a little lump in my boob, and it’s cancer.
‘The good news is Mummy’s cancer is easily curable. I have the most clever doctors. It’s all going to be fine.’
‘So you’re not going to die?’ asks Evie, in an uncharacteristically small voice.
‘Goodness, no. How could I possibly do that and leave your father in charge? There’s no way I’m going anywhere!’
I’m thinking please God, let that not be a lie. ‘How did it go?’ I ask when we get home. ‘Surprisingly fine,’ John replies. ‘Kit wants to know if there’ll be loads of blood and Maddie asked if we can keep the lump in a jar on the mantelpiece.’
The kids are asleep. I sneak into Evie’s room and find her diary. I want to check how she’s really taken the news. I find the most recent entry. ‘Mummy has breast cancer,’ she’s written, ‘but she’s got some great doctors and she’s not going to die, so it’s all OK.’
DAY 240
IF SOMEONE had said two weeks ago that I’d feel grateful for having a cancerous breast tumour I’d have thought they were crazy, but here I am thinking: ‘Hallelujah! It’s just one malignant breast tumour!’
The scan showed nothing else. The cancer’s not gone anywhere. As of Friday, it’ll be gone and I can get on with chemo (if I need it) and radiotherapy, and blitz the hell out of any stragglers.
Since I can’t have champagne to celebrate, I buy two boxes of chocolate, which I eat until I feel sick. If I’d had to deal with cancer while drinking it would have been different: when I found the lump, instead of getting it checked immediately, I would — with the help of a few glasses of wine — have put it off for at least a few weeks.
Alcohol gives us false confidence. Those few weeks could have made all the difference.
When I finally got the diagnosis, I’d have gone on a bender. And being drunk (or hungover) makes us self-centred. I would have cried (a lot) in front of the kids. I would have ranted and raved. In one fell swoop I would have destroyed my family’s confidence and security.
Instead, everything carries on as normal, around all the endless hospital visits. And it’s that normality that’s keeping me sane, and them protected.
DAY 248
I WOKE last night to find that Maddie had snuggled into bed between us. I remembered being her age, very nearly seven, and the feeling that if you were with both your parents absolutely nothing could harm you.
It reminded me that the innocence of my children is in my hands. If I fall apart, then everyone falls apart, and, like Humpty Dumpty, no one will be able to fix them without the cracks showing.