I write letters to my boys, I want them to know how much I love them. They will only be given them if anything should happen to me
SHE has covered stories on every aspect of life but last year BBC presenter Victoria Derbyshire found herself in the news after she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Victoria, 48, lives in London with partner Mark and sons Joe and Oliver. Here, in exclusive extracts from her book Dear Cancer, love Victoria, she recalls the moment her world changed for ever...
Monday, July 27, 4.15am
The kettle’s on, and I’m googling “inverted nipple” before leaving for work. There are several explanations, but I instantly stop reading. BREAST CANCER.
I might have cancer. I am not being dramatic, hysterical, irrational, foolish. I actually might have cancer.
My mind races. I can’t bear not to be with these three most important people in my life. I can’t bear not to be there alongside Mark as my children Oliver, 11 and Joe, eight, mature and flourish. My bright, funny, affectionate boys, who are never embarrassed to say “love you, Mummy” – and say it 10 times a day.
Friday, July 31
The GP welcomes us into her office. Her face is impassive until we sit down and then it changes to one of sympathy as she says exactly what I am expecting to hear: “I have the results of the biopsy and it is malignant.”
At that moment, it feels as though a colossal fist has come crashing down on my head, the word “malignant” crushing me cleanly and swiftly. Mark captures my hand to hold it in his.
The feeling of being battered lasts only seconds. It should take longer, but soon I am weirdly calm. I am cross and indignant – what the hell is going on? How dare this happen? And then there are no words as I cry into Mark’s shoulder.
Saturday, August 1
As I look up and around the sitting room, wondering what to do next, it strikes me there are hardly any photos of me in the house, because I usually take the photos.
It suddenly becomes absolutely crucial that I rectify this, because, my thought process goes, at least if I die, there will be some happy images of me in photo frames around our home.
Monday, August 3
Employing a “by the way” kind of style, I
At that moment, it feels like a colossal fist has crashed down on me in the word ‘malignant’ VICTORIA DERBYSHIRE ON BEING TOLD SHE HAD BREAST CANCER
tell the boys there’s something funny going on with my breasts. “Funny ha ha? Do you mean someone’s drawn a clown on them?” asks Joe.
It soon evolves into a fabulously “boysy” conversation about the many different euphemisms for the word “breast” – wibwabs, treasure chest – which leads to uncontrollable laughter. God, I love boys.
There is nothing as hilarious to them as an odd-sounding rude word and that makes me happy. As a result, neither child expresses any concern or anxiety, which is my intention.
Wednesday, September 23
I don’t stop today. Who knew there was so much to get organised before a mastectomy?
Before sleeping, I write a letter each to my boys. I want them to know how much I love them. I tell Mark these will be in my bedside drawer and he’s to give them to Oliver and Joe should anything happen to me.
It’s surreal and distressing putting into words how special they are, thinking they will read this if I don’t wake up after surgery, but it makes sense to me right this second.
Thursday, September 24
At 10.30am, as the bed is pushed through the doors, I twist round to get a final look at Mark and we blow each other kisses and smile...
“Victoria! Victoria, can you hear me? Victoria!” We’ve done it. And I woke up. And the cancer’s gone. It’s amazing to see Mark, amazing that it’s over. I can’t believe it. I feel liberated.
I open the boys’ get-well cards and Oliver’s makes me smile in particular:
“To Mummy. I bl***y love you. Please get better soon and still live life in the same way. Love, Oliver.”
Sunday, October 18
I’m finding it hard to relax. Tomorrow we meet the oncologist to talk about the next stage – chemotherapy.
Tuesday, October 20
It’s 1.30am and I’m awake, thinking SUPPORT Victoria with partner Mark about chemotherapy. I can’t really imagine what it’ll be like or how it’s going to affect me. I’m considering wearing the cold cap – the thing that looks like a jockey’s hat that freezes your head while you’re having chemo in order to help preserve your hair.
I’ve heard awful stories about it, but if it means keeping your hair, or some of it, I’m definitely going to try it.
And if I’m one of the ones for whom the cold cap works, I won’t really need the wig after all.
Saturday, November 21
As I wash my hair over the bath, several long, wet strands suddenly begin to collect in the plughole. Not loads, but enough for me to know that this is down to the chemo.
It’s a surprise, but I’m unruffled and as I see some of the hair detaching itself from my head, I say out loud, “Oh, wow.” “What is it, darlin’?” Mark calls. “My hair’s falling out,” I say, deadpan.
Friday, November 27
This afternoon I try to wash my hair. A mundane task becomes a nightmare. When I start to rub shampoo in, it begins to get matted. The more it mats, the more hassled yet determined I become to de-mat it.
As I lean over the bath, I can see long hairs slipping from my head into the plughole, while the rest of the hair continues to tangle. I look like Mr Rochester’s wild wife from Jane Eyre – hair sticking out, uncontrollable. I consider how much hair is falling out after just two chemo cycles, while wearing the cold cap. It’s depressing.
Then, a positive to balance the negative – if I hadn’t worn the cap, it could have been worse.
I put on a beanie hat and set off for an appointment to collect my wig, which is ready. Good timing.
By the time I get to the salon, I’m pretty stressed as I reveal the mess on my head. Amy’s seen it all before and explains what’s happening – the hair that’s falling out has got caught in the hair that remains on my head – hence a tangled shambles.
It takes a good 20 minutes for her to comb through the knots, leaving a large clump of it on her floor. As I watch, tears balance in my eyes, but don’t spill over. As so much has fallen out or been brushed out today, it’s very thin on top, particularly at the front. About half of my hair remains.
Losing my hair bothers me much, much more than losing a breast.
Why is that? Because without your hair, you don’t look like you.
Tuesday, December 1
I make two decisions, both of which help me regain some control, having lost all control of what happens with my hair – I’m going back to work tomorrow and I’m going to wear the wig properly for the first time.
I’m edgy, though, so practise putting it on and sticking it down. I’m forcing myself to go back, because the sooner I get on with wearing it, the more normal it will become.
Physically I feel fine, mentally, it’s about confronting my anxiety over wearing a wig in front of friends, colleagues and our TV audience.
Losing my hair bothers me more than losing a breast, because I won’t look like me VICTORIA DERBYSHIRE ON THE EFFECTS OF HER CHEMOTHERAPY
Copyright Victoria Derbyshire, 2017. Extracted from Dear Cancer, love Victoria, by Victoria Derbyshire, published by Trapeze on September 21, priced £18.99 in hardback. Also available in ebook and audio. Readers can order copies for the special price of £15.99 (RRP £18.99) by calling 01903 828503 and quoting ref no. R1119. Book tickets for Victoria’s charity book launch – all proceeds go to Youth Cancer Support. Call 020 7087 7900 or online at theotherpalace.co.uk Extracted by Laura Connor