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
TV presenter tells of her fears before mastectomy SLOWLY, GRADUALLY, I’M EMERGING FROM THE PAINFUL FOG
“boysy” conversation about the many euphemisms for “breast” – wibwabs, treasure chest – which leads to uncontrollable laughter. I love boys.
Neither child expresses concern or anxiety, which is my intention. 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. 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. “To Mummy. I bl***y love you. Please get better soon and still live life in the same way. Love, Oliver.” Finding it hard to relax. Tomorrow we meet the oncologist to talk about the next stage – chemotherapy. I’m considering wearing the cold cap – which freezes your head while you’re having chemo to help preserve your hair.
I’ve heard stories but if it means keeping your hair, or some of it, I’m going to try it. 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. I say out loud, “Oh, wow.” 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. 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.
I consider how much hair is falling out after just two chemo cycles, while wearing the cold cap. It’s depressing.
Then, a positive – 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.
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. I make two decisions – I’m going back to work tomorrow and I’ll wear the wig properly for the first time.
I’m edgy so I 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. ● 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 0207 087 7900 or online at theotherpalace.co.uk
To Mummy. I bl***y love you. Please get better soon and live life the same way SON OLIVER’S CARD