Cancer diaries of BBC Victoria
LABOUR peer Tessa Jowell has brain cancer, her family announced yesterday.
In a series of posts on social media on her 70th birthday, the ex-Cabinet minister and her relatives vowed to help other people with the disease.
Daughter-in-law Ella Mills, the food blogger known as DeliciouslyElla, said Jowell had been diagnosed in May.
In an Instagram post, she wrote: “The last few months have been some of the hardest of our lives, after Matt’s mum was diagnosed with brain cancer.
“Her bravery, optimism, love and support for others has inspired us both so much, and today, on her 70th birthday, we’re all pledging to try and do everything we can to make people’s lives with cancer better for longer.”
Jowell later posted a family picture on Twitter with the message: “Thank you for so much love and support on my birthday.”
The former social worker was a close ally of former prime minister Tony Blair and led the push to win the 2012 Olympics for London when she was culture secretary. SHE has covered stories on every aspect of life, but last year, BBC presenter Victoria Derbyshire found herself the subject of 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 Dear Cancer, love Victoria, she recalls the moment her world changed for ever. 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 Oliver, 11, and Joe, eight, flourish. My bright, funny boys, who are never embarrassed to say “love you, Mummy” 10 times a day. 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 seconds. It should take longer, but soon I am weirdly calm. I am cross and indignant – what is going on? How dare this happen? And then there are no words as I cry into Mark’s shoulder. 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 crucial that I rectify this, because at least if I die, there will be some happy images of me in photo frames around our home. Employing a “by the way” kind of style, I 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