Join forces
Debi Griffin, 34, from Preston, was heartbroken by her mum’s diagnosis. But fate had something in store for her, too... We’reinittogether
All mums are incredible people, and mine is certainly no different. From helping me deal with teenage hormones, my first boyfriend and exams, to helping organise my wedding and being brutally honest about what childbirth is really like, my mum Heather, 64, has always been there for me.
She and I had always been as thick as thieves, and told each other everything, but in 2017,
I needed her more than ever.
And as it turned out, Mum needed my support, too.
Back in 2007, Mum had been diagnosed with breast cancer after a routine mammogram. Even so, as always, Mum had put others first, never wanting to be a burden.
She’d even postponed her treatment by two weeks so that she could enjoy my wedding to my husband Brett, now 41.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Mum?’ I’d asked her.
‘I wouldn’t miss this day for the world,’ she’d replied.
After the wedding, Mum had radiotherapy every day for 15 days.
I could see how exhausted it had made her, but Mum never once complained. She refused to let cancer stop her from living her life – she continued at her job as a secretary, and was full on with grandma duties to my kids Charlotte, then five, and Josh, three.
The following
year, in March 2008, she was given the all clear. ‘It’s finally over,’ she smiled through happy tears.
Life soon got back to normal, and apart from regular mammograms every year, we put the cancer behind us.
But in January 2017, after one of those routine mammograms, Mum was called back to the hospital.
I went with her for support. ‘I’m afraid the cancer has come back,’ the consultant told us gravely.
‘How can this be happening?’ I cried, bursting into tears.
But Mum remained so cool and collected.
‘So what do we do?’ she asked bravely.
Mum was booked in for radiotherapy, and that night, we sat Charlotte, Josh, and my youngest, Matthew, then five, down to tell them the news.
‘Grandma is ill, but doctors are going to make her better,’ I said.
I vowed to be there for her through it all.
A few weeks later, I was in the shower when my fingers
suddenly ran over a hard lump the size of a golf ball on my left breast.
My body instantly went cold with fear.
There’s no way... I
thought. How have I not noticed this before?
But I was only 32, and
it had never occurred to me before to check my breasts
for lumps.
I spent the next few weeks feeling terrified, switching between thinking I was going to die and telling myself not to panic.
‘You need to get it checked out,’ Brett said, concerned.
I knew he was right.
‘But I’m not telling Mum,’ I said. ‘She has enough to worry about right now.’
That June, I had a mammogram, a biopsy and an ultrasound.
And the following month, I was called in for my results.
Brett was with me holding my hand as my consultant confirmed my worst fears.
‘You have a rare grade three triple negative breast cancer,’ she said. Hearing those words felt surreal. All I could think about was Brett and the kids, and I was terrified of what was to come – chemotherapy, hair loss, exhaustion, and maybe even surgery.
Brett was distraught, too. Leaving the hospital, we drove straight to Mum’s, and sitting her down, I broke the news.
‘I’ve got breast cancer, too,’ I told
I vowed to be there for Mum
her, my voice shaking.
‘Oh love,’ she said, taking me into her arms. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll win this.’
Mum always had a way of making me feel strong.
We’d been diagnosed just a few weeks apart, and in that moment, I knew we could do this together.
Later, Brett and I told the kids that, like their grandma,
I was ill, but doctors were working to get me better.
I started chemotherapy that September to try and shrink the lump, and it was truly awful.
I suffered terrible diarrhoea, severe headaches, nausea and fatigue.
But following Mum’s lead, I was determined to carry on and refused to let cancer put my life on hold.
I even got a place at Preston College to do a degree in Children and Young People Services, and I went to classes every week, despite feeling so ill.
It was Mum’s constant positive energy that kept me going.
She was at my side during all my appointments, and having been through it all herself, was able to explain to me what to expect.
She stopped me from wallowing, insisting on taking me shopping for hats, joking about my bald head. It should have been the darkest time of my life, but incredibly, Mum kept me laughing.
In October 2017, Mum was given the all clear.
I was so relieved for her. Meanwhile, though, my treatment wasn’t going so well.
That November, I was told that despite my gruelling treatment, the tumour had actually grown, and I’d need to have a mastectomy.
Devastated, I sat alone in a park near the hospital, sobbing and thinking about the hair loss, bad skin, sickness and fatigue I’d endured.
Had it all just been for nothing?
But as usual, Mum was there to get me back on track.
‘It will be a struggle, but you’ll come to terms with it,’ she smiled.
I had my surgery
in January 2018, followed by 15 sessions of radiotherapy.
And in March
2018, when a scan came back clear, I thought I was out of the woods. Mum and I had
beat cancer together. At least, I thought
we had.
Exactly a year later, in March 2019, doctors delivered the worst news.
My cancer had spread, and this time, it was terminal.
I clutched Brett’s hand and we sobbed as the doctor went through our options.
I’m now having weekly chemotherapy and radiotherapy as part of a trial treatment.
Charlotte, now 16, Josh, 14, and Matthew, seven, constantly worry about me, but we’re taking each day as it comes.
I don’t know what the future holds or how long I have left, but like always, Mum is with me every step of the way.
Battling the disease alongside Mum was both horrible and
wonderful at the same time. The worry for one another was awful, but we were always there to hold each other’s hand.
Her strength
helped me stay level-headed, and witnessing Mum fight cancer not
once, but twice, helped me realise that I have to do exactly the same – and that’s just what I’m going to do.