People say I’m ‘lucky’ to have survived cancer – and I am. But they don’t want to hear about the emotional scars that haunt you . . .
PEOPLE are always telling me how lucky I must feel. every time the glib words pop out of their mouths, there is a tiny part of me that wants to punch them in the face. And then I want to snarl: ‘How dare you! How bloody dare you!’
Because the truth is they haven’t got a clue. You see, what they count as my good luck has nothing to do with all the wonderful things in my life. They are not referring to the fact that I have two gorgeous daughters, a loving partner and a satisfying career. That’s all true and, yes, it does make me feel more blessed than I can find the words to say.
But the reason I am told I should feel lucky is simply that I am not dead. By that argument every one of us should feel lucky — all the time.
But apparently I should feel extra specially lucky because, ten years ago, I had breast cancer diagnosed. I could have died but I’m alive, and that should make me feel like I’ve won the lottery.
To be fair, I know we cancer survivors are partly to blame for creating this fantasy. We try to keep optimistic when handed our diagnosis because anything else is too horrible to contemplate.
If we work hard enough, we actually manage to believe the comforting lies we tell ourselves. And gosh, did I work hard.
I was 48 when I noticed a lump, the size and hardness of a pea, in my right breast. I ignored it for weeks. I felt fit and healthy and there was no history of breast cancer in my family. My then husband ( we have since divorced) didn’t think there was anything amiss.
But something deep down told me it didn’t feel right — it was harder than the benign cysts I’d had investigated over the years.
So after two months I went to see my GP. He was reassuring, but referred me to Winchester’s Royal Hampshire County Hospital for further investigation.
I had lulled myself into such a false sense of security that the shock when he told me I had cancer was horrific. I had two young daughters, then aged 14 and 15. I wanted to live.
I was even more devastated to be told, after further investigation, that the cancer had spread to some of my lymph nodes. I was advised to have a full mastectomy, then chemo and radiotherapy.
I was so frightened that at first I just wanted to collapse in a puddle on the floor and cry ‘take me now’. But then my survival instinct kicked in, and I knew the best chance I could give myself was to stay positive and focus only on the good things.
I took out a subscription to an internet film company (this was before Netflix and Amazon Prime) and watched an endless stream of ancient comedy films.
I’d watched many of them as a little girl, curled up in front of the TV on Sunday afternoons, and the memories were comforting. Peter Sellers, Alec Guinness and Ian Carmichael became my heroes. I didn’t read a newspaper or listen to the news because it was all too gloomy. I eschewed websites and ensured I only read books in which everyone lived happily ever after.
And then, when we finally finish treatment — mine took eight months — there’s no way we want to dwell on how horrific it was. So we tell ourselves we’ve come out the other side not just alive but better. We have learned lessons about how precious life is. We embrace every experience with new vigour.
Wow. We feel lucky . . . What liars we are.
Of course, I could hardly deny that I am incredibly fortunate compared with the thousands of women who haven’t survived cancer and died far too young. But am I really luckier than all my friends and acquaintances who haven’t had breast cancer? Is it really better luck to get breast cancer and survive than never to get cancer at all?
Well, let me tell you what it’s genuinely like to survive breast cancer, then you can judge who’s truly lucky.
Let’s start with the obvious. Luckily — there’s that treacherous word, sneaking on to the page again — my partner Richard claims to find me attractive just the way I am.
We met five years after my treatment ended, by which time I had come to terms with my brutally changed body. I no longer flinched when I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw just ribcage where once my right breast had been. I told Richard everything on our second date. That may sound far too impetuous, but I already knew I was falling for him and if he was going to walk away because he couldn’ t cope with my mastectomy, I simply had to know. But how could I possibly feel lucky as our relationship progressed and I contemplated how I would prepare him for what he was going to see?
Did I really feel lucky as I steeled myself to face the fact he might be shocked and even revolted? Of course not. I felt angry and frightened.
To his eternal credit, Richard, who like me is divorced with two grown-up daughters, claims not even to notice the incontrovertible imperfection which marks me as a breast cancer survivor.
But I would love him to have known my body before a silver-white scar snaked across my chest where my breast once was.
I would love to be able to browse the lingerie aisles of Marks & Spencer, as I used to. Instead, I am reduced to picking my very functional bras from a catalogue that caters for women who have had mastectomies.
These bras — which, if you want t he grim detail, come with specially designed pockets to fit our silicone prosthetic breasts — are VAT- exempt because (I kid you not) they are classed as post-operative aids.
That puts them in the same category as wheelchairs and incontinence pads, which makes me loathe them all the more.
When girlfriends laugh about
their partners’ ill-chosen gifts of lingerie in outrageous colours and impossible sizes for birthdays and Christmas, I smile along.
But the truth is, I envy them because — while I have trained myself never to think about it — even t he most unsuitable, ill-fitting present would make me feel more feminine than I can bear to imagine.
Then there’s the fact that I have to be careful about the clothes I wear. Why? Because anything too low-cut reveals not an alluring cleavage, but a rather alarming lack of one.
Oh, and have I mentioned the three black dots tattooed on my chest (imagine blackheads that never disappear) which marked out targets for the radiotherapy treatment I had after surgery? I will have them for life. Do I feel lucky when I look at them in the mirror? Strangely, no.
I am very fortunate that the operation — which, along with removing my breast, took away the lymph nodes in my right armpit — has left my arm only slightly numb. But I don’t have the same strength in that arm. My days of being good at badminton — a sport I love — are gone.
Then there are the effects of the chemotherapy. My hair, which all fell out, grew back within six months to a length that meant I could go out wigless without being stared at. At first it was curly, a common effect of chemo. But within a few years it was back to normal and as strong as ever. Other women are less fortunate.
But the effects on my brain are less easy to track. We all know about ‘ chemo brain’ during treatment. It’s a sort of foggy feeling where words can seem elusive and even simple arguments are too difficult to follow.
however, no one talks about the long- term effects, so I’m left wondering whether the vagueness and lack of mental clarity that hits me sometimes is simply down to the usual stresses of life, or whether there is a deeper cause. has the poison that cured my cancer damaged my brain?
When I look back at those nine months — f rom diagnosis in March 2007 to t he end of treatment in november — I also try not to think about the massive financial hit. I gave up work as soon as the cancer was diagnosed, so I could concentrate all my energies on getting better.
As I’m self-employed, the money dried up instantly. Luckily (there’s that word again), I had enough savings to keep the family afloat. The cash — close to £50,000 — was earmarked to help f und my daughters through university. Instead, they had to get by with a mixture of bursaries and loans.
Yes, my good fortune rubbed off on them as well. Lucky girls.
I did a brilliant job of convincing myself I was going to be fine. But did I convince my daughters? Of course not.
Although I told them repeatedly that we would get through it together, that I wasn’t going to die, what they saw was terrifying.
They saw me lose my hair. They saw my hollowed- out body. They saw me l ying l i mp and pathetic in bed, my body racked by chemotherapy drugs.
I’ve never asked them what was going through their heads. It would make me too angry to see how much they suffered during my ‘lucky’ brush with cancer.
I don’t like to think about any long-term emotional damage, either. Force of habit makes me concentrate instead on how close we are, how dealing with a sick mother has made them more caring and compassionate.
I’m also relieved that there is no genetic reason why they should get breast cancer.
I very rarely think about my illness any more. I had an annual check-up for the first five years after diagnosis and the moment when I was officially dismissed was cause for huge celebration. It was probably the first time I had felt ‘normal’.
I have been told that my chances of developing cancer in the other breast are no higher than for any other woman.
But as anyone who has had cancer knows, the shadow looms very large.
My body has let me down in the most frightening way imaginable and, while I have come to terms with the betrayal, I know I can never fully trust it again.
NOW I no longer have nightmares. I no longer worry that every ache and pain is a harbinger of something much more sinister.
I no longer wake in the night shocked to the core by what I went through and terrified the cancer will return. But do I feel lucky? not really.
I could go on and on. But the truth is that even writing down all the negatives seems somehow a betrayal of the mantra that saw me through cancer. The mantra that, yes, I’m lucky. They caught the cancer early. I survived the chemotherapy. My hair grew back. My breasts, much as I loved them, were never my best features.
I have schooled myself to concentrate on the positives. I’m more chilled than before I had cancer. I’m more resilient. I embrace new opportunities, acutely aware they may never come again.
But while I may enthuse about the compensations of my illness, don’t be fooled for a second into thinking they weren’t hard won or bloodily fought for.
And don’t you dare tell me how lucky I am.