‘I just want to give my son something to remember me by’
After coming to terms with her cancer diagnosis, Rachael Bland is writing her story for two-year-old Freddie as the ultimate gift
The results of my latest CAT scan made for pretty grim reading, and the oncologist was suitably grim-faced as he delivered them. The cancer had spread around multiple lymph nodes in my upper body, into my skin and now into my liver. We still had some hope of holding back the tide for a while, but no one survives metastatic breast cancer long term.
My husband, Steve, and I were devastated but we are almost numb to getting bad news as nothing has gone to plan since my initial diagnosis in November 2016. I’d had some pain under my arm, then found a lump. I was stunned when they told me it was breast cancer. I was only 38. But when I asked about my prognosis, the oncologist quickly replied with a reassuring: “Very good.”
For many women, breast cancer is now a very treatable disease: almost 90 per cent survive five years or more. But mine was the most aggressive form, triple-negative, which isn’t hormonedriven, so there are no drugs to reduce the chance of recurrence. I’ve not asked how long I have left, because I don’t want a number to count down to. It’s only ever a best guesstimate – but I’ve got less than a year.
My cancer was particularly pernicious from the start. A few days after Christmas 2016, I went through my first of 12 rounds of chemotherapy, wearing a Paxman cold cap in order to keep my hair. I was lucky not to suffer too many side effects, but it was tough.
Then came the lumpectomy – and
‘I still want to take joy from the moments when he says “Oh Mummy, I love you”’
the moment everything started to go south. The pathology results showed a large area of cancer left behind. I took the news in silence, while Steve had to lay down on the bed in the consulting room. This had not been in the plan.
By the time I had a full mastectomy, two months later, another huge tumour had grown back. As I sat in the salon having highlights for the first time in eight months, the oncologist called to say I would need more chemo. As I began another five rounds, a scan showed the cancer had spread to lymph nodes under my arm on the opposite side, an unusual place for it to go.
This was bad: it technically meant my cancer had metastasised – that is, developed the ability to move away from its primary site. But a bit of research told me this type of spread could be still be treated curatively by removing the lymph nodes with surgery. Even when things are really bad, you’ve still got to have hope. If you’ve got treatment options then you’ve got a chance.
But a couple of months after the surgery, I started to notice a redness across the skin of my remaining breast. Biopsies were taken and showed it was the same cancer, back in the skin, now technically inflammatory breast cancer. I hugged my beautiful son, Freddie, and told him I was so sorry. I felt so guilty to think I’d be leaving him without a mother.
It was suggested my best hope might be to try early-phase clinical trials; perhaps some new drug might be able to kick this cancer into touch. It’s actually quite exciting to be part of such an endeavour, helping in groundbreaking research. I had high hopes for the one I enrolled on in May, which involved an immunotherapy drug I’d read good things about. But after two months, a scan showed my cancer had progressed way beyond the 20 per cent threshold to stay on the trial.
There is one more that I had hoped to try, but my liver function is now not good enough. Currently, I’m not on any active treatment, but we refuse to give up until we’ve exhausted every option.
Though I’m not officially on leave from BBC Radio 5 Live, where I’m a newsreader, over the last couple of weeks I haven’t been well enough with my breathing issues to work. But I hope to be back on the early evening show, Drive, this Friday.
I’m not scared of dying. I only fear for those I leave behind. For Freddie, who’ll be three next month, for Steve and our families. Even now, knowing the “no options left” conversation is coming, I can’t crumble.
I have to suppress a lot of the darkest thoughts about Freddie growing up without his mummy mummy. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be ab able to enjoy the precious time tim we have left. I still want t to take joy from the moments when he turns to me, as he has begun to the p past few weeks and says: “Oh, I mi missed you, Mu Mummy. I love y you so much much.”
Ste Steve and I don’t discuss how he’ll cope wit without me me, but we do talk about all the things I want him to do with Freddie when I’m gone. He’s quite an emotional man, so I know he’ll do a lot of crying. But he is also the most amazing father and will keep going and stay strong for our son’s sake. It’s something we try not to think about too much. We find denial is the best tactic, and until someone tells us “This is the end”, we’ll try, as much as we can, to keep going as normal.
I had a vague idea of leaving something behind for Freddie from the time I was diagnosed. But it was a plan I’d never dreamed I would have to put into action. He’s so young, I’m not even sure he’ll have any memories of me as he grows, but I so wanted him to know me.
As my husband and I only met six years ago, there are entire sections of my life he won’t be able to tell Freddie about. And even the bits we’ve done together we remember differently! I’ve always wanted to write a book, and what better book to write than the memoir of my life for my son? I feel writing is the best way I can get my personality across to him. For Freddie, then, is a love letter to my beautiful boy that I hope will leave the imprint of me and my love for him around him forever.
It contains all the stories and the advice that I would have given Fred over the years, but won’t be around to do in person. I hope he will come back to it through his life and it will resonate in different ways. Writing it has made me laugh, smile and cry. I’ve spoken to friends who lost their mothers at a young age and they say they would have treasured this kind of information, and I hope Freddie will see it as the ultimate gift of my love, as it is intended.
I would like to see it published before I die. But at the moment it feels like a race against time.
I’ve been a BBC news presenter for
‘I hope Freddie will see it as the ultimate gift of my love, as it is intended to be’
more than 15 years, and when you talk about something scary, it helps take some of the sting out of it. A few weeks after my initial diagnosis at the end of 2016, I started a blog – Big C. Little Me – as a way to update people on my treatment, but it quickly turned into an opportunity to help others. When you’re diagnosed with cancer, it can be frightening and lonely and, sometimes, it can make a world of difference just to know your feelings and thoughts are normal.
When I get messages from people saying my blog makes them feel less alone, or that they’ve used my cold-capping tips and kept their hair, it feels like something positive has come out of this. And you’ve got to find the positives to help you carry on.
Through blogging and social media, I became aware there were many amazing young women going through cancer and smashing the stereotype of a sad, grey, sickly existence. They were doing it with sequins and a smile, showing cancer doesn’t mean your life has to end.
At the start of the year, I was put in touch with Lauren Mahon, who runs the Girl vs Cancer community, and Deborah James, the “Bowelbabe” instagrammer, and we chatted by phone about doing a joint podcast. A month later, You, Me and the Big C, our hour-long weekly conversation about our experiences, was born. We wanted to show people the other side of cancer treatment, that our lives go on around it, that we can still laugh.
In fact, we spend more time laughing and messing about than we should, much to the annoyance of our producers. The three of us only met in person in February, but now Lauren and Deborah are two of my best friends, who understand exactly how I’m feeling.
Who else would laugh at my death jokes and GIFs of chest-bumping Grim Reapers? Because, even at the end, it always feels better to laugh than to cry.