BRAVEST TRAILBLAZER
When Wendy insisted on having her healthy breasts removed 25 years ago, doctors said she was mad. But she was adamant cancer was in her genes – and was proved right in a heartbreaking way
WENDY WATSON says she simply doesn’t see them any more — the now fading, but still visible, red scars that criss-cross her flat chest. they’re the battle wounds of a hell of a fight she took on 25 years ago — against doctors and the medical establishment — and won.
she won not just for her, but for thousands of women all over the world who aren’t aware that they might owe their lives to this genial, 62-year-old grandmother from Derbyshire.
Wendy may not look much like a trailblazer, but that’s precisely what she is — a pioneer who’s led the way for everyone from angelina Jolie to sharon osbourne.
How? Wendy is thought to be the first woman in Britain to have had a pre-emptive double mastectomy. Despite being just 37 in 1992, and doctors doubting her sanity and dismissing her as ‘hysterical’, she succeeded in persuading surgeons to remove both her healthy breasts, halting the scourge of breast cancer which had ravaged her family for generations.
this was when DNA profiling was still in its infancy, and the defective BRCa1 gene, responsible for greatly increasing a woman’s chances of developing breast cancer, was still to be identified.
People didn’t know that breast cancer could be ‘inherited’. But Wendy had spotted a trait in her family that she couldn’t put down to coincidence. the women mostly didn’t live into old age, because of breast cancer. Her own mother died aged just 45.
Fearing the odds were stacked against her too, she fought, long and hard, against fierce scepticism for her then healthy breasts to be removed.
Back then, she wasn’t offered reconstructive surgery either, and remains defiantly flat-chested.
‘Losing my breasts bought me my future,’ says Wendy, who lives in Bakewell, with her second husband Chris, 68, a retired policeman.
‘Like every other woman, I catch sight of my naked body in the mirror now and then, and don’t like what I see. But not my scars,’ she says. ‘I see them and think: “I’m here, I’m alive.” ’
SIMPLE pleasures like being able to push her three- year- old granddaughter Eva may on a swing, as she eagerly awaits the birth of her second grandchild (her daughter, Becky measures, is due in april) remind her how right she was to fight.
the fact that three generations of females in her family are alive, and able to enjoy each other’s company, is down to her courage.
Wendy’s operation in 1992 was the precursor to the boom in preventative double-mastectomies we see today — an operation which is the most reliable way to prevent breast cancer in those genetically prone to it. It has become dramatically more popular since angelina Jolie announced she had had both breasts removed in 2013.
so common is it that women who have had the operation have attracted their own moniker: ‘ previvors’ — those who took preventative measures to survive cancer. the hashtag ‘#previvor’ is even found as a caption to photos women now post online of their double mastectomy scars.
all this, however, doesn’t come without controversy. some doctors warn the ‘fear factor’ is behind such a rise in double, preventative mastectomies, and that the vast majority are unnecessary.
Wendy’s family’s journey started when, as a nine year old, she watched her beloved grandma, Evelyn, die of ovarian cancer at 67, having battled breast cancer in her 40s. six years later, history repeated itself when Wendy’s mother told her she, too, had breast cancer.
‘Dad cared for her at home,’ recalls Wendy. ‘I remember him crying as he threw meals in the bin that mum was too weak to eat. Radiotherapy didn’t work, and she died within 14 months. It was harrowing.’
Jean, a teacher, was just 45 when she died in august 1971, leaving behind Wendy, 16, and her younger sister, Diane, 12.
Wendy’s loss was particularly keen when her daughter, Becky, was born in october 1981. ‘I was terrified of leaving her without a mum,’ she says. ‘I became increasingly convinced there had to be some link between mum and Grandma. But doctors told me it was pure coincidence.’
then, in 1990, Wendy had a chance meeting with a cousin, Jennifer Caudwell.
she was shocked to learn Jennifer had suffered two bouts of breast cancer in her early 30s. Not only this, but her sister, Barbara ayre, had died of breast cancer at the age of 38; their aunt Hilda had also developed breast cancer but survived; and their mother, Lilian Holmes, had just been diagnosed aged 67. sadly, she died soon afterwards.
‘I was horror-struck,’ says Wendy. ‘Nine of the ten females in three generations had contracted breast cancer. six had died. Whatever was causing it seemed to date back as far as I could trace — to my great-great-great-great-great grandmother. By now I had a sympathetic GP who was so appalled he agreed to give me check-ups every three months. He hoped to reassure me. But I was on tenterhooks, convinced he would find a lump.
‘I was a pert 36C, but I loathed my breasts so much I never indulged in pretty lingerie or low-cut tops.
‘By now, my marriage had broken up and, in 1990, I had married Chris, a policeman. We bought a beautiful farmhouse in the Peak District and should have been blissfully planning our future, but my first thought every morning was of the cancer I knew was coming for me.’
then Wendy had her lightbulb moment. ‘ I’m a very practical woman. suddenly I realised the best way to ensure I never got breast cancer was to get rid of my breasts,’ she said. ‘With no breasts, there could be no cancer.
‘Chris saw the logic. It’s always been me he loves, not my breasts.’
although stunned by her suggestion — it was the first time anyone had ever discussed the idea — Wendy’s forward-thinking GP also saw the logic. He agreed to refer her to a surgeon at Buxton Hospital. the surgeon was equally astounded. But, at Wendy’s insistence, he made an appointment for her at the Family History Clinic at manchester’s Nightingale Centre. It could not have been more timely. Professors tony Howell and Gareth Evans, who were investigating genetic links with cancer, were on the verge of a breakthrough. they had found a faulty chromosome on which a gene was situated, which they called BRCa1. However, there was still no test that could confirm whether someone had the BRCa1 gene.
‘Even that didn’t put me off,’ says Wendy. ‘I knew I wouldn’t regret it. Chris squeezed my hand and said: “Go for it.”
‘But when I told friends, they
were horrified. Their biggest concern seemed to be how Chris would cope. W ould he still find me attractive?
‘ “Why not wait until you ’ ve got cancer?” ’ they asked. ‘How can you explain what it feels like to be stalked by fear 24/7?’
Today, women are counselled to prepare them for having mastec - tomies. Wendy had to stumble along alone.
‘But I had been agonising so long, I was mentally prepared,’ she says. So she woke from the operation at Stockport Hospital in April 1992, feeling only relief.
‘I suspect it’s more traumatic for women who have just one breast removed and may feel lopsided,’ she says. ‘Looking round the ward, all women recovering from surgery to stop their cancer spreading , was sobering. Many faced months of traumatic treatment. All I had were a few scars, and the knowl - edge I’d dodged a bullet.
A year after her operation, came another medical development: the gene test for BRCA1. It confirmed what Wendy had long suspected – she had the faulty gene. Her sister, Diane, had escaped.
This, however, left the terrible prospect that her daughter, Becky, a 35- year - old radio presenter , might have inherited it.
Becky was 22 when, in January 2004, a blood test confirmed she was, indeed, a carrier. It meant she had a 85 per cent chance of developing breast cancer. Wendy wept when she learned she’d passed on the gene.
Becky was given three options: monitoring, a trial procedure where her ovaries would be shut down to stop her producing oestrogen which feeds tumours — or she could copy her mother, and remove her breasts.
While there had been enormous strides in surgery since her mother’s operation, for Becky some questions remained. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t feel sexy, that no man would fancy me,’ she says. Becky , unlike her mother, couldn’t countenance living without her breasts, opting instead for reconstruction.
‘Mum was ten years older , and already a mother when she had the op. I was much younger , and had a lovely figure. I couldn ’t imagine living in high-necked tops. Mum was happily settled with my lovely stepdad. I wasn’t sure I had met “the one” yet.’
To Becky’s delight, her surgeon at Manchester’s Wythenshawe Hospital, Andy Blaidon, promised he could do the reconstruction at the same time as he removed her breasts.
Becky sailed through the operation. But, while the scars quickly faded, questions remained. ‘ I wondered how I would ever explain my body to a man,’ says Becky.
Fortunately, when she met her partner, Alex, a 31-year -old salesman, through friends in 2011, he already knew. Word had appar - ently got round!
When Becky fell pregnant with Eva May in October 2012, she had to accept she would never breastfeed her. ‘I worried it would stop us bonding,’ says Becky.
MUCH to her relief, the bond with Eva May was instant when she was born in July 2013. However , her birth was tinged with anxiety, as the little girl stands a 50 per cent chance of inheriting the deadly gene.
‘I like to think medical advances will mean she has even more choices in the future than me and Mum,’ says Becky.
Wendy, who was awarded the MBE in 2013, continues with her tireless work to raise awareness of the genetic link with breast cancer — she runs The Hereditary Breast Cancer Helpline, open 24 hours, from her home. Becky, meanwhile, has another important decision hanging over her . The defective BRCA1 gene means she has a 40-60 per cent chance of develop - ing ovarian cancer.
Wendy had a preventative hysterectomy two months after her double mastectomy. Now Becky, who has regular tests, knows she faces the same stark choice.
‘Losing my womb — which will catapult me into the menopause — would be more life - changing than losing my breasts,’ says Becky. ‘I worry I won ’t feel like a woman, that it will damage my relationship. And what if we wanted more children?
‘Mum is reassuring — she coped with it brilliantly. But it has to be my decision. Deep down, I know the answer.
‘I’m blessed that I’ll have two children and, for their sake, I need to do all I can to stay cancer free.’ And live on, just like her mother did, to see her grandchildren grow up. And for everyone to remember Wendy, who made it all possible.
For information on hereditary breast cancer, or to donate, contact breastcancer genetics.co.uk, or telephone 01629 813000.