Twins Louise and Clare share their story
Twins, Louise Darville and Clare Vincent, 60, have shared a lot over the years, including a cancer diagnosis
Tying a bright-pink headscarf around my head, my twin sister, Clare, smiled her approval and gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘You look just like me!’ she giggled, gesturing to her own blue headscarf. Clare had a way of making me laugh and easing my worries. Growing up, we’d shared everything, including our toys, clothes and makeup. We experienced everything together as sisters, and now, in 2014, as we faced the biggest
battle of our lives, I’d never felt more grateful to have Clare by my side.
Clare and I were the youngest daughters of five siblings. We were always up to mischief, particularly at school. Occasionally, for fun, we’d swap uniforms – I’d wear Clare’s cardigan and she’d wear my jumper, which was the only way teachers could tell us apart. ‘You two are trouble,’ our eldest sister, Anne, would laugh as she walked us home from school.
Clare and I had a happy childhood, but in 1982, when we were 22, we lost our dad, Patrick, to liver cancer. He was only 48. Cancer was a disease that seemed to plague our family – because, 11 years later, our mum, Mary, died aged 59 from pancreatic cancer. Losing both our parents, Clare and I leaned on each other for support even more.
By now, we were both married, and I had my daughters, Becky and Debbie, then 11 and eight, and Clare and her husband, Jon, had their children, Nicholas, nine, and Katie, seven.
‘WE BOTH TRIED TO REMAIN POSITIVE’
After my husband and I divorced, Clare was great, helping me with the kids, and when I met Matt, and gave birth to our twins, Freya and Josh, in 1998, she was so happy for me.
But when the twins were two months old, she visited one day looking upset. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said, explaining she’d found a lump in her left breast. I was terrified. We’ve always been equally strong, though as I was the older twin, I’d often taken the lead. Only now, it was Clare who was comforting me. ‘Everything will be OK,’ she soothed.
‘It should be me telling you that,’ I laughed, through tears.
WORST FEARS CONFIRMED
Clare had a lumpectomy scheduled for 11 December and chemotherapy and radiotherapy would follow. ‘I’ll be there with you every step of the way,’ I said. Over the next few months, her hair fell out, and the radiotherapy was gruelling, but in August 1999, her treatment ended and we hoped the worst was over.
Not long after, we found that our family were carriers of the BRCA1 gene - a mutation in the DNA that increases the risk of certain cancers, including breast, ovarian, prostate and pancreatic. ‘We can’t let this disease take any more of us,’ I said to Clare. We both tried to remain positive.
But then in April 2011, our sister, Anne, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She’d had her ovaries removed several years prior, as a preventative measure. But cancer had already taken hold of her pancreas and she died the following month. It seemed no matter what, cancer was always lurking around the corner, ready to destroy any bit of hope we had left.
Then, six months after losing Anne, Clare confessed to me she’d been feeling tired and bloated. Neither of us wanted to admit that it might be cancer again. But, sure enough, in February 2012, our worst fears were confirmed. ‘I’ve got ovarian cancer,’ Clare told me. She’d not had her ovaries removed because there’d been no signs the cancer had spread.
After she had a full hysterectomy in May 2012, she began chemo and I became a permanent resident in the chair next to her whenever she had treatment. For a while, it seemed to be working, but the cancer returned in October 2013.
The more I worried about Clare, the more exhausted I felt, and Clare picked up on it straight away. ‘I want you to get a CA125 test,’ she insisted. It was one of the tests for ovarian cancer. To put her mind at ease, I agreed – but, sure enough, the markers in my blood came back remarkably high and I was scheduled to have a procedure to remove my ovaries and prevent cancer.
UNWAVERING SUPPORT
Soon after, in February 2014, my doctor confirmed that I did, in fact, already have ovarian cancer. I was shocked but strangely accepting. A part of me had always believed this killer was coming for me, too. ‘It’s just my turn,’ I thought. Of course, that didn’t make it any easier. Telling Matt and the kids was hard enough, but the person I dreaded telling the most was Clare.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said when I told her. I felt I was letting her down – how could I support her when I was sick, too? ‘You just worry about beating this,’ Clare told me.
I had a full hysterectomy later that same month, and then I joined Clare on chemotherapy. Like her, I also lost my hair, and donned crazy, coloured head scarves. It became a running joke between us that we couldn’t do anything without each other. ‘This wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I told you I’d be with you every step of the way,’ I teased Clare. I didn’t think Clare and I could be
any closer – but, somehow, our cancers were bonding us further still. Having her to talk to about treatment, or how desperate I was for my hair to grow back, made me feel better.
By August 2014, my chemo sessions ended – and, thankfully, I was told there was no evidence of the disease in my body. It was the strangest sensation – I felt hugely relieved, but I felt guilty, too, like it wasn’t fair on Clare.
She was thrilled for me. ‘This is better news than when we found out we’d passed our O levels!’ she laughed. But my battle isn’t over – not until Clare’s is.
Seven years on and she is still receiving chemo, but our determination hasn’t wavered. More than anyone, Clare deserves some good news. We have always done everything the same, and we’re not about to change that now. If I can beat this deadly killer, she can, too.