When I was diagnosed with cancer, I thought it was a mistake, writes CAROLINE HEALY
I KNEW there was something wrong when the breast care nurse at the clinic led me down the corridor, past rooms one to 10, for the results of my needle biopsy.
I had spent the last hour seated in the waiting area, in an uncomfortable chair, watching a constant stream of women going in and out of these rooms.
“Why was I not going in there for my results?” I thought to myself. “Why down this corridor?”
When I saw the box of tissues on the table and the solemn face of the consultant, I knew I was in serious trouble.
My needle biopsy had come back positive for cancer cells, 96 per cent positive. The consultant used words such as cancer, tumour, lumpectomy, mastectomy, infertility, osteoporosis, chemotherapy, disease, until they filled my head with total panic.
I was unable to make any sense of it all, the words sounded too foreign, too serious, too unrelated to my life.
Ninety six per cent certain of cancer cells in a tiny needle, which they had stuck in to my breast. That still leaves 4 per cent, 4 per cent unaccounted for.
Perhaps they had made a mistake?
They could have made a mistake.
They didn’t.
I have cancer. But don’t be ridiculous. I can’t possibly have cancer, can I?
If words were my refuse, a pseudo denial mechanism, then I buried myself in them.
Booklets, articles, Google searches, cancer research websites, breast cancer care websites, I trawled through the internet and little by little the fog of ignorance lifted and I was able to formulate informed sentences regarding my diagnosis.
My language completely changed, cancer and the terminology surrounding it, began to invade my life.
Telling my family was the beginning of a hellish week. I call it the “Telling Phase” where you stress yourself out over how to tell, when to tell, who to tell, what to tell – all in an effort to limit the shock and the grief that you have to inflict on the people you love.
I would not wish the experience of “telling” on any person – it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
From the date of my diagnosis to the date of my surgery, I had approximately three weeks to get my life in order. I took absence from work, I cleared my calendar of appointments, I contacted my friends, and I bought supplies, comfy pyjamas for the hospital, post-surgery bra sets from Marks and Spencer and organic vegetables.
I began to obsess about organic and my five a day, so I could feel like I had some control, like I was making some difference to the enormous tumour that was growing in my breast.
My surgery, a full mastectomy with lymph clearance, went well. Afterwards, I was left with limited range of movement in my right shoulder and unable to use my right arm for injections, bloods, underarm waxing or manicures.
The dreaded, ever present threat of lymphoedema (extreme swelling of the shoulder, arm and hands in response to infection and lack of lymphatic system) is always on my mind and will be something I will have to contend with for a lifetime.
I start my chemo this week and feel like I’m disembodied at times, living this experience through someone else’s life.
At 28, I am faced with potential early menopause, infertility, cancer recurrence, osteoporosis, lymphoedema, secondaries and a list of other ailments.
For my friends and peers, I embody the same person I always was except now our range of conversation topics around the dining table includes breast cancer.
My peers are ignorant, for the most part, to the world of cancer and why should it be any other way?
I had to explain to my friend, the difference between a lumpectomy and a mastectomy after she hesitantly admitted to me that she was unsure what both words meant.
Younger people, especially younger women, may not have cause to be aware of any cancer “language”.
At 28, when I went to my GP with no symptoms and a swollen breast, she took a look at my age, my family history, supporting symptoms, of which I had none, and put me in a category.
If anything, just because you fall into a number, a statistic, a category or a percentage, doesn’t always mean you are the norm.
After my third visit and insistence on a referral to the breast clinic, I now fall into a different category. I am one of less than 2 per cent of women with breast cancer who are under 30.
This disease does not define me but it has impacted on my life, on my life choices and on aspects of my future.
I would encourage all women, no matter your age, family history, health or medical history, that if you have a lump or are concerned about something, go see your doctor and make sure you are happy with the care that you receive.
Follow Caroline Healy’s experiences on her blog at charliesbreastcancerblog.blogspot.com
