This time seven years ago I was readying myself for the first of numerous major surgeries following a grade 3 HER2+++ breast cancer diagnosis. Back then I wasn’t sure if I’d still be around now. Thankfully I am.
So how are things?
I can’t lie, the journey has been tough at times. I assumed, opportunistically, that after treatment I’d bounce back and be able to do all the things I was able to do before. The oncologist hinted as much, the oncoplastic consultant surgeon was more realistic.
I can do many things, not all, and it isn’t a simple case of the ageing process as I gently head towards 49. There are lots of frustrations, but in spite of everything I love life more than ever and feel enormously grateful to be here. In 2012 that wasn’t a given. As I approach the last few days of my 48th year it seems appropriate to pause for a moment and take stock, now the whole situation is less raw.
Would I take the same course of action again?
This is easy to answer because there wasn’t really a choice. Grade 3 and HER2+++ don’t make for a great combination. If anything I’d have liked shorter gaps between the initial suspicious findings and formal diagnosis, diagnosis and surgery, and surgery and adjuvant therapy. It was almost 7 months until adjuvant therapy commenced, outside the NICE guidelines. It felt like a long time, long enough for any distant cancer cells to take hold. I didn’t want that.
I wish I’d known more about the challenges of surgery and how long it would take to regain my upper body strength (I’m still not as strong as I used to be). I remain glad that I opted for the more radical surgery, because choosing a conservative option may well have seen me going through it all again about now.
What was the most worrying moment?
Although cancer runs in the maternal side of my family – it wiped out the vast majority of my female relatives – I quickly realised just how little I knew about it and how complex it is. As soon as I was diagnosed I wanted it out of my body. I didn’t realise how much biopsy-ing, testing, imaging and investigation takes place before decisions about appropriate surgery, neoadjuvant or adjuvant treatments can be made.
The results of the MRI scan were by far the most worrying event for me because it “lit up like a Christmas tree.” I thought it might be too late even though I’d seen the Dr straight away. I had countless sleepless nights worrying that I’d die at a crucial stage in my son’s life leaving him motherless, homeless and unsupported. I love my family, I really didn’t want to leave them alone and destitute.
Was treatment hard?
On reflection, I think it was. It took 18 months+ and knocked the stuffing out of me. At the time I didn’t realise quite how big a toll it took. I kept pushing myself forward, trying to be “normal,” getting on with life as best I could. But life was far from normal, and normal didn’t include me.
I didn’t feel seriously ill pre-diagnosis even though I was seriously ill. At some points during treatment I wondered what else or how much more I might need to endure. At times I felt extremely ill. The lowest point came when I had to inject myself with granulocyte colony stimulating factor, to combat low white blood cell levels which increase the risk of serious or life-threatening infections. At night the pain in my bones was unimaginable yet still I carried on. That pain is still unlike anything I’d experienced before or since. So yes, treatment was hard but the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m still here and as far as we know, cancer-free. It was hard but it was worth it.
What else happened?
Having cancer taught me a lot. Psychological lessons included learning my body was no longer my own. I couldn’t trust it and felt trapped in a shell that might break into a thousand hopeless pieces at any moment. Coming to terms with my own fragility and unpredictability took time. Physical lessons involved treatments designed to obliterate the disease that also obliterated my joints, my thought processes and my hearing. Although cognition has improved a little, my joints and hearing are permanently damaged. C’est la vie. Emotional lessons centred on relationships. People who promised to stand with me simply vanished into thin air and that was very hard. Thankfully strangers and acquaintances came closer, they became friends and remain loyal friends today.
More difficult and painful than any other part of this journey was the continuing loss of friends who were also fellow cancer patients. Some older, many younger, these were people for whom surgeries and therapies did not prove successful. There are so very many of them, not ones or twos but tens and tens. My heart gets a little more broken every time I remember friends and loved ones who have died of this spiteful disease, and think of those who are dying now as I write this post. Cancer still kills.
I don’t plan or daydream. Life is too uncertain and time is too precious for maybes, tomorrow perhaps or one day. I love my family more than ever and make the most of every moment with them. When they’re happy, I’m happy and nothing else matters. I enjoy my work, still thrive on pushing boundaries and encourage my colleagues to do likewise – why spend time in a job that feels like drudgery? I’ve taken control of things I can control (diet, exercise, rest) but I’m relaxed about it, not a zealot. Spending an extra hour in bed when I’m aching or tired isn’t going to kill me, and cancer won’t return just because I drink a glass of wine or eat a decent steak every now and then. I find beauty all around me and spend as much time as possible creating environments where nature can do its thing. In nature I find solace.
I’d like to stay cancer-free and live for a few more decades because life is good this way. But I never take anything for granted.