An episode of 'The Jerry Springer Show'
I was in the garden one day, I must have been about 15 years old, and mum was nattering to the next door neighbour. My ears perked up when the neighbour asked mum whether the test results were back yet. I had no idea until then that anything was amiss, although we had had a record number of takeaways that week.
It turned out that my mother had discovered a breast lump and was waiting for the results of a biopsy. She told me this a bit later in the day, saying that she hadn’t wanted to worry me unnecessarily. I learnt that my grandmother had breast cancer as a young woman, and that my great-grandmother had died from the disease. Mum's test results came back a week or so later and the lump was just a fatty deposit.
I went to university and graduated. While I was job hunting, my grandmother collapsed and was rushed into hospital. Within a few weeks she was admitted to a hospice, and two weeks later she passed away. We were told that her body was riddled with metastasized cancer.
At this point I learnt more about my grandmother’s experience of breast cancer. Shortly after the birth of her first two children (aged 31) she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and had a radical mastectomy and radiotherapy. Twelve years later (aged 43) she was diagnosed with breast cancer in the other breast, and again had a radical mastectomy and radiotherapy. As a child I never questioned her odd body shape. She was overweight which masked her missing bosom and lymphedema.
In the years after my mother’s first false alarm she had a number of subsequent lumps biopsied and each came back as benign. I was 25, and mum was 48 when she called me with the devastating news that her most recent biopsy had revealed a malignant tumour. She opted for a bilateral mastectomy, and had a course of chemotherapy. A year or so later she had a TRAM flap breast reconstruction. Genetic tests for the BRCA1 & BRCA2 genes became available and given the family history my mum decided to get tested. The results revealed she had a BRCA1 mutation which my mum was prepared for, but what took her by surprise was the discovery that there was also an increased risk of ovarian cancer. To minimise the risk of ovarian cancer she had a prophylactic oophorectomy.
Three years later, aged 28, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, which to my mind answered the “have I inherited the BRCA1 gene?” question. My parents were devastated, with mum particularly distressed that she’d passed on the defective gene. My partner didn’t cope so well, but stuck with me. As a young woman, hoping to start a family, I opted for a lumpectomy, and had chemotherapy followed by radiotherapy. To help my other half cope, I suggested we sell our home and rent somewhere close to his place of work, which enabled him to pop in and check I was ok when I was incapacitated with the chemo. I took the minimum amount of time off work, two weeks off after surgery, 3-4 days off after each dose of chemotherapy, and my radiotherapy was scheduled so that I could leave work mid-afternoon for the 7 weeks of daily treatment. I gradually recovered, and we started planning our wedding for the following year.
On the eve of our wedding mum was rushed into hospital, seriously ill. A few weeks later she was diagnosed with peritoneal cancer, quite rare but similar to ovarian cancer. We were told it was inoperable and terminal, and they started treatment with chemotherapy. It took several months, but eventually my mother started to recover as the cancer was pushed into remission. A year later the cancer returned, and while we hoped the chemotherapy would be effective a second time it gradually became apparent that it wasn’t working, and slowly mum deteriorated. A few months before my mother died, her sister was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
My husband’s coping strategy was courtesy of a slightly familiar grouse. Drinking at work got him fired. After my mum passed away, and without the stressful job, I had hoped he would be able to return to a sober lifestyle. When that didn’t happen I pushed him into a residential rehab program. He came out of that dry, but a shambling wreck of a man, cold and detached towards me. Within a month he demanded a divorce, and not long after that he told me he was setting up home with a drug addict he’d met in rehab who was expecting his baby.
As my life came to resemble an episode of 'The Jerry Springer Show', distraught with grief and a broken heart, I left London to return to my family in Yorkshire. I lived in York for a year, until a romance brought me back to London. Ironically that fizzled practically the moment I’d finished unpacking. I stayed in London, got my old job back, and settled down.
Ovarian cancer finally claimed the life of my aunt three years after my mother. Nine months later, shortly before my 36th birthday, I was diagnosed with breast cancer in the opposite breast. The cancer had metastasized, spreading to three lymph nodes. Treatment was lumpectomy, lymph node clearance, chemotherapy and radiotherapy. The prognosis is on the glum side – the 5 year survival rate is about 60-70%.
At the time of my diagnosis I was living alone in a flat in central London. Realising I wouldn’t be able to manage the four flights of stairs during chemo, and having no support network in London to help me, I retreated to Leeds where my family live. This was the second time that cancer had cost me my home.
Ten months later I was recovering from the treatment and discussing my return to work when lymphedema developed. This felt like the final straw, suddenly I was no longer coping, my horizons closed in, and I could see no future I wanted any part of. It has been a slow and difficult road back from that place, carefully navigated with help from a clinical psychologist. I returned to work on a part time basis four months ago, splitting my week between Leeds and London.
It turned out that my mother had discovered a breast lump and was waiting for the results of a biopsy. She told me this a bit later in the day, saying that she hadn’t wanted to worry me unnecessarily. I learnt that my grandmother had breast cancer as a young woman, and that my great-grandmother had died from the disease. Mum's test results came back a week or so later and the lump was just a fatty deposit.
I went to university and graduated. While I was job hunting, my grandmother collapsed and was rushed into hospital. Within a few weeks she was admitted to a hospice, and two weeks later she passed away. We were told that her body was riddled with metastasized cancer.
At this point I learnt more about my grandmother’s experience of breast cancer. Shortly after the birth of her first two children (aged 31) she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and had a radical mastectomy and radiotherapy. Twelve years later (aged 43) she was diagnosed with breast cancer in the other breast, and again had a radical mastectomy and radiotherapy. As a child I never questioned her odd body shape. She was overweight which masked her missing bosom and lymphedema.
In the years after my mother’s first false alarm she had a number of subsequent lumps biopsied and each came back as benign. I was 25, and mum was 48 when she called me with the devastating news that her most recent biopsy had revealed a malignant tumour. She opted for a bilateral mastectomy, and had a course of chemotherapy. A year or so later she had a TRAM flap breast reconstruction. Genetic tests for the BRCA1 & BRCA2 genes became available and given the family history my mum decided to get tested. The results revealed she had a BRCA1 mutation which my mum was prepared for, but what took her by surprise was the discovery that there was also an increased risk of ovarian cancer. To minimise the risk of ovarian cancer she had a prophylactic oophorectomy.
Three years later, aged 28, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, which to my mind answered the “have I inherited the BRCA1 gene?” question. My parents were devastated, with mum particularly distressed that she’d passed on the defective gene. My partner didn’t cope so well, but stuck with me. As a young woman, hoping to start a family, I opted for a lumpectomy, and had chemotherapy followed by radiotherapy. To help my other half cope, I suggested we sell our home and rent somewhere close to his place of work, which enabled him to pop in and check I was ok when I was incapacitated with the chemo. I took the minimum amount of time off work, two weeks off after surgery, 3-4 days off after each dose of chemotherapy, and my radiotherapy was scheduled so that I could leave work mid-afternoon for the 7 weeks of daily treatment. I gradually recovered, and we started planning our wedding for the following year.
On the eve of our wedding mum was rushed into hospital, seriously ill. A few weeks later she was diagnosed with peritoneal cancer, quite rare but similar to ovarian cancer. We were told it was inoperable and terminal, and they started treatment with chemotherapy. It took several months, but eventually my mother started to recover as the cancer was pushed into remission. A year later the cancer returned, and while we hoped the chemotherapy would be effective a second time it gradually became apparent that it wasn’t working, and slowly mum deteriorated. A few months before my mother died, her sister was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
My husband’s coping strategy was courtesy of a slightly familiar grouse. Drinking at work got him fired. After my mum passed away, and without the stressful job, I had hoped he would be able to return to a sober lifestyle. When that didn’t happen I pushed him into a residential rehab program. He came out of that dry, but a shambling wreck of a man, cold and detached towards me. Within a month he demanded a divorce, and not long after that he told me he was setting up home with a drug addict he’d met in rehab who was expecting his baby.
As my life came to resemble an episode of 'The Jerry Springer Show', distraught with grief and a broken heart, I left London to return to my family in Yorkshire. I lived in York for a year, until a romance brought me back to London. Ironically that fizzled practically the moment I’d finished unpacking. I stayed in London, got my old job back, and settled down.
Ovarian cancer finally claimed the life of my aunt three years after my mother. Nine months later, shortly before my 36th birthday, I was diagnosed with breast cancer in the opposite breast. The cancer had metastasized, spreading to three lymph nodes. Treatment was lumpectomy, lymph node clearance, chemotherapy and radiotherapy. The prognosis is on the glum side – the 5 year survival rate is about 60-70%.
At the time of my diagnosis I was living alone in a flat in central London. Realising I wouldn’t be able to manage the four flights of stairs during chemo, and having no support network in London to help me, I retreated to Leeds where my family live. This was the second time that cancer had cost me my home.
Ten months later I was recovering from the treatment and discussing my return to work when lymphedema developed. This felt like the final straw, suddenly I was no longer coping, my horizons closed in, and I could see no future I wanted any part of. It has been a slow and difficult road back from that place, carefully navigated with help from a clinical psychologist. I returned to work on a part time basis four months ago, splitting my week between Leeds and London.
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