‘I’m afraid it’s not good news Mrs. Holland.  It’s cancer.’

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Fucking hell!  I’d breezed into the consultation room, summer dress flapping, high heels clunking, confidently expecting the surgeon to say ‘You’re menopausal love.  Here’s some HRT.  Off you pop.  See you in a year!’  I suppose I should have twigged that something was amiss when the first thing she said to me was ‘Have you come alone…?’

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You know in films when the character is delivered some news that is hard to take in, and the camera pans back from the character’s eyes, and there is a whistling sound that abruptly stops; and then you see them sitting there, statue-like, staring in disbelief?  I hadn’t realized until the moment I heard those words how accurate that visual representation is.

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The phrase ‘carpet being ripped from under your feet’ is also good one to describe what happens next, with the conveyor belt of tests, scans, needles, appointments, and what feels like a bombardment of information that will make you feel like screaming for the rollercoaster to stop so you can get off and drown it all with a magnum of prosecco.

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Your once solid world all of a sudden turns on its side and everything you thought you could hold onto falls off.  At least temporarily.  People are talking to you, and you know it’s important and you should be listening and asking questions, but everyone sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown, and you feel like your whole body has been submerged into deep, dark water.

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Once the news sinks in, the horizon slowly rights itself.  You realize that you haven’t fallen off the edge of the world or drowned. But nothing is in the right place anymore.  Everything has changed.  A million thoughts whizz through your head.  How will I tell the kids?  My husband? What about my job?   Am I gonna die?  Will I go bald?! I hope at least I’ll lose some weight as a result of all this.  How the fuck can this be happening to me?

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My bombshell came on Tuesday 13th June 2017.  Stage 2 invasive lobular breast cancer.  This apparently means it is in my breast and may or may not have spread to my lymph nodes.  I am not quite sure how they know at this stage, having just taken a biopsy from your breast, that it isn’t in any other organs, but I guess there is no point in giving you a heart attack caused by worry on top of having The Cancer.

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It is funny how quickly your perception changes.  On the morning of 13th June, before my appointment, I thought to myself ‘I don’t want to lose my breast.  The worst thing that can happen will be losing my breast’.  A couple of hours later, after digesting the news and trying to understand the impact of it all, I thought ‘I hope I only lose my breast!’

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I don’t know if everyone’s experience is the same, but it felt like from the second I was delivered the news, there was a bombardment of information, scans, tests, appointments.  I was literally getting my baps out for strangers on an unprecedented scale for the next week. 

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Initial diagnosis on the Tuesday.  By the Friday it was established that the cancer took up almost my entire left breast, and that it had spread to my lymph nodes in my left armpit, and up into my breast-plate and neck.  So was in fact stage 3.  Shit.  I mean, it could be a lot worse.  As far as they could tell it wasn’t in any of my other organs.  But now I knew this was going to be a long, gruelling road.  24 weeks of chemotherapy, followed by mastectomy and reconstruction, and finally radiotherapy.  I’d had better weeks.  My initial fears about losing my breast had morphed into ‘CHOP IT OFF!  CHOP THE FUCKER OFF NOW!’

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The surreal thing is that I didn’t feel ill.  At all.  My life was always full to bursting.  I was 48, mother of 3 teenagers, step-mother to two more.  Re-married not quite 3 years previously.  Justin, my husband, has a pet-name for me.  ‘Relentless’.  He reckons if we have a window of 5 minutes or more at any time, I’ll fill it with ‘some bollocks thing’ (I am sure he means it with affection…) Whilst trying to digest the heady schedule of appointments and treatments that was about to steam-roller over me, all I could think was ‘But I have ladies day at the Racecourse next week.  Then we’re off to Spain to see my brother the week after.  I can’t have to go to hospital that many times!  What about our holiday?  Work??’ The Cancer, it turns out, is a complete bastard.  Not only does it want to kill you, it really fucks up your social life.

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Many helpful and inspirational books have been written describing the journey through this horrible disease.   I don’t wish to make light of cancer, or any long term, potentially terminal illness.  I lost my own dad to cancer just a few years previously.  I had him come and live with me so I could care for him and I know the heartbreak caused by watching someone you love suffer and shrink before your eyes.  I have lost friends and family members. And I have also seen others win their battle.

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The most heartbreaking loss was that of my son’s 16 year old friend, Jake, who passed away just 11 short months after diagnosis.  How, as a parent, can you ever come to terms with that??  If the circle of life goes how it is supposed to, we expect to lose our parents, and as we get older maybe our siblings and peers.  But to lose a child…. And to witness my son and his friends experience the pain of loss at such a tender age is something I hope I never have to go through again.

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So I am not suggesting that dealing with this disease is any laughing matter.  Even the happy endings have their share of turmoil, trauma and tears.

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But, through this whole painful, stressful, worrying, life changing experience, for me there has also been laughter, love, family, friendship, new experiences and inspiration from unexpected places.  So, I have put together this A-Z guide to try to help any fellow suffers, and their friends and family through their journey.  It’s not for the faint hearted and it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but it is frank and honest and hopefully it will make you smile.

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When you first tell people that you have The Cancer, there will be quite a few people who will say to you that you have to be ‘strong and positive’ and that this is all you need in order to make a full and speedy recovery (never mind chemo, surgery, radiotherapy and an amazing team of medical professionals who are all doing their best to keep you alive…).  When you first hear it, you will smile, possibly through tears, and say ‘thank you for being so supportive’.  You might even hug it out, and feel comforted by it.  But, trust me, after you have heard it for the thousandth time, you will feel like caving heads in!  Through gritted teeth, you will tell the well-meaning deliverer of this sound advice that they are so right.  You’ll smile, and nod.  But inside you will be screaming ‘I HAVE HAD 4 GALLONS OF TOXIC JOLLOP SQUIRTED INTO MY VEINS THIS AFTERNOON.  I FEEL LIKE ABSOLUTE SHIT.  I’M PROBABLY GLOWING LIKE THE READY BREK ADVERT, AND IN A WHILE I’LL BE TAKING A BRIGHT ORANGE PISS.  I AM BLOATED, BALD, TIRED, FED UP AND EMOTIONALLY EMPTY.  DO ME A FAVOUR AND FUCK OFF!’  Smile and wave girl. Smile and wave.

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So here it is.  My handy A-Z reference guide for all things Breast Cancer.  Terms and Conditions apply.  The author can’t be held responsible for any medical inaccuracies.  There is no guarantee that the contents of this book will be therapeutic, make you feel strong and positive or relieve any symptoms.  But you can always throw it at someone. That’s sure to make you feel at least a bit better.