People often describe a cancer diagnosis as a rollercoaster of emotions, a life-affirming journey or an epic battle. But speaking from experience, none of those terms truly sum up the feeling of overwhelming shock, disbelief and terror. There were no thrills, I was not going on an epic quest, and I certainly didn’t feel like a warrior.
At 26 years old, I was busy having fun and experiencing new things. Having just relocated to London with my boyfriend to start a new career, I had no idea that a wrecking ball was about to bring everything tumbling down.
One ordinary evening sitting in front of the TV, I noticed a small, hard lump in my left breast. After a few days without change, I booked a doctor’s appointment, convincing myself of the worst-case scenario.
Being a healthy young woman with no family history of the disease, though, the nurse at my local GP reassured me that it was “probably nothing”. Regardless, she did her due diligence and booked me a full check-up.
I owe that woman my life.
On September 26, I made my way to the hospital with my boyfriend. While it was suggested that I brought someone along, I hadn’t realised that men were not allowed into the inner sanctum. I therefore underwent a series of tests alone, tearful and shaking in my hospital gown.
Until this point, I had been repeating the mantra “probably nothing” in my head, but the solemn expression on the face of the person doing the ultrasound soon snatched that optimism away from me. Staring at the ugly hospital curtains, I held the nurse’s hand as the biopsy needle pierced my skin with a loud click. I knew in my gut that something was very wrong.
After an agonisingly long wait, the oncologist called me into his office and confirmed those suspicions. Within a week, I had been told it was an aggressive grade three tumour — and we needed to act fast.
The next nine months were a like a tornado tearing through my life, but I was incredibly lucky to have a robust network of family and friends supporting me throughout my ordeal. My parents, boyfriend and friends were there at every stage to hold my hand — keeping me motivated and distracted.
I soon swapped parties, holidays and boozy brunches with a never-ending cycle of appointments. I endured two surgeries, six gruelling rounds of chemotherapy and 20 rounds of radiotherapy, among countless other tests, scans and check-ups.
Cancer is relentless, cruel and unyielding. Even now, seven years later at the age of 33, I am still taking tablets every day to ensure that my cancer doesn’t return and have only just finished five years of painful monthly injections. But unfortunately, my experience is not a one-off. The recent passing of Sarah Harding is a sad reminder that people are diagnosed with and die from breast cancer every day.
While September 26 is a date that’s forever etched in my memory, since completing my active treatment, I have reclaimed it — turning the day from something depressing into an annual celebration.
With the seventh anniversary fast approaching, I am beyond grateful to have had seven more years of birthdays, experiences and, well, life.
While I am currently waiting for the results of my annual tests, I plan to celebrate my ‘cancerversary’ this September no matter what. Not just for me, but for everyone who can’t.
