1. You become very casual about getting your boobs out.
The first time I went to see a doctor about the lump that had appeared in my right breast, I felt uncomfortable about the fact I was exposing myself to a stranger. I had all the body hangups of the average 26-year-old woman. I felt exposed. My bare chest and squidgy stomach were on display in front of a complete stranger. I laughed off the awkwardness of the situation, otherwise feeling incredibly relaxed about the mysterious mass my hand had brushed in the shower a few days earlier.
The second time I got my boobs out in front of a stranger, a surgeon at the hospital’s breast unit, I still felt more anxious about being laid bare in such a way than about what the lump could be. Until all this kicked off, I could have counted the people who had seen my chest in all its naked glory on one hand.
I knew I had cancer the fourth time I got my boobs out in front of a stranger. I’d been told just a few days earlier and this time, I found myself in front of a mammography machine. This time I cared significantly less about people seeing my boobs. This was no longer exploratory. This was real. This had just got serious.
These days, I’m so used to being prodded and poked that sometimes I get the Artist Formerly Known as Boob out before I’m even asked to. No, Alice. The nurse giving you your travel jabs does NOT need to examine your breasts. Keep your top on.
2. You stop sweating the small stuff (most of the time).
I know how clichéd it sounds, but when you’re diagnosed with cancer, you start to look at the world differently. From the moment they told me there were mutated, cancerous cells making a home in my boob and trying to kill me, my perspective shifted. I was no longer stressed out by work or trying hard to be the person I, or society, thought I should be. I stopped caring about what I looked like. My weight. The length of my legs. I couldn’t concentrate on being a good friend, daughter, girlfriend, employee, citizen. I had to concentrate on surviving.
When faced with my mortality, the worries I could do nothing about slipped away and were replaced with new concerns. Concerns about surgical risks. Worries about hygiene during chemo. Decisions had to be made about my treatment plan. Did I want chemotherapy first, or surgery first? Did I want to have fertility treatment? (Answer: No I bloody DID NOT want to have fertility treatment, but I did it for Future Alice, even though I don’t think she will want kids). Did I want to have a lumpectomy or a mastectomy? Did I want to have radiotherapy for the best possible reduction in recurrence rates? Would the treatment work? Would the cancer come back?
For the first time in my life, I had to make myself my priority. I didn’t have the time, energy, or space to worry about what my hair was doing. It would soon fall out anyway.
3. You will be stronger than you ever could have imagined.
4. Your people will be your salvation.
I quickly learned that some people were going to let me down. There were people who weren’t there as much as I would have hoped. There were people who retreated for their own protection. I get it. I totally get it.
But then there were the people who became my heroes. The ones who took me to hospital appointments when I couldn’t make it on my own. The ones who called me pretty much every day to check in. The ones who treated me like myself. The ones who didn’t give me the “cancer look” (grim expression, watery eyes, head tilted slightly to the left). The ones who realise that even though my treatment is done, cancer is never really, truly over. The ones who brought me Nando’s after five days in hospital. The ones who aren’t scared when I tell them I feel emotionally, physically, and mentally battered after treatment. The ones who realise I’m just coming out of a war zone.
My people were my salvation. Are my salvation. My husband, my parents, my family, my friends – they all pulled together in ways I never could have imagined. My gratitude for that is endless. It’s another cliché but it really is true that you learn who is important in times of crisis.
5. Anyone who’s had any kind of cancer becomes part of your tribe.
6. Breast cancer is not just an old person’s disease.
I was so naive when I found the lump.
I had a vague sense that young women could get breast cancer, but I never really anticipated that it would happen to me. Even when I found the lump, even when my lymph nodes were swollen, even when the radiographer's face changed, ever so slightly, as she examined the mass on her screen, even when they stuck a biopsy needle into my boob, I never really thought that it could happen to me.
According to Breast Cancer Care around 5,000 women under 45 are diagnosed with breast cancer every year. The number of those women under 30 is minuscule. Luckily, I was in the habit of checking myself, so I found the lump early. But despite it being only small when it was removed, the cancer was aggressive and growing quickly. I was also exceptionally lucky because the NHS system worked like a well oiled machine and I got referred for all the relevant tests, despite my age making it incredibly unlikely it was cancer. Had my cancer not been picked up early, I could be facing a very different narrative to the one I live with now – that my cancer was curable – and has gone, for the time being at least.
That’s why I bang on about bangers all the time, encouraging everyone to check their boobs and bits and pieces. Knowing your body could save your life. Knowing my body probably saved mine.
7. You will find humour in the very darkest of times.
If you want to find out more about my experience, I've blogged about it here.
Writer. Dreamer. Social Media Type. Music lover. Part-time ballerina. Northerner On loan to London. Lifestyle blogger. Trying to find the funny side of getting a breast cancer diagnosis at 26.
Contact AlicePurkiss at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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