It’s a scary word, the old C word. But for me, it was a hell of a lot scarier in the week between “it could be cancer” and “it is cancer”.
I love my consultant. Properly adore him. Which, considering I knew him for a grand total of two weeks before diagnosis and at the end of that two weeks he dropped the breast cancer bombshell seems like a rather extreme reaction. But I had all the faith in the world in him – after all, if anyone knows how to get rid of this bloody thing, it’s him. Frankly, he could’ve told me I needed my prostate removed and I would’ve happily trailed after him into theatre.
Once he told me for certain, reality kicks in. I thought I’d fall apart. I thought there’d be sobbing and denial and over-reacting and all that. I secretly, in the back of my head (although he’d already told me it could be cancer and I knew that then meant it WAS cancer) knew that it couldn’t happen to me and therefore wouldn’t happen to me. But weirdly, there was calm. Tears, obviously, but generally calm. We had something concrete to work on. I had cancer. A stage 2 invasive lump and ductal carcinoma in situ to be precise.
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