MY BREAST CANCER DIARY: My inaugural trip to the breast cancer unit at St Margaret’s sounds like a contest where elimination in the first round is the way to win

The NHS Breast Screening Programme invites all women aged 50 to 70 registered with a GP for a mammogram every three years. Each year more than two million are carried out. In about 96 of every 100 women screened, the mammogram will show no sign of cancer and no further tests are needed. The four others are asked to come back for more tests – and one will be found to have cancer. Indie news editor Sinead Corr continues this numbers game in the second part of her cancer diary...

Monday, June 3 – 11 days after my mammogram, my mobile rings in the morning and an unfamiliar number flashes up, apparently from St Albans but it’s an 01992 code.

I don’t make the connection with Epping. I also don’t answer. If it’s personal, I expect a voicemail, and if it’s work, then call me at the office...

In the afternoon, the same number calls again. Right, if it’s someone selling me insurance, carrying out a survey or punting a wine club subscription, they’re getting a piece of my mind. I’m busy.

I pick up and pause. A gentle voice asks for my name and identifies herself as calling from the breast screening unit at St Margaret’s Hospital in Epping. She says that I need to make an appointment to be seen again.

I’m not sure what I thought at that point – surprised? I honestly hadn’t given the mammogram a second thought so I’m a bit flustered. I ask when and am shocked when she says “Thursday.” I was expecting an appointment in weeks, not days.

I agree, but as soon as I put the phone down, I realise I had agreed to an appointment on Thursday June 6 – D-Day 80, when we were going to be extra-busy in the office.

Should I ring back and cancel? Then, for the first time, I felt worried. Who gets an NHS appointment in three days? I do, apparently.

I say nothing to my colleagues and carry on working. Before I leave, I drop my boss an email – even though he is sitting next to me – and tell him I will work from home on Thursday morning and go to the appointment in the afternoon. Then, I guess, I’ll go to the D-Day 80 event in Castle Park...

Thursday, June 6 – I have no idea what to expect at my appointment. I deliberately resisted the urge to Google further after discovering that 80% of breast lumps are benign. I like those odds and will stick with them.

The breast screening unit at St Margaret’s is a warm and welcoming place. While the building may have seen better days, the staff greet you with a smile, and cheesy pop tunes play in the waiting room.

I anticipate a long wait and have brought a stash of jelly beans to keep me going. But no sooner have we offered some to a fellow patient and indulged in some confectionery nostalgia than I’m called in for my first consultation with a member of the specialist nursing team.

She reassures me and carefully explains what will happen next. It sounds like a contest where elimination in the first round is the way to win. Fingers crossed I’m out for a duck.

First I need a CT scan to double-check the results of the mammogram, which detected an abnormality in my right breast.

We’re back to boob sandwiches. Within minutes I’m clamped in place and the machine is taking multiple images in slices or sections across my breast.

After I pop my top back on – it’s outing number three for what I will come to call my cancer clobber – I return briefly to the waiting room.

I’ve hardly sat down and scoffed another sweetie before I am called for the next stage: an ultrasound.

I have not been eliminated from the game. Damn. The CT scan has confirmed the mammogram’s findings and sonographer Helen shows me the image. There’s a white blob clearly visible in my right boob.

She asks me if I have felt the lump and I shake my head. Can she have a feel? Yes, of course, she’s the expert. But she can detect nothing.

She begins the ultrasound examination of my breast – the technique can distinguish between a cyst filled with fluid or a solid tumour. In my case, it is the latter and she also scans my underarms.

This is not going according to plan. I have reached the third stage of the diagnostics: a core biopsy which uses a special needle attached to a vacuum device to remove breast tissue for analysis.

Helen applies some local anaesthetic and makes a small cut. I turn away as the procedure is carried out because I can’t stand needles, but the length of the probe is disconcerting when I finally look down.

Did it hurt? A bit, but it’s not just my boob that’s anaesthetised – I feel numb. A bit blank really.

After a final chat with the nurse, I’m told to return the following Wednesday (June 12) for the results. She hands me a small slip of paper and tells me to call at any time if I have any questions or concerns.

I was in and out of the clinic in less than two hours. We stop to eat and, as I contemplate my Big Mac and hot chocolate, I’m discombobulated. I’m disconnected. I don’t want to dwell on what has just happened. In retrospect, I’m in denial.

The best thing, I decided, was to go back to work and cover the D-Day commemoration. I’m feeling bruised and a bit battered as I make my way to Castle Park.

Music is playing, the sun is shining and everyone in Sworder’s Field is celebrating. I decide to climb Waytemore Castle Mound for a moment of quiet contemplation. I am here but I don’t feel involved.

I activate cruise control and return to the event, where I chat with contacts. I also sit on the grass with my boss, the Indie editor Paul, and his partner and just watch the world go by. It helps.

So does the sombre and moving service which follows at the war memorial in Castle Park. What must it be like to be in the first flush of youth and so close to death? I can’t imagine and I’m grateful for that.

The next day the breast screening clinic calls. Lesson learned, I pick up straight away. There has been a mistake and the appointment next week is too soon. A new date of Wednesday, June 19 is set.

Should I feel frustrated? Have I got cancer? I want to know the answer but I’m strangely calm about the delay. I’ve got a General Election to worry about.