My breast cancer diary: ‘I know he will look after me. But I don’t want to be looked after because I don’t want to be ill. I want a partner in crime, not a carer’
The NHS Breast Screening Programme invites all women aged 50 to 70 who are registered with a GP for a mammogram every three years. Each year more than two million such tests 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. About four in every 100 women are asked to come back for more tests after screening – and one will be found to have cancer. In the third instalment of her diary, Indie news editor Sinead Corr continues playing this numbers game...
Thursday, June 13 – I retrace my steps to the mobile mammogram unit at Herts and Essex Hospital, walking along Warwick Road. This time my destination is Herts and Essex High School and a General Election hustings.
As we wait for the forum to begin, it’s a rare chance to catch up with Indie freelance photographer Vikki Lince. We’ve known each other since we were teenagers, so when she asks how I am, she’s the first person I confide in beyond my partner and boss.
I tell her I’m waiting for the results of a breast biopsy. We agree that there’s every reason to be optimistic, but before we can talk in detail, it’s showtime.
I’ve been juggling contributions from the General Election candidates as the campaign hots up, but this is the first chance to see the contenders in action.
Sixth-form students from across the town – including young people who will be voting for the first time – will be grilling sitting Conservative Julie Marson, the Green Party’s Nick Cox, Reform UK’s John Burmicz, Labour’s Josh Dean and Simon Marlow, who is standing in for Liberal Democrat candidate Helen Campbell.
According to a series of polls, the Tories are in serious trouble in Hertford and Stortford, with the seat predicted to fall to Labour for the first time. I’m still extremely sceptical. Surely Julie Marson has a job for life if she wants it? Surely Josh Dean is too young?
By the end of the hustings, it’s clear Labour can prove me wrong. Josh Dean has given an accomplished performance and Julie Marson looked flustered. It’s a points win, if not a knockout. For the first time, I think Labour will win. This thought was inconceivable just six weeks ago. How quickly a situation can change.
Wednesday, June 19 – Less than a month after my mammogram on May 23 and two weeks after my biopsy, I’m back at St Margaret’s Hospital in Epping. This time my appointment is in the outpatient department and I will meet consultant oncoplastic breast surgeon Hannah Winter for the first time.
I’m still convinced that my lump is benign and I have resisted the urge to ask Dr Google to prove otherwise. Nevertheless, I’m nervous. I work from home before my 1.30pm appointment because I’m not sure I can cope with Wednesday in the Indie office.
It’s usually my favourite day – that week’s print deadline has passed, a brand new issue is on the stands and some of my favourite readers pop in to buy their copy and we always have a chat. But I can’t do small talk today.
My partner drives me up the M11 once more. Neither of us has eaten and I’m oddly concerned that my stomach will groan in the waiting room.
As it happens, the clinic is on time and we’re soon in the consulting room. After introductions, we get down to business. Dr Winter tells me she’s very sorry to say that I have breast cancer. Her words barely register. She asked me if that was what I was expecting.
No. It wasn’t. I was expecting to be told this was all a false alarm. She hands me a tissue, but I don’t cry. My partner holds my hand tightly, but I’m calm. I’m ready to continue.
Dr Winter asks if she can examine me and my capacious cancer clobber once again comes into its own as I whip off the top in one swift move. I’m getting good at this.
I apologise for the cluster of insect bites on my left shoulder which extends into my armpit and under my breast. During a walk around Stansted Brook, mozzies or midges decided to use me as an all-you-can-eat buffet. They itch like mad.
Dr Winter examines my right breast and underarm. She tells me not to beat myself up for being unaware of the lump. Like mammographer Helen before her, she can feel nothing. Once I’m decent again, she explains what will happen next.
The biopsy has confirmed I have an invasive ductal breast cancer – the cells have spread to the surrounding tissue. For now, it’s “no special type”.
I’m expecting to be told I need a mastectomy, but Dr Winter recommends a lumpectomy or wide local excision to remove the lump and a small margin of normal tissue. She believes this will give me a better result all around, preserving the shape and size of my breast.
I tell her I’m not bothered – my window for a career as a glamour model is long closed, but she is serious. While I may say I don’t care now, she argues that in 10 years it may matter greatly.
She takes me quietly and carefully through her recommendations, my options and the potential side effects. I’m listening carefully, but I’m not sure I’m really hearing her.
She told me that before my operation at Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow, I would need another surgical procedure at Epping. Mammographer Helen will be back in action inserting a wire into my breast to pinpoint the tumour.
My main surgery will also include an axillary sentinel node biopsy, removing key lymph nodes from my armpit to see if the cancer has spread. I will be injected with both blue dye and radioactive liquid to ensure the correct glands are removed.
At the end, she asks if I have any questions. I have just one: when can we start? I’m not prepared for her answer. She will operate on July 2 (two days before the General Election), in less than two weeks. I was expecting longer to prepare.
She then leaves me in the care of breast care nurse Fiona, who will be my font of knowledge, my source of reassurance and my all-round guardian angel in the coming weeks.
She hands me a red, plastic folder full of information and talks me through its contents, including info about claiming free prescriptions. I am a breast cancer patient now. For the first time, I acknowledge that my life has changed and there’s no going back.
Once again, I am deep in thought as I tuck into what’s becoming my customary Big Mac and hot chocolate as we stop to refuel on the way home. Junk food used to be my preferred hangover cure. I guess a similar principle is in play.
It’s a lot to digest. When I first told my partner I had been recalled after my mammogram, he told me we would face whatever happened together. He repeated that message after the biopsy and he tells me again now.
But it’s not supposed to be this way. You will be shocked to learn that I am not the easiest woman in the world to live with, but, after 20 years of prevarication, in 2018 we decided to move in together. My dad died the next year – of dementia – and then we all faced trial by lockdown during the pandemic. So we’ve tackled a few challenges already and somehow survived.
I liked our status quo. We’re supposed to be crisscrossing Europe with our rucksacks, not hanging around in hospital waiting rooms.
I know he will look after me. But the problem is I don’t want to be looked after because I don’t want to be ill. I want a partner in crime, not a carer.
And this is becoming a habit. In September last year, I insisted on carrying my suitcase downstairs as we set off on a walking holiday to Northumberland and the Isle of Mull. I’d already been told not to move it, but I’m stubborn and shifted it while my partner was in the shower.
He emerged to find me in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. For the next 24 hours, I would insist I’d suffered no more than a light sprain. I winced around Bamburgh Castle before admitting I might need medical attention. In fact, I’d broken my ankle, cracked a tooth and given myself a black eye and an almighty bump on the head.
From this, you can deduce that I will not be an easy patient.
Sinead’s breast cancer diary, part 1 + Sinead’s breast cancer diary, part 2
