My breast cancer diary: ‘Now it’s time to tell my children I have cancer… but the C-word has special resonance for them and for me’
Every three years, the NHS Breast Screening Programme invites all women aged 50 to 70 registered with a GP for a mammogram. 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. 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 a diary, Indie news editor Sinead Corr plays this numbers game...
This is where the rubber hits the road. The only people who know about my diagnosis are my partner, Gee, and my editor, Paul. Now it’s time to tell my children I have cancer.
It’s going to be a difficult conversation and one I know I must have face to face with each of them, so they can see I’m ok. I’m not dying, I’m just the same as I ever was.
Maybe that sounds overdramatic, but the C-word has special resonance for them and for me.
In 2012, my mum died a painful and traumatic death from cancer of the oesophagus. When my surgeon asked about my family history, she took a sharp intake of breath when I told her – and made it clear my prognosis was very different.
I need to give my children the same clear message.
They have had a difficult decade since Mum died. They lost their paternal grandfather when they were much younger, but in 2019 my dad lost a devastating battle with dementia.
Last year, their only remaining grandparent, Helen, was involved in a collision with a police motorcyclist and died of her terrible injuries two weeks later.
These bereavements have all left a mark, but it’s the loss of my mum, Anne, which still cuts the deepest. She was just 67 – 10 years older than I am now.
She was diagnosed just a few months after I decided to get a divorce. Over the course of 10 months, cancer took a terrible toll on her body, leaving her unable to swallow.
Despite her physical frailty, she never wavered in her love and support for me and the kids, and dedicated her last months to making sure all her family would be ok.
At her funeral, my elder son Joe, then 20, gave the eulogy and I can’t sum her up and what she meant to all of us any better now.
He said: “Nan was such a big personality. She had so much love for her family and it was reciprocated; I never met anybody who didn’t love her to bits.”
She wasn’t just their grandmother, she was their friend, their confidante and their defender – just as she had always been for my siblings and me. I know they miss her every day.
My sister Aine, who is 13 years my junior, gave birth to her first child, and Mum’s youngest grandchild, as her cancer was diagnosed. Martha, now 13, was the apple of her eye for 10 all too short months.
I briefly allow myself to contemplate what it would be like if, like Martha, all my 18-month-old grandson Ozzy knew of me was a crazy collection of nick-nacks and increasingly fantastic family fables.
Thursday, June 20
The day after my diagnosis, it’s warm and I decide to wear a pair of Clarks “sliders” to work. I live near Stansted’s railway station. Nevertheless, by the time I climbed the steps to cross the tracks for the London-bound platform, welts had already appeared on my feet. I should turn back, but I decided to tough it out and buy plasters on the way to the office. Big mistake.
By the time I reach Boots in Potter Street, I have actual lacerations and the plasters just seem to make it worse. Stupid shoes.
Friday, June 21
More plasters. Different flip-flops. My feet look like tenderised steak.
Hobbling back from the Havers estate, I decided to call the elder of my two younger brothers and tell him about the cancer. As I anticipated, he is pragmatic and positive. He’s the family’s troubleshooter and I ask him to tell our younger brother and to keep a lookout for my younger son, who now works for him.
I was with Mum when the consultant at Addenbrooke’s confirmed her cancer, so we never had to have this conversation, but I’ve come up with a plan for telling my children.
My daughter Enya, who is 30 and lives with her partner in Bristol, is already coming for the weekend. Her boyfriend is going to London to watch a Euro 2024 match with friends and she’s coming along so we can hang out. She is my most sensible child.
I’ve suggested we have lunch with my younger son Oliver, 28, who lives in Bishop’s Stortford with his girlfriend. It’s a small step from there to agreeing on a trip to south London to see my firstborn, Joe, who is 32, his wife Sophie and their son Ozzy.
When Enya, boyfriend James and a large number of bags arrive that evening, there are the customary jokes about whether she’s moving back in and we settle on the sofa, chatting about traffic on the M25, work and what’s for tea. I steel myself, ready for when she asks how I’ve been.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. As I delivered my “I’m fine” speech, she started to cry, which was not in my script.
Then she’s suspicious and wants to know how long I’ve known and why I didn’t tell her before.
My explanation that I’ve only known for 48 hours and wanted to tell her face to face makes sense to her. She asks lots of questions about what has happened and what will happen next. We hug and I think she gets this.
Saturday, June 22
What was I thinking? I decided we would go to Borough Market to eat because it’s close to London Bridge so we can get the train to Deptford.
This is a silly decision on any Saturday, but it’s insane today. Taylor Swift and the Foo Fighters are playing stadium gigs and the Restore Nature Now march and rally are taking place. Everyone who doesn’t live in London has made the same stupid choice.
So we retreat and wade through the crowds, away from the tourists and the Instagrammers, to find a quiet bar.
As I give Oliver “the speech”, I also manage to send half of my glass of Prosecco flying into his lap. He sits in stunned silence.
Enya asks if he has any questions and he shakes his head. I know he will ask when he is ready and we head to Five Guys for a burger.
Once we’re in Deptford, we gather at an outside bar and I enjoy my grandson’s newly-acquired walking skills. My elder son sits beside me on the bench and asks me how I’ve been. It’s his turn for “the speech”.
After I finish, he retreats to collect his thoughts. My daughter-in-law wonders where he has gone and, as I tell her, I send another glass of wine flying into her lap. As I order more drinks, Joe returns and, as we hug, I reassure him that it will be fine.
Ozzy’s antics mean that it’s impossible to be anything other than happy as we sit in the sun and watch him toddle around.
As we make our way home on the train, Oliver asks questions. As he jumps off at Bishop’s Stortford, we hug and I feel immense relief. It looks like I’ve reassured them that everything will be ok – but have I convinced myself?
Sunday, June 23
Bishop’s Stortford Climate Group has organised an environment hustings for the General Election candidates today. I should go, but I want to spend a few more hours with my daughter.
I also need to check on Oliver and Joe; I’m emotionally drained and my feet hurt.
I stay at home and try to get my head around what I’ve got to sort out before surgery in a week.
Monday, June 24
I get to meet lots of people in my line of work. Some are awful, most are lovely and a few are extraordinary.
Journalist Cate Wilson is one of the latter. She is the mum of Edie Wilson, who was diagnosed with a malignant ependymoma brain tumour when she was just six. Edie passed away in 2018, aged 12.
During her illness and afterwards, Cate, husband Scott and Edie’s big brother Jacob trusted me to write about her and their fundraising efforts in her honour.
Cate has noted my absence from the hustings and offered to file a report. The editor is on holiday this week and this will be a huge help, so I gratefully accept. I also feel I owe her an explanation for why she’s doing what should be my job.
She responds with words I will hold on to: “Our offspring are often more resilient than we think.”
