The diary of a breast cancer patient, by Indie news editor Sinead Corr

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. 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 starts playing this numbers game...

Thursday May 9 – A press release from the Princess Alexandra Hospital NHS Trust dropped into my work inbox.

It detailed how female patients from three Uttlesford GP practices were to be offered mammograms at a mobile scanning unit parked at the Herts and Essex Community Hospital in Bishop’s Stortford.

As I typed out a piece for the Indie’s website, it occurred to me that I was one of the women over 50 who would be called. As I’m 57 (god, that’s old) it would be my third scan.

When I got home, sure enough, there was a letter, inviting me for a mammogram on Thursday May 23. I add the details to my online calendar – I’m at an age where I need an app on my mobile to diarise important dates or I will surely forget.

Three days later, my partner and I flew to Jerez in Spain for our latest adventure – a whistle-stop tour of the sherry capital, Cadiz and Seville.

Over the past two years, we’ve been on a mission to travel light and see as much of Europe as we can.

When I say “we”, in truth I mean me. He’s a very willing accomplice, but since the Covid-19 pandemic ended, I’ve been gripped by a panicked wanderlust. It’s difficult to put into words, but I’ve felt I’m racing against the clock to see all the places on my Continental bucket list.

More than once he’s urged me to slow down as I snap up the cheapest tickets to our next destination even before we’ve unpacked our rucksacks from the last route march around a must-see city.

Our trips are planned like a military campaign as we tick off churches and castles, clocking up miles as we race between landmarks and monuments. When I get home I’m exhausted but exhilarated. The extreme fatigue I always seem to feel is somehow worth it.

Two years ago I was diagnosed with pernicious anaemia – B12 deficiency. My body no longer makes a protein in my stomach called intrinsic factor which is vital to absorb B12 from food or supplements.

Instead, I need an intramuscular injection every three months to help my body produce fully functioning red blood cells. Without the jabs, the condition causes excessive fatigue, depression, memory loss and permanent neurological damage.

It seemed to fit that it was just pernicious anaemia that was making me tired from the minute I woke in the morning until I slept again each night.

Wednesday, May 22 – Did I mention memory loss? As I step off the train in Bishop’s Stortford, ready to make my way to the office, I realise with horror that I am wearing a dress. Damn. I am convinced that my mammogram is today and I will have to remove my flowing frock and have my scan wearing nothing but big, black knickers.

I decide to go to H&M in Jackson Square and buy the cheapest skirt and top or trousers and shirt combo I can find. Five minutes later and £24 lighter, I emerge with a voluminous pair of black trousers, complete with an elasticated waist and a capacious tunic. Neither match the black patent DMs or tomato red raincoat I’m wearing in the drizzle today, but I can’t be faffed with fashion.

At lunchtime, I change in the toilet at work and make my way down to the station and then up Warwick Road in the rain. I’m reminded that my resolution to take a break each day, get away from my screen, into the fresh air and exercise was a good one – and I’ve let it slide (again).

Despite the damp, the stroll is invigorating and I approach the mobile unit bang on time. Usually, only two patients are allowed in at a time, but as the shower continued, staff beckoned me inside.

I give my name and the list is consulted. The nurse double checks but I’m not on it. I realise my mistake. I’m a day early.

The mammogram team are lovely and ask if I want them to call the office to see if I can be scanned now. I insist that I will return tomorrow.

When I get back to the office, my faux pas is forgotten as it becomes clear that an announcement from 10 Downing Street is imminent. Later that day, Prime Minister Rishi Sunak calls a General Election on July 4 and it’s action stations in the Indie newsroom.

Thursday May 23 – We are a very small team, but we like to think we are perfectly formed. I am the only full-time reporter and editor Paul Winspear is the only other full-time member of staff. Luckily our part-time colleagues Michael Vaughton, Chris Carter, Hollie Ryder and David James punch well above their weight.

General Elections are meat and drink to all of us. Nevertheless, we all know that covering the campaign and vote on top of our usual community coverage will pile on the pressure.

So I genuinely consider staying at my desk and not returning to the mobile scanning unit at the Herts and Essex for my mammogram. I’ve copped a feel of my breasts and I certainly can’t detect any lumps. On the other hand, I’ve spent £24 on trousers and a top, especially for the occasion, so I may as well get my money’s worth from the outfit.

It’s a sunny day, so I’ve ditched the raincoat and I’m wearing better shoes as I retrace my steps. Another receptionist is on duty, so my blushes about yesterday’s calendar cock-up are spared.

When I was 51 and several stones lighter, my first mammogram was an uncomfortable affair. The radiographer takes two images of each breast, one from above and one from the side to look for tumours or other abnormalities. It’s awkward and frankly undignified.

Women are told that a plastic plate “gently flattens” the breast to make sure the X-ray imaging is effective, but in truth, your boob is clamped and squashed. It’s not painful, but if your chest is small – as mine was – a certain amount of stretching is required.

Not so now. The menopause has made me matronly and the biggest challenge is keeping my belly out of the way.

The test is completed quickly with minimum fuss by the mammographer. Before I leave, a colleague takes a look. Neither of them misses a beat as they wish me a good day and tell me I can expect the results in a couple of weeks.

I thank them and go back to work. And that, I thought, was that...

To be continued