Cancer diagnosis for Rugby reporter who went to doctors with breast cysts

“It’s cancer, isn’t it?” The consultant looked me straight in the eyes and confirmed my worst fears.

I knew, from that defining moment, that my life would never be the same again.

I’d recently celebrated my 50th birthday in November and I was doing my weekly boob check. Feeling for lumps, bumps, looking for any changes in my nipples.

This job has allowed me the honour of meeting so many inspiring people who have shared their cancer stories with me.

I’m proud to call some of them my friends and I’m happy to say they’re still here. Others did not make it.

I owe it to them to check myself regularly and I’m asking you to do the same – you too gentlemen.

There was no missing this lump. It was massive. I went straight to the doctors.

The following day, another one seemed to ‘pop up’ on the other boob. Weirdly, this put my mind at rest a little. Had to be a cyst, I convinced myself.

And indeed, they were both cysts, drained immediately at the breast care unit at Nuneaton’s George Eliot Hospital.

So, why was I recalled to the mammogram machine to have my poor boobs flattened like a toasted sandwich in a grill?

“I’ve been asked to do some more images,” the mammographer said.

I could see my reflection in the machine. That’s when the fear kicked in.

Was I looking at someone who was about to be told they had cancer?

“Best to be thorough,” I nervously chirped.

The biopsy was done there and then and I was told my results would be back after Christmas, which was two weeks away.

So, when the breast nurse called a week later asking me to come in the following day, I knew it wasn’t to give me the all clear.

My car broke down on the way to my appointment and I saw it as a bad sign.

"Am I going to die?” I asked the consultant.

"It’s tiny and it’s treatable,” was his reply.

From that moment, I was floating above my body, looking down on myself, my partner Stephen, the consultant and the breast nurse.

It must be the brain’s way of dealing with stress.

A lumpectomy, where they remove the tumour but not the whole breast, was scheduled for a week later. An adrenaline-fuelled high kicked in.

Stephen had cancer in his 20s and we talked often about his experience. He was all too aware of this ‘high’.

Highs are always followed by an almighty crash and after my operation, the tidal wave enveloped me and swept me away to a very dark place.

I’ve clawed my way out of the black hole, but my anxiety keeps reminding me I’m going through a stressful time. It hasn’t helped that I’ve had to come off HRT and my menopausal symptoms are creeping back.

We lost a dear schoolfriend to cancer over Christmas. She was my age and her stomach pains turned out to be untreatable ovarian cancer.

I’ve lost other loved ones to this vicious disease. My dad, my hero, was just 58 when he died from eye cancer. Another close friend was 32 when he lost his short battle with lung cancer.

Cancer does not discriminate.

It hit me like a bolt out the blue, just when I’d got my life exactly where I wanted it to be.

Talking to some of the patients in the breast care unit is so humbling. Their bravery, honesty, refusal to ‘give up’ could move me to tears (and has).

I don’t know where I’d be without Stephen, my daughter Jasmine, my mother and sister, who always know what to say and do to make it right.

Then, there’s my colleagues and friends, who are just wonderful, funny and supportive.

Radiotherapy is next on the agenda; definitely not on my list of ‘to dos’ for 2023.

But I’m grateful.

I’m grateful that big cyst popped up because without it, I’d be walking around with that tumour still in my boob.

Yes, I’m fully aware of what might happen in the future, but I won’t let fear steal my happiness, that would be a waste of my precious time.

Your own mortality isn’t something we like to think about. This diagnosis has made me think about mine. What’s important to me, what isn’t.

It’s also made me feel more alive.

Everything is amplified; especially the love I have for the people I’m blessed with, the joy of a shared meal, a good belly laugh and the peace of just sitting quietly cuddling my dog.

So, I’ll be back firing on all cylinders soon and producing stories for the Rugby Advertiser; a job I’m still passionate about after so many years.

I wanted to write this story to let you know why I haven’t been at work, but more importantly, please, make it part of your routine, check yourself. Any changes, however silly you think they might be, get to the docs.

Cancer tests are no fun and can be uncomfortable, but early diagnosis is crucial and could save your life.

Here’s to a peaceful New Year.

The Macmillan Support Line is a free and confidential phone service for people living and affected by cancer. Telephone 0808 808 00 00.