Stories/Lived Experience
Author: Aoife O’Brien, Academic Council Officer, Maynooth University
When I was asked to write a piece for this blog, I felt quite flattered. But the truth is, I’m not that special. I’m one of about 3,600 women who were diagnosed with breast cancer in 2020.
It was early in August 2020 when I discovered the lump in my breast. An unusually persistent pain prompted me to look at myself in the mirror, and I noticed the skin looked rippled. I knew enough to know that was a warning sign and on closer examination I could see and feel a lump, about the size of a golf ball. I was hesitant in contacting my GP, hoping that the problem would just sort itself out. But of course, it didn’t. It stayed there, defiantly staring at me. So, I went to the doctor to have it checked out, all the time convincing myself that it was probably nothing. When my GP quietly told me she wanted to refer me to the Mater Hospital for further investigation, my confidence was rocked a little, but even then, I kept telling myself it would turn out to be nothing.
On 10 September, I spent 4 hours in the Breast Health Clinic at the Mater Hospital. I’d had to attend on my own because of Covid restrictions and looking back, it was one of the most terrifying days of the whole experience. I had 2 mammograms, an ultrasound, and a biopsy. I asked the doctor doing the biopsy whether she could tell what she was looking at yet, expecting her to be vague and say she’d have to wait for the results. She said, very matter-of-factly, “I think it’s a tumour.” At that point I felt like I had just fallen over the edge of a waterfall and was being swept along in a thunderous cascade of water. I then had a consultation with a surgeon who told me the lump looked highly suspicious for cancer. I remember stumbling out of the clinic to phone my husband, feeling so alone and so far away from home.
When I went back on 24 September for the results, I can’t say I was surprised to hear that I had cancer. I had prepared myself for that eventuality and hoped they would tell me they could remove the tumour. As long as they didn’t tell me I had to have chemotherapy. But that’s exactly what they did tell me. The surgeon told me the cancer I had is particularly responsive to medical treatment. Even then, in my naivety, I thought medical treatment meant he’d just give me a prescription and send me on my way. When he said the word chemotherapy, my heart sank, and I felt my world crumble around me.
On 20 October 2020, I started the first of 6 cycles of chemotherapy. The cancer responded exactly as had been expected and on 1 March 2021, I had a lumpectomy to remove the seed of the tumour. The surgery was a great success – the tumour was removed, and I was cancer free. The next step was 4 weeks of radiotherapy while also continuing to have regular injections of Herceptin, which was to prevent the cancer returning.
On 24 September 2021, exactly one year after my diagnosis, I had my last Herceptin injection, marking the end of my treatment and the end of a challenging but enriching year. I say enriching because having cancer taught me many things about myself and about the world around me. For one thing, I was introduced to a universe of clinics and hospitals, and an army of skilled young women in every area of healthcare who took exceptional care of me. Of course, there were a few skilled men too, but the majority of my carers were women, something that really impressed me.
Another thing I learned is that people are inherently kind. I feel so humbled by the way in which everyone around me rushed to show their support. Covid restrictions prevented people from coming into our home, and at times I think that nobody will ever really know what we went through, but we knew we had the good wishes of family and friends behind us.
I also have a new-found respect for my body. I am amazed at how well it responded to such invasive and gruelling treatment, and at how well it has recovered afterwards. I couldn’t ask for more from it.
Breaking the news to family and friends was a challenge I hadn’t been prepared for. Almost nobody reacted in the way I expected. People I usually considered to be easy-going suddenly looked panic-stricken, and I had to be the one to console them. And those that I expected to be upset seemed calm, maybe more for my benefit than their own. Some people behaved very flippantly, as if to say, “ah well sure, it’s not the end of the world”. But it did feel like the end of my world, and on numerous occasions my thoughts wandered to the planning of my funeral and the consideration of a difficult conversation I’d have to have with my parents, who are very religious, warning them that my husband might not want to have my funeral in a church and that they’d have to respect that.
Telling my daughter, who was 5 at the time, felt like a minefield. I didn’t want to frighten her, but I did want to prepare her for what was to come over the next few months. I also wanted to plant the seed of the importance of being vigilant and checking her own breasts when she grows up. The oncology nurse advised me to be completely open and to use all the correct language, but I was afraid that my daughter would mention at school that, “Mammy has cancer” and someone would respond, “Oh my granny had that, and she died”. But as Harry Potter’s fearless friend, Hermione Grainger, would say, “fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself”. And so, I spoke openly with my daughter about what was happening, how the cancer was going to be treated and what that would mean for us all. Mostly, she was amused by my hair loss, but seemed entirely indifferent to the rest.
Now, if she ever hears that someone has cancer, I’m proud that she can say “My Mammy had that. She’s cured now.”