I remember distinctly the moment I was told I had breast cancer.
Those words, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that you have cancer’ will stay with me for the remainder of my life.
Although at the time (the day after all the tests, scans and biopsies) my instincts told me to expect a positive diagnosis, I was still ill-prepared for the news. My brain went into shock mode and although the doctor was still talking to me, I could not hear her. All I could hear was a ringing in my ears and the muffled sound of her voice, as if we were underwater. I guess it was some sort of primal defensive mechanism - block out the unwanted news because then it is not real!
My mind soon fixated on my 8-year-old daughter, Charlotte.
I couldn’t help but think she was going to grow up without her mum.
How would losing me at such a young age impact her life and how the heck was I going to tell her?
It was such a complex situation and I had no idea how to proceed. I was barely grasping the situation and all it entailed for myself, never mind others. My head was swarming with all sorts of concerns.
What stage and type of cancer did I have?
What sort of treatments would I be receiving?
How will I cope with this breast cancer shitfest?
So, my husband and I decided to wait and not tell Charlotte – just for a bit. Let’s see the specialist breast surgeon and get some preliminary answers first.
Let us take some time to process and digest what all this really means.
Continuing on around Charlotte, like nothing had changed, and the bottom hadn’t dropped out of my world was a little tricky, yet also in some ways, refreshing. When in her presence, I could pretend, at least momentarily, that life was completely normal. It didn’t sit quite right with me, to be keeping something so important from her, yet I wanted to protect her from such distressing news for as long as possible. I wondered how much she would actually understand and fully comprehend.
After visiting the breast surgeon soon after diagnosis, a date was set for surgery. The impending scary diagnosis reveal, to my most important person, loomed and became a must. It was a weight on my heart that I had to be rid of.
Chosen approach: Direct, simple and optimistic.
‘Mummy has cancer, but I am going to be OK.’
Were there questions from this little person? I actually don’t remember. Charlotte has always been a reserved and quiet child – no big surprises there as both her parents were similar as kids. She seemed to be OK, but it was hard to tell. Perhaps her young age created some sort of buffer zone. She seemed to take it in her stride. We hear the phrase ‘kids are resilient’ all the time. They are also very perceptive and pick up on a lot of cues.
Before too long I had to shave off my hair after a couple of chemotherapy treatments. This was a difficult change for her – for all of us. The visual of no hair was an obvious reminder that mummy was sick. I tried to wear headscarves 24/7, but it was too hot. Charlotte would not look at me without hair and to be honest, I didn’t want her to see me like that either.
I came up with the idea of a reveal via a photo shoot.
My friend Emilia had a studio. I called and she set it all up for us – gratis! It was the best decision. We have these moments captured professionally and they have become treasured and tender moments between mother and daughter that I now look back on with such emotion and deep gratitude.
Thousands of Australian mothers have been in this same predicament. We all deliver news about cancer and the side-effects of treatment to our children in a variety of ways, but no matter how we tackle it, it is not a pleasant experience.
Breast cancer is rife in this country. One in seven Australian women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime and 25% of those women will be under 50.
That’s a lot of frightened mothers with cancer, sharing diagnoses with children across our nation, not knowing if it has been found early enough to see their children step into adulthood.
Recently, a friend I’d made online through this breast cancer shitfest died. Her disease, found too late, has left a grieving husband without his wife, and three young children without their mum.
Jess, was not yet 40.
And so I reflect on survivor’s guilt. Why her, and so many others, but not me? How did I escape the clutches of breast cancer? It comes down to three things:
a proactive outlook on health.
attending regular mammography from 40.
luck
Women 40+, you can take control of two of those three factors.
So please, do all you can to find this stealthy disease early. Make sure you educate yourself on how to check your breasts, and do it monthly. Get regular mammograms if you are 40+.
I hope you never have to tell your children you have breast cancer.
But if you do, you want to have more than luck on your side.
JO xx
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