In August 2015 I went for a routine smear test, with no suspicion that anything was wrong. I was fully expecting a letter to say that her screening results were normal. Then, a missed call and voicemail from the hospital a week later, followed by a text reminder to attend an appointment at my local hospital, and I just knew something was wrong.
I wasn’t aware of what the hospital appointment was for before attending, but it turned out to be a colposcopy appointment, as my smear test indicated abnormalities. I could tell it was serious from the nurse’s behaviour at the hospital appointment; she took one quick look at the images of my cervix on the screen, and called in the senior consultant. They both talked in vague, breezy terms and cancer was not mentioned, but the consultant took a large biopsy and told me I was going to need major surgery. The offer of a mug of strong sweet tea and a chance to sit ‘for as long as I liked’ in the nurses’ office afterwards was probably my biggest clue.
It’s a surreal experience, sensing something’s up, something very serious, but nobody saying anything out loud. I was just going on the body language and facial expressions of the hospital staff, the speed at which the medical teams were reacting, and my instincts. A couple of people criticised me for thinking anything about it at all; others had already jumped to the worst conclusions and were probably planning my funeral. I was on high alert, adrenalin pumping, not really thinking, just watching, waiting…
In early September I attended an appointment with a friend and we finally heard the words: “you have cancer”. I was diagnosed with Stage 1b cervical cancer and given a surgery date for the end of September – a radical hysterectomy including the removal of surrounding tissue and pelvic lymph nodes and a long list of things that could go wrong and potential side effects to sign off. After that it became a blur of information, questions and decisions.
As a single, full time working parent in London, with a 3 year old son, and no family close by, being in hospital and recovering for a few weeks was going to be hard to manage. So we relocated to Leeds for my treatment; I stayed with my sister and my son stayed with my cousin. My cancer surgery finally took place in early October, and although my bladder was damaged (and repaired), I learned that my cancer had not spread beyond the cervix. This was good news.
I returned home and started on the path to recovery, continuing with my regular follow-ups back in London. My son turned four, Christmas came and went, and I started my phased return to full time work in January 2016. Fully convinced I’d go back to normal, I started my attempt to pick up the pieces.
Nobody tells you about the post treatment fall out. It’s taken at least a year of ups and downs for me to slowly realise that even though the cancer has gone, there’s no going back to the person I was and the life I had before. No matter how much I (or the people around me) might wish it, the experience can never be forgotten; surgery left me with lymphoedema in my legs, an incurable, uncomfortable, daily reminder of how nothing is certain. Coming to terms with the changes in my body is taking time, but I am getting there.
The emotional impact has also been huge, increasing gradually as the physical symptoms settle down. It hits in waves, and often at unexpected times. I am a lot more anxious and feel a lot more vulnerable than I used to; I am having to learn to be a lot gentler with myself.
I’ve had to think carefully about the way I work as I am less able to handle pressure than I used to be, and more vulnerable to uncertainty; as a parent I am trying to focus on enjoying the simple things in life with my son; and relationships with friends and family have evolved as I continue to process everything that’s happened.
I’ve come a long way in 18 months, though. I feel a lot wiser, a lot more aware of what I want in my life, and am very motivated to make the most of the experience at home, at work and within the community. I’ve stopped wasting so much energy trying to get back to where I was before; I try to focus on what I have today, and slowly, gently build on that. In essence, I am starting over, getting to know, trust and enjoy my new self – which is quite a special thing, really.
If you would like to support The Eve Appeal during Cervical Screening Awareness Week, why not help us spread the message and encourage your loved ones to #CheckYourChuff by wearing a #CheckYourChuff badge?