2) Pre-diagnosis: The Breast Centre It took nearly two months from an urgent referral from my GP, phone calls and letters left and right, until a specialist at the Breast centre finally agreed to give me a once over. It turns out, the chances of getting breast cancer at 24 is extremely rare, but such stats offer little consolation and can actually serve as a hindrance at the pre-diagnosis stage, due to the feeling of doctors sweeping you aside because of the low probability. Regret is an awful thing... the lump under my arm had grown considerably between the discovery in October and diagnosis in March. In hindsight, the breast centre is like how you imagine the child catcher. You are lured into a false sense of security by the cheery colours, friendly staff, easy chit chat and endless cups of tea. Its normality at its best. But behind the facade lies the potential of having to deal with the most negative life changing news, complete with intense insecurity, uncertainty, dull shock and extreme sadness. We arrived into the coral reception area unnecessarily early, the smell of fresh coffee gently seeped into the air around us as I caught sight of a notice board begging for free space in amongst all the newsletters, leaflets and notices. The infamous pink ribbon shining through in its repetition alongside pictures of beaming 'older' women proudly posing for their cause, their multicoloured headscarves standing out, yet generously blending in with the 'theme'. A cheery young blonde receptionist had us take our seats. I distinctively remember thinking at the time of how overly cliché the whole room was and joking about it to Nick with unease, letting out nervous laughs in-between sections of the monotonous breakfast show blaring out from the coral wall. My name was called and there I was again, on my back naked form the waste up, lying on yet another cold hard hospital recliner, having my breasts uncomfortably prodded and squeezed. The lighting was more forgiving in this place, I think it was the creme walls that did it. After awkwardly answering the specialists suspecting questions I was passed a gown and asked to stay for further examination. The gown opened at the front and for the life of me I could not figure out how you tied the thing up, but time was running, so I clutched the front together with one hand and my belongings with the other and dragged myself into another smaller waiting room exclusively for us women in gowns. All the chairs faced each-other in a small square, huddled around a small coffee table stacked with outdated lifestyle magazines. It didn't take a genius to figure out the space layout encouraged us to socialise, even though this was clearly the last thing the other women seemed to want to do. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, nervously checking if my breast was making an appearance through my untied gown, looking up I felt the anxious atmosphere hanging in the middle of all of us. I didn't know anything about these other women, only that we were all in purgatory and wondering who would be the lucky ones... and who may die? (Did I mention I was dramatic). All at different stages of prognosis, each of us in our own internal world of self doubt. |
A ' no holds' page about my life with incurable advanced Breast Cancer, in the hope it will give a realistic, detailed account to other young women going through the unfortunate illness.
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September 2023
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