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Surviving breast cancer - Joy's story
continued from page 1
In the days before the operation I swung between bouts of sobbing and cheerily obsessing about finding flattering pyjamas for my hospital stay.
During the wait I was back at work, and chatted to fellow journalists about my cancer in a matter-of-fact way round the coffee machine. I felt detached from reality, and in a funny sort of way was excited to be at the centre of a real-life drama.
After the operation, streams of beautiful bouquets and cards from colleagues and friends lifted my heart and were a huge source of comfort.
Three days after surgery I was discharged. I had an agonising six days' wait before I knew whether the cancer had spread. I was lucky. The tumour was small, there was no sign it had spread to the lymph nodes. I was relieved, but in a distant, frozen sort of way. My only remaining treatment was to be radiotherapy, every day for three weeks at St Thomas' Hospital in Central London.
After each radiotherapy session I walked back to the station along the London Embankment, past the London Eye, thinking how beautiful it all was and how much I wanted to be alive. After the final appointment I expected to feel elated. Instead I felt desperately tired and somewhat deflated.
I have an exceptionally long-living family, with all four grandparents surviving into their late 80s and early 90s, and my mother, at 91 is still a miracle of fitness. I assumed that, barring accidents, I too, would live a long and healthy life. It's true that my father died, aged 59, from lung cancer, but that was after a lifetime of chain smoking, so I didn't think that counted.
After surgery I longed to be reassured that everything would be all right and that I was cured. But there are no assurances, no certainties any more. I was fortunate, I think. Two-and-a-half years later I am getting on with my life without thinking about the cancer too much - except that the knowledge that I really am mortal never goes away.
I'm not living in a haze of gratitude for seeing every new day, but I do sometimes feel overwhelming happiness and I do occasionally feel overcome by feelings of utter futility.
Four weeks after my treatment finished, my daughter got married. It was a low-key affair at her house - a beautiful sunny day in a garden full of family and friends. After the toasts I went into the kitchen. I looked through the window at the people I loved, cherished the knowledge that I too was loved, and wept. I know now how very lucky I am. Even if I died tomorrow that would still be true. But I'm glad I realised it before it was too late.
Joy Ogden is an award-winning health journalist and author of Understanding Breast Cancer (Wiley, £9.99) - an excellent book that includes information and practical advice on coping with every aspect of breast cancer.
In the days before the operation I swung between bouts of sobbing and cheerily obsessing about finding flattering pyjamas for my hospital stay.
During the wait I was back at work, and chatted to fellow journalists about my cancer in a matter-of-fact way round the coffee machine. I felt detached from reality, and in a funny sort of way was excited to be at the centre of a real-life drama.
After the operation, streams of beautiful bouquets and cards from colleagues and friends lifted my heart and were a huge source of comfort.
Three days after surgery I was discharged. I had an agonising six days' wait before I knew whether the cancer had spread. I was lucky. The tumour was small, there was no sign it had spread to the lymph nodes. I was relieved, but in a distant, frozen sort of way. My only remaining treatment was to be radiotherapy, every day for three weeks at St Thomas' Hospital in Central London.
After each radiotherapy session I walked back to the station along the London Embankment, past the London Eye, thinking how beautiful it all was and how much I wanted to be alive. After the final appointment I expected to feel elated. Instead I felt desperately tired and somewhat deflated.
I have an exceptionally long-living family, with all four grandparents surviving into their late 80s and early 90s, and my mother, at 91 is still a miracle of fitness. I assumed that, barring accidents, I too, would live a long and healthy life. It's true that my father died, aged 59, from lung cancer, but that was after a lifetime of chain smoking, so I didn't think that counted.
After surgery I longed to be reassured that everything would be all right and that I was cured. But there are no assurances, no certainties any more. I was fortunate, I think. Two-and-a-half years later I am getting on with my life without thinking about the cancer too much - except that the knowledge that I really am mortal never goes away.
I'm not living in a haze of gratitude for seeing every new day, but I do sometimes feel overwhelming happiness and I do occasionally feel overcome by feelings of utter futility.
Four weeks after my treatment finished, my daughter got married. It was a low-key affair at her house - a beautiful sunny day in a garden full of family and friends. After the toasts I went into the kitchen. I looked through the window at the people I loved, cherished the knowledge that I too was loved, and wept. I know now how very lucky I am. Even if I died tomorrow that would still be true. But I'm glad I realised it before it was too late.
Talk about your personal experiences of breast cancer, get advice and information on the Breast Cancer Support message board
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