Lying in the bath one Saturday night, Joy Ogden discovered a lump in her breast. Diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 59, here she recounts her experience

The night I found a lump in my breast will be forever frozen in my memory. I was having a comforting soak in the bath one Saturday night in March 2002 when I felt two sharp, shooting pains in my right breast. My fingers felt the spot and there I found a small, hard lump. In disbelief I felt my other breast, half expecting to find another lump there. There was nothing. An electric shock of panic shot through my body. It might be hindsight, but I never even thought that it was anything other than cancer. The moment is forever fixed in my mind. I can still see the bubbles in the bath, the taps, the shower gel, the mundane, ordinary details of my bathroom, which would never be quite the same again.

I slept fitfully that night and each time I woke my fingers reached for the lump, willing them not to find it. The next day was endless. My daughter tried to reassure me and quell my fears because, 'you don't get pain with cancer'. But, unlike many women, I had never had lumpy breasts and I instinctively knew it was not a cyst.

On Monday morning I made an emergency appointment to see my GP. He was supportive, and told me that it didn't feel like a 'bad lump', but faxed the local hospital for to get me seen by a consultant within two weeks.

By the following Monday, there was still no news and I felt an emotional wreck. I rang the hospital and a calm-sounding receptionist said: 'I'm sure if the consultant thinks it's urgent you'll get an appointment soon.' Speechless, I started quietly weeping. Half-an-hour later she rang back with an appointment for me the following morning.

My cancer was malignant. Twelve days later my surgeon operated.

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.