Are We Ever Really 'Cancer Free'? ~ Amanda

Getting fed up by my mood swings. Why don't I talk about it anymore they ask, because I'm really fed up with the topic of cancer I say. It feels like everyone has cancer or has had cancer or knows someone who has. Friends dying and friends relatives too. I really try not to be negative about it and I don't want to be a bore, but it's very hard trying to stay positive. So I'm up and down like a yo-yo!

There are survivors out there who really do walk on sunshine for the rest of their days, run marathons and savour each day. I really do try to walk on sunshine most days. But there are days I feel that I have somehow failed for not being all inspirational.

I don’t know if I have cancer cells hiding, waiting to mass again. But I'm a healthy vegetarian and I manage short walks to keep active, within my current pain levels.  All I know is that I am holding steady in a state called "No Evidence of Disease".

I have been told that everything looks great on all my blood work, and my tumour marker is low. But I immediately began to punish myself for everything I’ve done wrong as a survivor, including not eating a clean, sugar-free diet, not doing triathlons, and not being super positive at all times. Even though I know all of that is no guarantee that my cancer won’t come back.

I've had a few scans and “No evidence of disease,” my Oncologist said!  I live a pretty great life, and should be on top of the world!

Death stalks us all, that’s the nature. Maybe survivors are just a bit more aware of it. I cope with short walks. I cope with making fun out of my Franken-tits!  I cope by actively redirecting my thoughts, or so I think, or am I just in plain denial. If I don’t cope and just feel sorry for myself, I just go under and hit the depths of depression and anxiety I'm trying to avoid.

Still, it’s good to complain about being a survivor. I can complain and I will complain! And then, having done so, I will shrug and say, but seriously, it could be worse.

Positive thinking got me through Cancer and I aim to make it get me through life.

Originally posted on Amanda’s own blog on 20^th June 2016:

http://ajscancerjourney.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/are-we-ever-really-cancer-free.html

Getting Ourselves a Strategy ~ Jackie

I used to think that resilience was in small part developed over time, in the, 'What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger' school of hard knocks, and in huge part, hereditary. Some people are born with the ability to head-butt the knocks out of their way aren't they? And some people, well, they find it harder.

I've always considered myself quite lucky to have a fairly hard head. People would comment that I was strong, resilient, positive and I just thanked them kindly and thought that a few of life's little boulders had served me well and the rest, well it was just how I was made.

I've changed my mind somewhat.

A year of Tamoxifen, and it was playing games with my body. The result was that I had a hysterectomy and oophorectomy (doesn’t that sound like an enormous kick up the backside?) but for the uninitiated, it's when your ovaries are also removed. I suspect that many people reading this will already know that.

I was ready for this hysterectomy. Hell, I'd had cancer! This hysterectomy would be a walk in the park. There was a 50% chance the surgery would be keyhole. I'd find out whether it was this, or the more invasive stomach incision, after the op. Frankly, I was knackered and I crossed my little fingers that keyhole surgery would be possible and saw the operation as my chance for a bit of a rest. I woke to the wonderful news that it had indeed been keyhole and thus looked forward to four weeks of reduced work and increased reading. I admit, I was a little giddy at the prospect.

The surgeon and I had discussed hormones. With chemo and Tamoxifen in my back pocket, the hormone effect shouldn't be too difficult to navigate; my body was used to it. It had done the premature menopause thing through my treatment - albeit a 'fake' menopause -  and thus this would all be easy-peasy for a body used to incapacitated oestrogen.

So I wasn't expecting the volcanic effect on my hormones.

I can safely say that through all the good, bad and ugly stages of my life, I have never been so badly affected by hormones. I have never felt so physically and emotionally down, so helpless, so desperate.

And so shocked. I really hadn't seen this coming.

I can only equate it to living in a perpetual out-of-body experience. My brain was telling me that it was being ridiculous: this wasn't real, no way did I feel like this, hormones were entirely to blame. And yet my brain was also behaving as if it was very, very real, making me cry, question everything, hate myself and fear stepping out of the house. It felt so real, I felt so desperate, it was so unusual, it was quite terrifying.

But please stay with me, because it gets better.

The six weeks post operation taught me something about resilience. It isn't simply about how hard your head is, everybody gets a curve ball now and again which hits them where it hurts. What I learnt from this almost surreal period in my life was that more than a God-given hard head, we need a strategy.

This was mine:

1. The Mirror

In the early days of cancer, I used to look in the mirror and – please excuse me for a moment because I'm not someone who swears but this was really the point – I used to screw up my eyes, put on my best cross face and say, 'F*** off cancer, you little bast***, you're not having me, you're pathetic.' It worked. I'd walk away from the mirror, amused and empowered, and this would dissipate some of the fear until it lurched back again. And then I'd repeat the process.

I decided to do the same. I knew the terrible gloom wasn't real but telling myself that hadn't been powerful enough. So I went back to the mirror, looked myself in the eye and said to myself over and over, that, this was me. I am not that hormonal monstrosity sitting in blackness in the chair. I told myself this until it stuck. I told the hormones to 'f-off', they'd never beat me. I'd beat them. Granted, this sounds like some 10p second hand self-help book from a sales-driven unheard of psycho-babbling guru - but try it. Honestly, it really worked for me.

2. Endorphins

I've always loved sport. I went to a dreadful school academically but it had the most wonderful PE teacher and it all started there. I've known the endorphin rush from running for many years. I know that running, and to a lesser extent other sports, keeps me on the hormonal straight and narrow. For six weeks after surgery I wasn't allowed to run which certainly wasn't helping my sorry state. One day, when the last thing I wanted to do was organise a coffee with friends but knew this was exactly what I should do, pretending everything was absolutely normal, I texted some of my closest allies. I was on a driving ban after the op but I politely refused offers of a lift the one mile down the road to the café, opting instead to walk three miles on my own. I'd walked most days since the operation with the lovely husband and it was good to be out of the house but those had been strolls. I'd benefited from the fresh air, taken in the wonder of the beautiful bluebells, thanked my lucky stars I had him by my side, but it hadn't done anything for the endorphins. This day I didn't wander but, instead, I paced the three miles to the café. I could feel my heart beating faster than it had for days, and could almost touch the darkness – temporarily – leaving.  It was enough to know that if I could engage the help of my endorphins, the hormones would meet their match. In short, I needed to walk - and at a pace.

I continued walking, faster and faster every day. And I even logged my mileage – it wasn't much, but there was enough to feel I'd done something to take back control and that was empowering in itself.

3. Help

I'm quite an independent soul. I don’t often seek advice from people, prefer to sort things out in my own head. I find that when I talk about difficulties I, 1. feel guilty: everyone has their stuff going on and who really needs to hear about mine? 2. feel confused: I generally have firm views of the way forward and somebody else's advice tends to almost derail my resolve, rather than inspire me to do it differently and 3. recognise that I'm not as energised by the conversation as I would be if I just 'had a laugh'. That isn't to say I don't blurt out my inner most thoughts fairly frequently, but I guess I'm not really looking for solutions, more for someone to say, 'That's a nightmare. I feel your pain. Here, have a glass of prosecco with me.'

So I didn’t confide in my friends until I felt better again. But I knew I was not in a good place and that it was foolish to be alone in it.

Rather than simply tell my husband I was down, that the hormones were horrendous and ask him to sympathise, I said that I needed him to help me.  I said that I needed constant reassurance that this wasn't real, that I needed him to force me out of the house, go for my 'power walk' (I knew the importance but you know, sometimes it was raining…) and to make me get enough sleep.  He was brilliant. I think that if I hadn't have asked for help, he would have tried to do the boy-problem-solving-thing which wasn't as effective as giving me a hug and reminding me that we could beat this thing and of the strategy to do it.

The good news is, this situation feels a lifetime ago and yet the operation was less than three months ago. Much of the improvement is due to my hormones calming down (although not so the renewed hot sweats, jeez…) but some is certainly due to having a strategy. I'm lucky that I can now run again and I'm back to normal busy-ness - I'm definitely someone who's better humoured when busy - but I also feel calmer about this new state my body is in because I have faith in the strategies. Combined, they are more powerful than the hormones, so take that menopause, you won't get me that easily.

This is the strategy which worked for me. I'm sure different things work for different people – I'd have thought reading would work for me, for example, I love books and never have enough time to read as much as I'd like, but it didn’t. I couldn’t concentrate – whatever works for you, I really feel that having a plan of attack is your best tool to taking back control.

Jackie Buxton is a writer, editor and teacher of creative writing, living in Yorkshire with her husband and two teenage daughters. Jackie used her recent experience of an aggressive form of breast cancer to inform and dispel some myths about a cancer diagnosis via her popular blog: Agenthood and Submissionville. Her posts became the frame-work of self-help memoire, Tea & Chemo (Urbane Publications, November 2015) which receives heart-warming feedback, and has a five star rating from over 75 reviews. Jackie's recently published first novel, Glass Houses, is about two women's stupid mistakes, the ramifications and the silver linings. Her award-winning short stories can be found in three anthologies, as well as appearing regularly in Chase Magazine. When not writing or reading, over-seeing house and teens, Jackie can be found running, cycling or tripping up though the beautiful Yorkshire countryside.

Links

Website:   www.jackiebuxton.com

Blog:                   http://jackiebuxton.blogspot.co.uk

Glass Houses:   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Glass-Houses-Jackie-Buxton/dp/1910692840/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Tea & Chemo:  https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tea-Chemo-Fighting-Cancer-Living/dp/1910692395/ref=pd_sim_14_2?ie=UTF8&dpID=51VarAHlbnL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_AC_UL160_SR104%2C160_&psc=1&refRID=40W7ZSYWXQPDFB32377Z  

The End of the Beginning: Dropping the Breast Cancer Bomb ~ Naz ~ HuffPost Blog

So, you've met someone. You like them. You think they like you. But you have a secret.......

"When IS the right time to drop the breast cancer bomb?.........
For a woman who is encouraged to ‘move on’ a simple track does not exist. It takes time, years more appropriately, to be able to feel what you once did, or the memory of the return. The scars, the limitations, the menopause, tamoxifen side effects, and the agony, that fear of recurrence, that you may, just may, end up inflicting on the innocent ‘other’: is that justified? Yes, it takes two to tango, but what is that they say about love? It is blind, it is dedication, it is commitment: until death do us apart. The end of the beginning."

Read Naz's beautiful and emotional blog post about finding and losing your heart:

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/nazanin-derakhshan/breast-cancer_b_10959800.html?utm_source=Alert-blogger&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Email%2BNotifications

Blog published on HuffPostUK, 13th July 2016

Panning for Poetry ~ Part II

The poems that follow have all been written by talented members of the Building Resilience in Breast Cancer Facebook private psychoeducational group.

For this feature, our members were asked to share their own poetry, the feelings and consequent words that flowed and helped them through the storm of their breast cancer diagnosis.

“

Boob job

I've always fancied a boob job I do have to confess
And now I'm getting one free on the NHS
Do I get the tear shaped or do I get the rounds
I don't really care as long as they make nice little mounds.

So many ones to choose from in the nurse's little folders
And as I'm going smaller I can throw out my boulder holders
It'll be a shame to see them gone but a relief all the same
And hopefully I'll like my new boobs and might even give them a name.

A bilateral mx isn't much to look forward to
But it's my decision and I'm determined to see it through
The lymph nodes will go too but I doubt I'll grieve
But just to be on the safe side I'll be ordering a lymphodema sleeve.

All this talk of perkier tits certainly gets my vote
And I wonder when I'm swimming if they'll help keep me afloat?
So many recon options - the ld, diep and the tram
And with dermal slings and strattices I could even end up smelling of ham.

All this talk of expanders and having them pumped up
I wonder at what point they'll stop so I can see my new sized cup
Of course I worry how I'll feel about the inevitable scars
Just hope the stitching is quite neat then I won't look like I'm from mars.

And bloody rads could spoil my plans for my lovely new companions
So I'm praying that they'll stay convex and not turn into canyons
I'm relieved the surgery date is set and the tumours will be gone - phew
And I think I'll go for stick on nipples so better buy in some superglue!

Written by Colette

~

Bikes and boobs

Can I have a bmx?' I used to ask my mum
'No love, ride your chopper, I'm not made of money hun'
Isn't it ironic if you fast forward 30 years
That bmx's and choppers would be causing me some tears

The surgeon with her chopper has taken away my boobs
Well what an op that was and boy did it feature tubes
With seven sticking out of me, I didn't feel too great
Nor sharing with a woman whose snoring made the ward vibrate

So my old, bad boobs have gone and there are new ones in their place
And looking at the scars was something I wasn't sure I could face
But I've had a good nosey round and they look alright to me
They're quite a perky pair even if they wouldn't make page three

Kids are so amazing and will tell you as it is
'Can I see your new boobs Mummy?', my 6 year old did quiz
So I braced myself and showed him - 'what do you think?, I said
'They're so much better Mummy, cos your others were bigger than your head'.

Written by Colette

~

Reflections

I look in the mirror, and what do I see?
I see cancer staring back at me.
I used to see hair, I used to see a face,
now a disease has taken their place.
A constant reminder of what I’ve been through,
I only see one boob, I used to see two.

I’m hopeful that one day I will forget,
but that day isn’t here, not today, not yet.
But when that time comes, and I am set free,
I will look in the mirror
and see
only me.

Written by Caroline

~

b, c

The diary entry

for June 20^th 2011

reads ‘Hosp – 3.20’

then ‘lump, day 1’;

b was breast,

c was cancer,

life was upended.

The diary entry

for June 20^th 2012

reads ‘1 year’;

b is bee (small with ginger rump),

c is campanula (poscharskyana),

in whose purple blooms

the bee is upended;

and this is life.

Written by Samantha

~

Turn on the Taps

There are no tears
My eyes are dry.
Sometimes I wish I could just cry,
And mourn the loss of things held dear
Instead of holding onto fear,
Of cancer coming back again
In my spine or in my brain.
I should be happy, so they say
The cancer’s gone – hip hip hooray!
But just for once,
Just for today,
I long for tears to wash away
The shame, the guilt, the hurt, the pain
That cancer causes
Again and again.

Written by Caroline

~

Tamoxifen

Tamoxifen
My new best friend,
those sleepless nights that never end.
Depression, hot flushes and the rest
the side effects are not the best.
And yet I take it every day
to make the cancer stay away
because if it comes back instead
I fear the next time I’ll be dead

Written by Caroline

~

Pentameter
A poet may spend years trying to write
the perfect line of iambic poetry;
turns out my oncologist has the best
'As far as we can tell, you're cancer-free.'

© Samantha Newbury, 20 March 2012

~

Always Something There to Remind Me ~ Anita

The most commonly used term for what I am is cancer survivor…there’s a song about that…I will survive…and like the catchy new number you hear on the way to work in the morning that sits inside your head whirring round and round for the rest of the day, driving you crazy, so the cancer chorus is never far from consciousness for those of us who’ve attended the big Concert and come away with a pink t-shirt.

Yes, I went to that performance, but I didn’t queue up for a ticket.  I stood in line patiently though, with all the other ladies who received the same summons, because I had no choice.  I wasn’t brave or strong, a fighter – I was a frightened child.  I didn’t kick cancer’s butt, cancer kicked me, in the chest, hard, and I have the scars to show for it.  They hurt, most of the time, and especially if I look in the mirror.  How my body looks and feels is enough to jog my memory, if I should ever find a moment’s peace and forget that I’ve had cancer.

So what else reminds me?  Thinking out loud, let’s start with  lingerie departments – all those pretty lacy cleavage enhancing bras I’ll never be able to wear again; the never-ending search for a comfortable bra that supports my good boob but doesn’t aggravate my angry anchor shaped scar under my reduced boob, and which doesn’t rub the scar under my arm where my lymph nodes were taken away, and which also holds a prosthesis nice and firmly …and that kind well-meaning  lady in the posh bra shop who told me that no-one notices my lop-sidedness and advised me not to worry, just wear an ordinary bra that fits a bit too tight on one side and a bit too loose on the other.  Oh yes, that’s so comfortable (not) and anyway even if no-one else can see it, I know that I have one boob a DD and one a B.

But I digress:  a big reminder:  taking the oestrogen inhibiting pill daily before bed, just to reassure me before I lay my head on my pillow that I’m doing everything I can to prevent a recurrence; and all the reminders that delightful tablet brings me every day, such as weight gain, hot flushes, joint pain, mood swings…the tablets make me feel unlike myself, but that’s ok, the cancer is behind me after all, and I don’t need to think about it anymore.  Only every night before bed there’s that little yellow pill, for just a mere eight and a half more years.   

I know I’m not sticking to the point, and I know I’m going on about cancer again, aren’t I?  It’s all these reminders you see, they are relentless, they never leave me alone for a second.  Another one:   the friend or family member who asks how I am and says how lucky I am, it was caught early, and now I’m well.  To be fair, that friend is me, it’s what I tell everyone and it’s what they believe.  I can’t have them worrying, now can I?   And as for those adverts on tv, the Macmillan ones where David goes off in his head to a desolate beach, the wind is howling and he’s alone and cold and then the lovely nurse says ‘Are you ok David?’ and David turns to her and they smile and of course he’s all right.  Those adverts make me shiver from head to heart.

Yes, there is always something there to remind me, and what the reminders do is fill me with fear.  It’s true, I am one of the lucky ones, I’m one year clear and my surgeon confidently told me he had cut away all of my cancer with clear margins. My radiotherapy, he said, was belt and braces only; there was no sign of any spread.  But what if just one rogue cell is hiding somewhere in my body, waiting to come back and bite me one day?  After all, that first cancer came from nowhere, right?  Something triggered that first cell to turn nasty on me. (And one day I hope we’ll find out what it was, and people won’t have to live like this anymore.)  

I’m reminded when I have to leave the party early, because I can’t keep my eyes open.     I’m reminded when I have to find somewhere to sit down on a shopping trip.  I’m reminded when I decide not to go on the shopping trip in the first place.  I’m reminded when I hear about shopping trips I didn’t go on.  I’m reminded when friends no longer invite me on shopping trips because they know that I won’t go. 

I’m reminded when my GP surgery sends me a letter telling me they’re under pressure, so please, no routine appointments.   At what point do I bother them, how do I know if that stabbing pain in my left hip is a touch of arthritis, a yoga stretch taken too far, a side effect of letrozole, or secondary aka metastatic cancer in my bones…the kind of cancer that not everyone realises can’t be cured, only controlled, with horrible treatment that prolongs life but may reduce significantly the quality of that life. 

I’m reminded when we plan a holiday and I realise I haven’t been swimming since before my diagnosis, I haven’t even worn a swimsuit except to try it on, once, and I hated it so much that  I stuffed it in the back of a drawer, hidden away.  I’m reminded when a friend is diagnosed with primary breast cancer and she’s whisked off onto the rollercoaster of treatment, tests, and the long wait for results that I recall so well.  I’m reminded when a friend’s sister is diagnosed with metastatic cancer and I can’t stop the tears because her other sister died a few years ago from another kind of cancer, and here is a lady in her 70s who has buried one child already and now has another whose days are numbered.  I’m reminded when I hear about a pink angel gaining her wings after her brave fight - that’s how the jargon goes; it’s supposed to soften the blow.  Let’s face it, let’s not beat about the bush here, cancer kills people, people die, and not in a nice gentle peaceful way, young and old. 

Most of all, I’m reminded when I have a really bad day,  when I can’t sleep and I’m alone in the dark, and I feel very tired and very scared and very low, and all I want is my mum, and she isn’t here, and I cry quietly so as not to wake my husband, and I wish on a tear that the cancer will return so  I can stop feeling and go to heaven to be with her.   

Yes, there is always something there to remind me, but I’m also singing other songs now, and louder. I’m starting to realise that claiming and owning my voice is the key to living with the fear.   If you’ve read other blogs on this wonderful site, you may remember Annie’s Song.  Well Annie’s song is my song, and I’m happy to tell my tale.    I’ve joined a choir, and there my small voice blends with others and the sound we make is astonishing in its beauty.  When I am singing, there is no room in my head for cancer, for fear, but there is plenty of space in my heart for joy. 

Each person’s cancer song is unique and has a chorus of fear.  Within the safe haven of our support groups, we’re singing new songs in harmony from a place of understanding and empathy.   Together, we are simply amazing, and we’re starting to be heard.

Anita Traynor, aka Annie x  

A Day to Remember, Or a Day to Forget - Coping With the 'Cancerversary' ~ Tamsin~ HuffPost Blog

I was on a course recently where we were asked to introduce ourselves by sharing a memorable date. With a sinking heart, I thought frantically - When did I pass my driving test? Move into my own home? I thought about my first date with my partner - 13th February, twenty-or-so years ago, but really, who wants to admit to having the equivalent of their wedding anniversary on Valentine's Day? (Reader, I didn't marry him).

My inner voice cried out a date so loudly that it drowned out anything else I could think of, but it felt like a shameful secret - 17th June 2009. I didn't want to share it.

The day began unremarkably enough. I remember wearing my tatty Earl Jean jacket and an Urban Outfitters t-shirt (I've never claimed to be a fashionista). My partner and I were finally going out without our two year-old daughter. We badly judged the timing of our travel arrangements and I remember my mounting hysteria as we half ran, half walked to arrive one minute late for my appointment, breathless, hot and sweaty. I remember the agony of the packed waiting room, the atmosphere thick with anxiety. I remember the ultrasound probe's ominous pause over the thickened tissue under my left collar bone and that, a mere three hours later, the waiting room was deserted apart from me and my partner. Most of all, I remember hearing the Consultant's words, "You have breast cancer."

I've lost count of the landmarks that followed that first, fateful day: the countless surgeries, the first day of chemotherapy, the last day of 'active' treatment, the day I found out I had a BRAC1 mutation, the day I was told that my cancer was back. The days of my illness are strung together like beads alongside the milestones of my daughter's life: her first day at nursery, her first day at school, riding her bike for the first time. Life doesn't wait for you just because you're ill and cancer is a ghostly figure which hovers in the background of so many memories. When I cry (if I dare, that is), there are tears of happiness that I'm alive and present to witness these precious moments, but there is also an unspeakable anguish that only comes with the knowledge that all things end.

By my calculations, I'm now seven years and five days on from my first diagnosis of breast cancer, four years and three months on from a recurrence and three years on from my last major surgery. So how do I feel? Of course I'm intensely thankful - I never forget that for now I'm one of the lucky ones - and there's a heady sense of exhilaration that comes with having endured the modern-day equivalent of the twelve labours of Heracles. But, it's also a time of year which stirs up feelings of sadness and guilt, threatening my oh-so-carefully constructed defences. That old refrain, 'I'm Fine,' becomes a mantra to ward off the bad dreams which take me back to a time in my life forever associated with fear, reminding me that whether I like it or not, I'm still vulnerable. The 'future,' which once represented opportunity, now symbolises uncertainty - What if my cancer comes back? Do I consider that two-year MA course? Is it worth re-starting my Pension? 

  

According to Cancer Research UK more than 352,000 people are diagnosed with cancer in the UK each year and I'm willing to bet that almost every one of them could tell you the date they found out they had cancer. There's a growing trend, I've noticed, to commemorate the 'cancerversary.' But how do you mark the day you were confronted with your own mortality? In the early days, when I still thought I was invincible, it was a good excuse for a special dinner, or a treat, but since being diagnosed with cancer for a second time, I've found myself cringing at what seems like arrogance. I feel almost superstitious about calling any attention to my good fortune - I don't want to jinx myself. What I've learned is that there is no 'right' or 'wrong' way to feel. If you want to have that holiday of a life-time, or a wild party, then go for it (just try not to worry about whether it's 'safe' to drink alcohol - another story). Or maybe, like me, you prefer to simply raise a quiet toast of thanks for another year of life on our beautiful planet, a blue dot floating in a vast universe of space and time. And as for next year, on the 17th June 2017, I plan to celebrate Icelandic National Day instead!

https://www.facebook.com/resilienceinbreastcancer/

http://www.shinecancersupport.org/

https://www.facebook.com/YoungerBreastCancerNetwork/

One Year On ~ Vicky

Earlier I came across this quote, “We all have an unsuspected reserve of strength inside that emerges when life puts us to the test.”, which today is very apt for me.

It’s hard to believe that it’s days away from the 10th anniversary of my primary breast cancer diagnosis at the age of 31.  A small, low grade cancer with no lymph node or blood vessel involvement and with an excellent prognosis.  My Oncologist suggested dealing with it by surgery alone and agreed for me to go ahead and have the family we had been planning (I’d experienced a miscarriage only 4 months before). He told me in the nicest possible way to go away and to never darken the doorstep of Oncology again! So off I went, welcomed my two children, gave a nod of acknowledgement to the 5 year cancer-free milestone as it passed by, got married, next stop 10 years which seemed to be in my grasp until a new bomb dropped.

One year ago today I climbed aboard a roller coaster and was told that I wasn’t allowed to get off.  I can still see that day clearly, extensive spread of breast cancer into the lymph node and bones, treatable but incurable. My world crumbled around me. I struggled to hear what the doctor was saying, all I heard was screaming in my head.  My first words after what seemed a lifetime: "My children are only 6 and 5, I need to be here for them”.

So here we are 366 days on, a year of ups and downs, but life does move forward. There are times when I forget for a few hours, feel normal even, then other times when I cannot shake off the waves of grief and anxiety surrounding what is facing us. It’s a bittersweet moment, because of course being here is cause for celebration, but there’s sadness too as it’s an anniversary which brings our sense of time into sharp focus. Our mind starts to be drawn to the future as well as the past.  

Over the year I ventured back to support groups, made new friends and met some amazing women sadly in the same boat. After joining the psycho-educational group belonging to The Research Centre for Building Psychological Resilience in Breast Cancer, which brings both primary and secondary women together, I was recruited by Professor Naz Derakshan to assist running the Centre along with Tamsin Sargeant. The work we have done together has seen us create this blog ‘Panning for Gold’, as a platform for women with a breast cancer diagnosis to share their stories and showcase their talents.  My first venture into blogging was here, titled ‘Stage IV and beyond…, and since then I have co-written two blogs with Tamsin for the HuffPost UK.

Secondary breast cancer can be an isolating condition as it is so widely misunderstood. It cannot be cured, so the treatment for it never ends and both this and the cancer cause physical side effects. The psychological impact of living with the condition can be crushing.  Thankfully, the online groups are supportive, caring places, somewhere to go where other women understand, where we can share good and bad news and also where there is a mine of information. Sadly over this year I have seen too many women die from this relentless disease, all at different stages of life, many young women with children and those who were denied that chance.  This has to stop, but we don’t have the answers.

                                                                         

So looking back what advice would I give myself upon diagnosis.  Initially I would say it will seem like a living nightmare but gradually you will find a new normal, so it is important to carry on with those tasks which allow you to connect with normal life.  Give yourself time to adjust as your head will be full of questions (a lot of which can’t be answered) and you will feel every single emotion…probably all at the same time and sometimes at inconvenient times. Acknowledge these different emotions and face your fears, otherwise they will rear up and strike when you’re least expecting it. But most importantly, keep the HOPE.





Blogs:

Stage IV and beyond... 
http://bcresiliencecentre.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/stage-iv-and-beyond-vicky.html

Panning for Gold: Stories of Resilience after Breast Cancer  
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/tamsin-sargeant/stories-of-resilience-after-breast-cancer_b_9997488.html

We Need to Talk about Secondary Breast Cancer
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/tamsin-sargeant/secondary-breast-cancer_b_10247000.html