It came
to my attention today while scrolling through Facebook that a wonderful and
brave lady called Holley Kitchen had lost her battle with breast cancer. I
watched the video she made at age 39 years when she was diagnosed with
metastatic breast cancer. This had a profound effect on me and I felt that I
wanted to share my own story.
In
March 1989, I was working as a nurse in the hospital in my home town. I was 39
years old, married with two children. I had been a nurse since I had been
eighteen and I really loved and enjoyed my work.
On the
28th February 1989, while I was getting ready to go on night duty, I
felt the lump in my left breast. It was central, right on the nipple. I didn’t
panic, or scream, or shout. I called my husband upstairs as I needed to give
his opinion - was there a lump or not? It felt hard and fixed and was the size
of a 10 pence piece. My husband didn’t say a word. He just nodded and went back
downstairs while I sat on our bed with my mind in a daze.
When I
presented myself to the GP the following morning, he examined me. He didn’t
think that there was anything to worry about but said he would refer me anyway,
there was a breast cancer clinic taking place at our local hospital that
afternoon. He telephoned and got me in as an emergency. By now, panic had set
in and I kept feeling the lump every five minutes or so, willing it to
disappear. Obviously it didn’t.
Sitting
in the clinic, I began looking around at the other women and realised I was the
youngest there. I had nursed many women with breast cancer but never one as
young as me. I decided that I didn’t have cancer. I was far too young. This was
going to turn out to be a cyst or something. I was going to be fine.
After
being examined by the consultant, he decided to take some fluid from the breast
and send it to the lab. This was on a Wednesday. I wouldn’t get the results
until the following Monday. All of a sudden I was filled with such fear that I
could hardly breathe. After a chat with the specialist nurse, I went home.
The
days passed slowly. By Friday I was desperate to know one way or another.
During Friday evening, the door bell rang. When I answered it, there was the
breast cancer specialist nurse and my ward sister. And then I knew. I looked at
their faces and I knew I had breast cancer. They were so kind they had come to
tell me in the privacy of my own home. Whatever my reaction, it wouldn’t be
seen by a clinic full of patients. I just asked what would come next. I was
told to come into the ward for admission on the Monday morning. My surgery
would take place the following day - March 6th 1989. I didn’t ask
what my surgeon would do and he didn’t tell me. After they left, I completely
lost all self-control. My husband changed colour and seemed to age in the two
hours it took me to calm down. Both my children were out with friends for the
evening. My eldest was 18 years old at the time. My youngest was 15 years old
and still clingy. I couldn’t turn around without her being there.
Lying
awake in bed in the early hours of the morning, I knew I would have to tell
them that day. It was then that the guilt hit me. What was I doing to my
family? I was about to blow their happy world to bits. I was going to hurt
them, to frighten them and worry them. How could I do this to them? I can tell
you now, truthfully and honestly, that was the worst part of it all, watching
the fear on their faces. Not being able to give them the reassurance that they
needed. They were so upset, so frightened and I as their mother had caused it.
My husband tried so hard to be strong for me but I could see the fear in his
eyes.
When I
was admitted to the ward, the Surgeon explained that as the tumour was in the
nipple area of the breast, he wanted to perform a total mastectomy, with
clearance of the axillary lymph nodes. These nodes would then be sent away for
testing to see if the cancer had spread to my axilla (the lymph nodes under my
arm). He wanted to take the whole breast as he was worried that the cancer
would infiltrate my chest wall.
I was
numb. I thought, this is real, this is happening. I tell you honestly, I was
terrified. I didn’t ask any questions, in my mind it was over. I might die,
sooner rather than later. And in the time I had left, I would rather live my
life with one breast. To me my life would never be the same again.
They
gave me a sleeping tablet that night. It didn’t work. The fear and blind terror
kept me awake. How would my husband react when he saw my body for the first
time? Would he still find me attractive? I didn’t think so. How could he?
Mutilation was the word I was thinking of. I would be mutilated. I would never
wear a swimsuit again. I would have to wear special bras. I cried and cried. I
felt so sorry for myself. I didn’t have a positive bone in my body.
Morning
came and I was prepped for theatre. Off I went, putting on a brave face for
everyone.
You
must remember this was 1989. Things were so different then. Today there is a
fantastic breast care specialist unit in our hospital, reputed to be the best
in Wales. Back then they did not have the facilities they have today.
Two
days after my operation, the day came to change my dressings and for me to see
the wound on my chest for the first time. When the bandages and packing was
taken away, I looked down to see the left side of my chest was flat, with a
wound running from my central chest to my axilla. It was held together by black
cat-gut stitches and looked very red and angry. And I just looked down and felt
nothing. This was the beginning of my trouble. I didn’t feel or show any
emotion at all. I just blocked the whole thing out. Big mistake.
A nurse
came to the house to change the dressings for a few days after my discharge
from hospital. Three days later, when I was in the bath, I asked my husband to
come in. When he saw my scar, he said “Was that what all the fuss is over, that
doesn’t look too bad.” I went into meltdown, I screamed, I shouted, I cried. All
the time stomping around the bedroom, shouting “I have been mutilated.” I
collapsed on my bed and cried so much that I didn’t think I had any tears left.
The
following day I was back in my shell. I was always smiling, laughing and being
brave Mrs Wonderful. Oh yes, everyone thought I was great to come out of my
operation full of the joys of spring. Eight weeks later I was back at work. I
had the results of my lymph nodes biopsy and the cancer had not spread so I
didn’t need any more treatment, just 3-monthly check-ups. When these were due,
I would get my hair done and dress up like a model, full make-up on and nothing
out of place. I would walk in with a big smile on my face. To them I looked the
picture of health, brimming with confidence. Inside I was falling apart. This
went on for years.
After
surgery, I was given the drug Tamoxifen which I had to take every day and can
bring on an early change of life. One of the side-effects is weight gain. In
three years, my body image had changed dramatically. I had gained a lot of
weight. I looked bloated. My remaining breast grew at an alarming rate, so
undressed, I looked hideous. But still, the outside world saw only a happy,
smiling, confident person.
Two
years later, I had an implant fitted. The pain of the operation was pretty bad
but I didn’t show anyone. Now instead of an empty space on the left side of my
chest wall, I had a large, round, hard lump under my skin. It did nothing for
confidence. I looked dreadful - with one sagging breast and one immovable, hard
lump minus a nipple. Still, I pretended I was thrilled with the result and got
on with things.
One
night, during a night shift, I lifted a patient off the emergency trolley onto
the bed and slipped two discs in my lumbar spine which I had to have removed. I
was left with nerve damage. I was 49 years old. I never worked again. A couple
of months later, I had to have my breast implant removed as it was working its
way up my chest wall and was far too high. The second implant was not much
better, I was still left lop-sided. Under my clothes I was a mess but I put on
my happy face so no-one knew.
It was
about this time that I began drinking heavily. I had reached rock bottom. I
could not have gone any lower. But I was still dragging myself out of bed every
morning and going through my routine. I had a check-list in my head: clothes -
immaculate, hair - the same, house - immaculate. I was good, very good. No-one
noticed. Not for years. My drinking continued and my health began to
deteriorate. I was admitted to hospital to have yet another implant. I even had
a few drinks before admission. At least this implant was a success.
By this
time I was refusing to leave the house, only going if I really had to. My
husband was as loving and supportive as ever. He did all our shopping after
work and he didn’t even comment on my excessive drinking. He thought I had bad
nerves. In fact I was drinking myself to death. I hated myself, my body was a
mess. I put on a huge amount of weight so now my implant did not match my other
breast which had grown.
Eventually,
it all came to a head. My friend, a nurse, who was visiting noticed how
breathless I was. She also noticed my swollen ankles and the next thing, she
asked to see my stomach which was hard and swollen with ascites. She rang my GP
who came out and the next thing was that I went into hospital as an emergency.
The Consultant was amazing. They had caught me in time and as long as I never
had a drink again, my liver would survive. It was by talking to my doctor that
the true way I felt came out. I had been living a pretend life, and he said it
had all started with my mastectomy. Pretending I was okay so my family and
friends would not worry. He told me I had never come to terms with it. I hid it
away as if it had never happened.
Looking
back, I realised he was right. Not once did I cry or talk to anyone about it.
If people offered me sympathy and empathy, I would push them away. Getting out
of the shower, it was easy to avert my eyes. When I cried, I did it alone, when
the house was empty. Towards the end, I spent a great deal of time alone. Most
of my friends stopped calling, my husband was at work all day. By now, my
children had their own lives. And it suited me to be alone, I didn’t have to
pretend.
I spent
three weeks in the hospital, with plenty of time to talk to various health
professionals and plenty of time to think. This was 6 years ago and I haven’t
had a drink since. I am well and feeling great. I have learned to love myself
and my body. I look at my mastectomy scar and think of it as a battle I won. I
didn’t deal with my breast cancer at all, I shut it out. It was the worst thing
I could have done.
I am 27
years post-op this month. I have come a long way. I am disabled now due to the
nerve damage in my spine but I am happy and at peace with myself and my body
image. I have got my self-respect back. But most importantly I don’t keep
things to myself anymore. No man or woman is an island we all need someone at
sometime.