Breaking down, I couldn’t believe that bald, emaciated woman in the mirror was me. ‘Are you crying because you’re dying, Mummy?’ my six-year-old daughter, Molly, asked, giving me a hug. I tried to reassure her I was getting better, but after 12 gruelling weeks of chemo, I couldn’t hide the tears any more.
I met Lee in December 2010, when I was working as a choreographer. We had our son, Jack, now eight, in December 2011, before we got married in July 2013, and I gave birth to Molly, now six, that November. Though we separated in 2015, Lee and I always maintained an amicable relationship. He had the kids one evening per week, but being a self-employed single mum was exhausting. Then, one morning in August 2018, I felt a lump above my nipple. Panicked, I called my doctor, who referred me to a breast unit. I reassured myself it would be nothing to worry about – at 35, I was fit and healthy, didn’t smoke, rarely drank and was vegan. Burying my head in the sand, I told no one and busied myself with work. Two weeks later, when the kids were at school,I went for an ultrasound, mammogram and biopsy alone. After several hours, I was told by the consultant I had stage 2 cancer, which would be treatable and fairly straightforward to operate on.
I was terrified but pulled myself together so I could be strong for the kids. That evening, I explained to them what cancer was and that unfortunately, some people didn’t get better, but the doctor hoped I would. They were both very worried but took it fairly well and didn’t cry.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 28, 2020-Ausgabe von WOMAN - UK.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 28, 2020-Ausgabe von WOMAN - UK.
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