When you think you have all the time in the world, it's easy to put things off until another day. As a busy mum of two, I never used to get round to ticking off my life's to-do list, such as arranging meet-ups with old friends, booking trips to dream destinations or renovating our family home in Lowestoft, Suffolk.
But in April 2018, when I was 36, everything changed when I found a lump in my right breast, and hospital scans brought the horrendous news that I had stage 3 oestrogen receptor-positive breast cancer. I knew then that I couldn't keep taking life for granted.
After coming to terms with my diagnosis, I made the heartbreaking decision to have a double mastectomy and reconstruction surgery in July. I felt that my femininity had been stolen. But I knew it was worth it to safeguard my future with my husband Jamie and our sons Isaac, then 11, and Jude, eight.
After recovering from surgery, I was told that my chance of cancer returning was so low, I didn't need chemotherapy. But, during a hospital appointment in September 2018, I pointed out two small spots on my breast to my consultant, who sent me for an ultrasound scan, which brought yet more devastation.
My cancer had metastasised and spread to my liver via my blood stream.
Jamie held me tight and we sat in silence, stunned, in the oncologist's office as I was diagnosed with incurable stage 4 secondary cancer.
My prognosis was bleak, with the specialist warning that I had two years left, at most. I went into an emotional shutdown, numbly telling myself that I would never reach my 40th birthday or see my two beautiful boys grow up.
Back at home, breaking the news to the children was awful, but in the days that followed, my devastation turned to anger and I found my fighting spirit. Refusing to accept my prognosis, I requested a transfer to Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der January 01, 2024-Ausgabe von WOMAN - UK.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der January 01, 2024-Ausgabe von WOMAN - UK.
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