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The door slides open and she enters the waiting room unsmiling. I read my diagnosis on her face and in the bundle of paperwork she carries, and as she beckons me into the counselling room, I tell myself I’ll manage. The news isn’t good but I’ll most likely keep my breast and my life.
Wuhan has hit the headlines now, but we sit cheek to jowl in the overflowing doctors’ suite, waiting to see our respective surgeons. Mine is beautiful; warm, caring, compassionate and a wonderful communicator. I immediately feel reassured and know that I am in the best possible hands.
News of the pandemic worsens and I worry my operation may be cancelled. Thankfully it goes ahead and is successful. My lymph nodes are clear and at 56 I have the breasts of a 20 year old. I decide to call them Grace and Frankie in honour of the series that has brought so much laughter into my life over the last few weeks. I recover well, and visits from loved ones fuel my sense of optimism and wellbeing.
It’s March and we are now in shut down. As a single woman, there is not one person I can sit beside, let alone hug. The lack of physical affection exacerbates my sense of isolation and after managing this episode in my life so well, I begin to unravel.
I complete 4 weeks of radiation treatment. The burns and fatigue intensify along with the loneliness and nothing feels normal. I weep at the smallest thing and yearn for a shoulder to cry on in the most literal sense. My return to work saves me and I begin to heal in the company of my colleagues and the preschoolers I teach. I am lucky to be alive and employed.
Wuhan has hit the headlines now, but we sit cheek to jowl in the overflowing doctors’ suite, waiting to see our respective surgeons. Mine is beautiful; warm, caring, compassionate and a wonderful communicator. I immediately feel reassured and know that I am in the best possible hands.
News of the pandemic worsens and I worry my operation may be cancelled. Thankfully it goes ahead and is successful. My lymph nodes are clear and at 56 I have the breasts of a 20 year old. I decide to call them Grace and Frankie in honour of the series that has brought so much laughter into my life over the last few weeks. I recover well, and visits from loved ones fuel my sense of optimism and wellbeing.
It’s March and we are now in shut down. As a single woman, there is not one person I can sit beside, let alone hug. The lack of physical affection exacerbates my sense of isolation and after managing this episode in my life so well, I begin to unravel.
I complete 4 weeks of radiation treatment. The burns and fatigue intensify along with the loneliness and nothing feels normal. I weep at the smallest thing and yearn for a shoulder to cry on in the most literal sense. My return to work saves me and I begin to heal in the company of my colleagues and the preschoolers I teach. I am lucky to be alive and employed.