I sat in the car, staring at the windscreen, but seeing nothing through it.  I picked up my mobile and stared at it.  What a horrid call I needed to make.  I’d promised to call the love of my life, Richard, when I came out.  He was on a corporate golf day and etiquette dictates that mobile phones are banned on golf courses anyway; but if ever there was an exception to that rule, I figured this was it. 

He answered straight away, and I told him there and then – between sobs - in the car park.  Telling him – the first person – was terribly difficult; saying the words aloud for the first time; hearing yourself say them; it was an awful admission.  I knew it would be a shock too because I had played down the whole business after seeing that locum, and like me, he hadn’t thought for one second that it could be anything sinister.  Over the course of the entire morning, I had been led gradually to the realisation that I had cancer by the hours of waiting and the increase in severity of the tests; but he had no inkling whatsoever.  It was a terrible shock as well as horrendous news, but he managed to be incredibly supportive and reassuring of his love.  He has always known the right things to say to get through to me, and this news must have sorely tested that, but he was brilliant and managed to calm me down enough to get home.

Later that afternoon I bit the bullet and phoned my mum.  We had fallen out months before, but now was not the time to be stubborn.  She screamed and cried, and told me how we would have to be very strong to ‘fight’ this, how we would ‘beat’ it – her reaction and language frightened me, but I tried hard to understand her panic and devastation at being told her child had a life-threatening disease and could be dying.  Then I told my ex-husband, who was true to his nature; showing strength of character and going straight into fix-it mode.  He reassured me that he would take care of our children while I was treated, and sympathised.  When he came round to drop our girls off he gave me a hug, which meant a lot because despite our marriage failing, we were still friends and we had recognised that to continue be good parents we had to work together happily and be seen by our kids to be supportive of each other. 

The nurse called me later the same day and my surgery was booked for nine days later.  The following week I met my Consultant, Mr H., who would be trying to save my life.  He was such a lovely, gentle man, I liked him instantly.  I quickly came to feel as safe as anyone could possibly make you feel in that situation, and that speaks volumes from a girl who grew up daddy-less.  I couldn’t face this appointment alone, so had asked my friend Toni to come with me. 

The leaflets advised me to take a friend who was less involved and less emotional.  Thank goodness I did - she was an absolute rock.  The rationale was that someone less directly ‘involved’ could listen objectively, take notes, and remember to ask the questions I would invariably forget to ask.  My lovely friend did all of those things, and more.  Richard wanted to be with me, but I asked him not to come for this.  He still lived and worked over a hundred miles away, and we knew he would need to take time off in the not-too-distant future. 

By the time of this appointment, the Consultant had the results of my core biopsy.  They confirmed the diagnosis of grade three cancer and gave the first indications of how I might fare.  This part of the consultation was not at all positive.  They simply didn’t know whether the cancer had metastasised (spread) to any other parts or organs of my body or not, so they couldn’t reassure me that we had found it soon enough.  This time no medics were giving me false hopes; perhaps I was being given a worst case scenario but it may well have been the most likely one – given the biopsy results.

Mr H. helpfully drew me a diagram to show how he would be performing the surgery and how he would also take away a good margin around the area, to be as sure as possible he removed any cancer cells in the surrounding tissue.  He explained that in some cases, a skin sparing mastectomy may be performed, but in my case it was better to leave no risky areas behind – even my nipple could prove dangerous to me.  It was a no-brainer; I wanted every bit removed as soon as possible.

I was told it would take about three weeks after the operation to receive the full results of the tests done on the tumour.  The results would be imperative to my appointment with the Oncologist who would thereby determine what further treatment, if any, would be appropriate.  You can interpret that two ways: (a) you might not need any further treatment or (b) we may not be able to do any more for you. 

I hadn’t registered how negative this all appeared for my outlook, but Toni did.  She helpfully then tried to steer the conversation back to the available treatments like chemotherapy, radiotherapy and the wonder drugs Tamoxifen and Herceptin that seemed to be in the news all the time.  It was something to hang onto briefly, but Mr H. explained that not all breast cancers were of the type that responded to drugs; indeed, that was what some of the histology tests sought to establish. 

During those nine days, I had some pretty difficult ‘age-appropriate’ conversations with my three beautiful girls.  I didn’t mention the C word – I just couldn’t.  Saying it out loud to them would’ve scared me, never mind them.  I didn’t find it hard to choose the right words to tell the littlest two – but it was really hard to say them without tears or my voice cracking.  I managed to say that Mummy had a lump and that even though it didn’t hurt, it had to be taken away or I would start to feel poorly.  I have to admit though, I struggled hugely with what to say to my firstborn.

There’s lots of advice out there on what to say and how to say it to smaller kids, someone has even written a picture book now; but there is very little out there about older children or the more mature young teens.  They will have seen people with headscarves and heard the C word mentioned – usually in the same sentence as someone dying.  My beautiful, highly intelligent ten year old daughter had recently participated in the ‘Race for Life’ and ran a school record-breaking fourteen laps of the athletics track, raising a lot of money for charity in the process.  I had to be more honest and answer her questions without causing anxiety and upset.

The hardest point for me to cope with in all of this, the most terrible time in my life, was during these difficult, heart-breaking chats.  My precious daughters, ‘the children’, started comforting me, ‘the adult’.  My baby, five year old Jasmine, immediately drew me Get Well Soon cards; my eight year old, Sophie, stuck to me like glue and left me loving notes when she went to school and my eldest totally floored me with her reaction.  She put her arm around me and told me it would be OK; that everything was going to be all right.  She told me I was the best Mummy in the world ever, and that she loved me very much.  Oh Lord, try not to break down through that!  What a truly wonderful child and how lucky I had been to have three such marvellously loving daughters.

Those days before the fight began were precious. I sorted my affairs, made a will and called a few old friends.  I made every minute with my children count, and tried desperately – but often failed – not to think it might be the last time I do this, or the last time I see them do that.  A positive aspect of my marital situation was that the girls would happily stay at Daddy’s house while I was in hospital.  It made it easier to bear knowing they were used to being there, and that the other person on the planet who loved them more than life itself, would be there for them – in what might be the greatest time of need in their entire lives.

I cried and screamed in private; some self-pity but mostly just for my girls growing up without me.  Being faced with your own mortality at any age is painful and terrifying, but because I had young children I also had buckets of guilt about putting them through all of this and ruining their childhoods. Some days, just a single thought would set me off.  One such morning ensued as I brushed and plaited my way through the three sets of long hair.  I suddenly felt a crushing, debilitating pain for them.  Who would do my angels’ hair every morning if I wasn’t here?  Who would love them as unconditionally as a Mother does, for every minute of their lives and beyond?  Who else would stick up for them, be their support mechanism as and when they needed it?  Who else would care enough to think of them first, always, without question? 

I had a very emotional talk with my ex-husband a couple of days before I went into hospital.  We were discussing the girls’ arrangements, and I found myself telling him that if the worst happened, I wanted him to make sure he found a nice woman to be a mother to them.  I begged him to promise me that he would make sure this woman really loved our girls; that she would try to be their Mum, at least while they were young.  This was painful to say, and killing me inside, but I knew that the little two at least were young enough to forget me, in time, and would therefore be able to form a close maternal relationship.  I hoped that my eldest would at least have a female role-model, a friend, maybe even a confidante.  He said he would do his very best for our girls, but that it wouldn’t be necessary because I was not going anywhere.  

One afternoon at school pick-up time, one of the other mothers – a farmer’s wife – came over and asked if I fancied a walk on the playing fields, whilst our daughters picked blackberries. The girls ran off happily, and she and I talked.  I told her that I wasn’t worried for myself, but the thought of leaving my girls motherless was the worst thing imaginable.  They have the best Dad in the world, but I know with a hundred percent certainty that nobody could ever love them as much as I do.  Who would they turn to with their first period, their first broken heart, and their exam worries?  And who else would celebrate their every success?  Who would help them and cheer them on through interviews, jobs, pregnancies, motherhoods and work-life balances? 

As I voiced my ‘who would do their hair every morning’, I turned to face my companion and saw that she was crying.  I had said too much; unwittingly exposing myself.  I should really be putting on a brave face saying I was fine, but I wasn’t used to people daring to ask me about it!  We wept together as we walked, until we caught up to the children.  Then for their sakes, normal service was resumed.  This lovely lady wasn’t one of my closest friends, but how refreshing it was for someone to show me that love and consideration – to risk talking to me about it – an act of compassion that few others had dared to demonstrate.  WHAT were the other people afraid of?

The night before surgery was, as you might expect, an emotional and intimate one. My soulmate and I shared a bubble bath and laughed a lot. We reminisced about the places we’d been to and the great passion we had always felt for each other.  We laid intertwined for hours after our lovemaking, but then I cried too. 

I looked at my body and wondered whether we could ever be as passionate after this operation.  Would he still desire me, as much as he has since the second we met?  It may sound clichéd, but despite having previous long-term partners, and children, we’d only discovered the true extent and sheer joy of a mutually satisfying relationship after we got together.  Neither of us had any idea just how deeply moving and emotional such a special connection could be, with the greatest passion for each other; with patience, trust, love, equality and being willing to open yourself up entirely to the other in mind, body and soul. 

My tears were dried with tenderness, love and reassurance. We didn’t know what would happen.  We knew that the road ahead was not an easy one, but we also knew that we loved each other beyond any boundaries and that whatever we faced, we would do so together.

The morning of the operation arrived in no time, and I felt happier that we had been told to be at the hospital for 6am. At least I wouldn’t have too much time to think about things. The journey there wasn’t great.  Richard was unusually contemplative.  I hadn’t actually considered what he must be going through.  To finally meet your soulmate and be ecstatically happy after years of miserable drudge; to realise your heart’s desire and discover the true meaning of love and partnership, but then to have less than a year of bliss with them, before it could possibly be devastated by forces outside your control, was frightening and immeasurably tortuous. 

I was second on the theatre list.  We sat in a side room and I donned the gown and that bastion of attractive ‘must-have’ hospital attire, the white elasticated surgical socks. It was so difficult to get those things on, you could give yourself a hernia!  Mr H. came to see me and drew lots of lines on my left breast with a blue marker pen.  I was surprised then, later on that morning, when another doctor came round and drew an arrow pointing to the left breast – as if it wasn’t completely obvious which one was leaving...

About eleven o’clock it was my turn to go down, and for the first time since diagnosis I felt ill.  I was lying on the trolley and being wheeled down the corridors and into a lift.  There was a short queue for the anaesthetic and I was told I would be next in.

What should you say to the love of your life at such a time?  Mine had been allowed to come with me right to the door of the anaesthetic room, on condition that he donned scrubs: a gown, shoe covers and the essential plastic hat.  He looked funny and cute; handsome and loving. He gripped my hand as if I were in labour, and told me repeatedly how much he loved me.  I told him the same and I will never forget the feeling he gifted me there – that if I didn’t wake up and this was it, I felt lucky that I had at least known the excitement and utter joy of what it is to be truly loved.

It was time. We said goodbye, trying to smile as tears welled in our eyes.  My trolley was wheeled away to the anaesthetic room and my sweetheart disappeared out of sight as he made his way back up to my room to sit and wait.  I was scared now and alone again.  It was all so bright, so white and shiny.  I could hear distant voices, and the clanking of stainless steel.  Equipment being prepared? 

In came Mr H, like an old friend bustling around me, straightening my sheet and blanket.  I felt like I imagined a small child would feel, when their Daddy came to scare away bad dreams and tuck them in.  Mr H. asked me what music I would prefer to hear while I slept, and offered me a choice of two CDs.  Neither was to my taste, and I replied that either CD would be fine, in the absence of any Pink Floyd.  He laughed and said he’d see what he could do.  What a nice touch to put me at my ease. 

As they injected the liquid that would take me away from myself, he leaned into the trolley and squeezed my hand tight.  It was a nice feeling; thank God for that lovely man.  This was it – just me and him.  I handed him the reins to my life and closed my eyes.