A Breast Lump!?!

Sarah Allen • October 3, 2022

I'm going back to autumn 2020 for this blog post for Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Monday morning can't be bothered to have a shower but don't want to stink! Quick wash of armpits over the sink. Bar of soap is all that's needed. If you know me, you'll know I quit those stupid plastic wash scrunchies years ago! Thank goodness for that, it's not just plastic I've saved, maybe I've saved my life too. As quick a wash as it was, it still detected a lump! Am I sure? Is it definitely there? There's definitely something, very small, but something. Clothes thrown on and out the door on the school run. Day carries on. School pick-up before I know it and then a drive to Exeter. The kids need clothes, but the Coronavirus rate is rising. A second wave is on its way so better to go now.

Tuesday decide to ignore the lump. I did prod and poke quite a bit yesterday. Perhaps I made it inflamed, bigger than it really was. Carry on regardless.

Wednesday, back from school run. Really must just check that lump. In bathroom, bra off. Arm down, nothing. Arm up, there it is. It's real, it's there. Husband working from home. Mention the lump as the kettle boils to set up the working day with a warming cuppa. We talk about it. He's concerned, I'm worried. He has a feel, and he can feel it too. Shit!

I need to see a doctor. I don't want to see a doctor, but I must, this is not a time for hesitation. I phone the surgery. The phone is answered by a machine, stock answer but now it explains about what to do if you have symptoms of Coronavirus. I start crying and put the phone down. Perhaps making an appointment via the website will be easier. It's possible but you have to go into the surgery (which is not advised due to Covid) to get a pin number to access online services. I'll have to phone. I listen to the pre-recorded message. I don't cry. I wait patiently in the queue. I'm currently in position 3 in the queue! I wait. I’m still in position 3 in the queue, position 2, position 1. Eventually I get through. I ask to see a doctor. I'm told, due to Covid, I can't see a doctor, but I can have an online appointment in 6 weeks. I do not simply say okay and make an appointment. Never do that. Say, just say, why you need to see a doctor NOW. "I've got a breast lump." I've got her attention. She still can't make an appointment I have to speak to the duty doctor. I hope the doctor rings before the kids are home. I hope the doctor doesn’t ring when I'm doing the school run. He rings just before I need to leave for school. So lovely and sympathetic, he's sorry I've got a lump. Now I'm worried, a doctor saying he's sorry that's got to be a bad sign. Appointment booked for the next day.

Sat in the waiting room, socially distanced from others I try not to cry all over my face mask. I was told by the duty doctor that it's extremely likely I'll be sent to the breast clinic. I am. I'm told by the GP nine in ten people who are referred are fine. Good odds but what about the 10% who aren't?

I wait for the post and the appointment to come through. It's quick. I'm told it should be and it's no need to worry. I have to go alone, due to Covid. I'm told to expect a long wait, that I could be there for four hours. I take a picnic, a book and a flask! I sit in the waiting room filling in a form asking me when my last period was and what family history of breast cancer I've got. I try to fill it in without anyone else seeing, despite the social distancing, it's embarrassing. This is surgical outpatients. I wonder what everyone else is here for, I hope they aren't Covid positive. Five minutes pass. I'm called in. I haven't finished my form. I'm asked to change into a weird gown. It's like a cape with velcro at the front but in thin, worn-looking, hospital fabric. I hide my bra under my pile of clothes which I place on top of my bag. You don't know if someone with the virus might have sat on this chair before me. The doctor asks me where the lump is. He examines me. He tells me where to go for my mammogram and ultrasound. He says it's unlikely, but I might need a biopsy. I know I won't as I've come to be told everything is ok. I get dressed. I'm given a brown envelope to take with me and I'm told to take the horrible gown. As I carry my coat, I try to hide the gown underneath, so embarrassing. I head in the vague direction I was told. This place is confusing. I find the stairs and head upstairs. At the top I wonder which way to go? Someone notices me and points me in the direction of the breast clinic. How does she know where I need to go? Is it written on my face? Are my boobs still out? A quick check confirms not! Ah the envelope clearly states: "Breast Clinic", embarrassing.

I get to the reception. I'm asked if my reusable face mask contains a filter. It doesn't. I'm asked to wear a single-use medical mask. I sit in the waiting room. A man waits too. His partner appears after being seen. She's older than me and wears a head scarf. I'm not supposed to be here. This is not the place for me. I've just got to have these two tests then I'll be out of here.

After a few minutes I'm taken into a changing room and asked to change back into the robe and to place my bag and clothes into a shopping basket. Once ready I wait and then I'm taken into a dimly lit room and asked to remove my robe. I stand, topless, and I'm told the mammogram will squash my breasts and that it's a bit uncomfortable. I stand near the machine, and I'm told to lean myself into it. "Not on your tip toes" I'm told. I try again. "Not on your tip toes". My breasts are squashed, I'm asked to stand in various positions as I'm squashed and photographed again and again. I remember this'll nearly be over. I'll soon be told everything's fine, and I can restart my life.

I put the robe back on and carry my shopping basket to a corridor where I sit. Along the corridor is a different older woman. She looks like she's been here before. I feel sorry for her. I'll soon be out of here! I go into another room. Lie on my side. Explain where the lump is. The doctor/nurse/I really don't know what her exact job is, though she seems nice and tells me her name, can't find the lump (good sign I think). I find it for her. She puts the familiar jelly stuff I remember from pregnancy scans and presses on my boob. Almost done, I think. However, she keeps pressing and harder (or so it seems). I know something is wrong. In what seems like a few seconds, but I'm sure is longer, I'm having a biopsy. I cry, endless tears. I say it's because I'm a big wimp (which is true) but it's also because I know this is serious. First a local anaesthetic, then another needle, which as it's removing some of my breast tissue sounds like a stapler. I'm warned of the sound in advance. I'm not in pain but I cry. She says this isn't necessarily bad news. A nurse dresses my wound. She's kind. I'm given a piece of paper telling me how to look after the wound once I get home. I'm taken back to the changing room and told to go back to the previous department. I cry. I remove my face mask whilst it's safe to do so. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose on my hankie. I secure it inside a plastic bag in my handbag and sanitise my hands. I get dressed and leave. I'm disorientated and can't remember the way back. No one offered to show me the way, no one notices me. I wonder how long I could go missing walking along this seemingly endless corridor before someone starts looking for me? I’m not even sure why I have to go back as I've been told I'll be given an appointment to get the results.

I find my way. I sit for a few minutes before being called in. It's constantly hard to fully hear what's said through the face mask of the person speaking but I'm sure he just said it's very likely to be bad news. I check "So you're saying it's very likely to be cancer?"

"Yes" he replies. I'm confused. He's got it wrong. I'm here to be told everything's fine. Perhaps he muddled me up with someone else. I cry. He says nothing. I ask about the risk to my sister and daughter's. He answers. I remember silence as I continue to cry. He gets a nurse and leaves. She sits with me. She says to let it all out and continue to cry and then it'll all be okay. I know it won't. I get a tissue and try to mop up the tears. She says they see lots of people here and that I'm in great hands, or words to that affect. She asks about my children. I think about telling them I have cancer. She says it's nearly half term. A half term that's now been ruined. I decide to leave. This sitting here crying is not helping, I've got to drive myself home. She compliments me on my top as I put my coat on. As I leave she says have a nice day.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you’ll know the diagnosis was breast cancer and you’ll also know I’m now free of cancer (physically, though the emotional healing is still a challenge). I’m sharing this here to encourage other people to check their breasts and to react quickly if you find something unusual:

I didn’t check regularly but I did react quickly, which may well have saved my life.

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By Sarah Allen • January 2, 2024

I can very gratefully say, that I am now almost three years post hospital treatment for cancer. I’m healthy and I’m okay. I appear from the outside, perhaps, to be totally fine moving through life as before. However, this could not be further from the truth. Barely a day goes by when I don’t think about my cancer experience, often getting consumed by it. The thing that I’ve recently come to realise is that an illness, like this, is actually often initiatory. I have and I am going through a huge transformation, an initiation back into life and it looks like nothing’s happening from the outside. I have also found that there is little acknowledgement, understanding or support for this process. That’s not to say I’ve had no support, what it is to say, though, is that there has been no long term holding of my experience from the wider society. I haven’t been able to communicate this very well thus far, for I only just realised it myself thanks to reading ‘Descent and Rising’ by Carly Mountain. In this book Carly cleverly uses the ancient myth of Inanna alongside modern day real-life stories to show the descent into the underworld often felt by people including those who have illnesses. Up until this point, I simply thought something was wrong with me, that I was failing to recover emotionally. So, this daily onslaught of emotions manifests for me in many ways. Mostly, it takes a lot of headspace, meaning not a lot left for anything else. It also takes a lot of energy as I try to hold the tension (a phrase I’m so grateful for from ‘Wild Power’ by Alexandra Pope and Sjarnie Hugo Wurlitzer) as I try to hold the enormity of my feelings, feel them, not shy away from them, acknowledge them and behold myself alongside functioning as a human being and as a mother. Emotions of anger, grief, sadness and guilt flow through me on a regular basis. I try to think of them as boats passing me on a river (a technique I learnt by attending a course run by Force Cancer Charity); I know they will go past and I won’t feel like that forever. But the boats can turn round quite quickly and sail back up the river, demanding constant attention. Thankfully, my cancer-related fatigue stopped around the end of 2021, this level of fatigue is another thing not widely understood in our society. It was debilitating making it almost impossible to look after my children. However, the fatigue was replaced with being tired almost all the time. There’s a difference in that the fatigue never got better with rest but the tiredness can sometimes be eased. Fast forward to June 2023 (when I wrote this blog post), quite a considerable time has passed but I’m tired a lot of the time. I can’t plan much, I wouldn’t feel safe driving for more than about 30 minutes, I have to base my days around the essential tasks and by that I simply mean ensuring we are fed and clothed. In between this I rest. A hard learnt thing is rest. It also takes up so much energy to deconstruct the capitalist norms I’ve internalised about my value being linked to productivity. Rest is not simply stopping, the mind needs to be stilled as well. This relearning to rest takes a lot of headspace and energy. I’ve recently read ‘Wise Power’, another excellent book by Alexandra Pope and Sjarnie Hugo Wurlitzer and learnt the term ‘snudging’ which is what I now base my days around, doing just enough to get by (whilst being aware I miss people’s birthdays, lose touch with friends, stay partly in the underworld as there isn’t enough energy to emerge and this in turn creates grief which takes so much energy). This is hard, extremely painful, overwhelming and lonely work for me, however, I now can see it as an initiatory process with gold at the end. I’ve stripped back so much of my life as I entered the underworld and I’m now slowly finding new, boundaried ways of emerging. I feel, to be honest, that I’ll rise just in time to hit another initiatory process, menopause. At aged 44 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, menopause seemed a long way off, not even remotely on the horizon, now aged 47 it’s within sight. Maybe, I’m already in it (I’m taking oestrogen suppressing medication so I could be), almost everything written in ‘Wise Power’ a book about menopause sings to my experience but this could be because the initiation I'm experiencing is archetypally like other initiatory processes. I would say, for sure, that trying to recover emotionally from cancer merges with perimenopause, a lack of energy having my oestrogen (medically) supressed along with parenting without a village. It’s a difficult mix. However, on the surface, in some respects, I carry on with everyday life: I wash the clothes, hang them to dry, do some work (though not what I was doing before), pick up the kids, make packed lunches, clear up after dinner etc. But this is just snudging, doing enough to get by whilst trying to trust that being in this unknown is okay, that I will fully emerge back into life, a new life, a much more authentic life with more ease and joy. I get glimpses but, of course, it’s not the linear process we have been taught to expect. This is hidden work going on, not just for me, but for others experiencing illness, the initiation into parenthood, menopause and other initiatory processes. But in the hiding, wider understanding is lost. But in the telling, the teller/the sharer, puts their vulnerability in the hands of others, unless they can simply behold themselves. So, that leaves me to enquire can I see myself clearly enough, can I say this is who I am and how I am for the greater good of the wider society gaining some understanding and for me being my authentic self? Or do I just leave this as a file on my laptop, gathering metaphorical dust as the risk of being vulnerable is too big right now? Well, the dust gathered for six months, I recently received a PTSD diagnosis related to my cancer experience and I snudged my way to this point. I decided to share this now in case anyone else is in need of the strategy of snudging but also to say this is me, this is how it is. This is my truth.