At 31, what do we, as women, expect to have achieved? A good footing on a career path, one step on the property ladder, maybe a partner, perhaps a baby? If you’d asked me when I was younger where I’d be in my thirties, and what I wanted, it wouldn’t have been any of those things. I never thought that far ahead, and I certainly never saw myself as the mother-type. Which, given my current life circumstances is really rather convenient, as I can’t have any of those things anyway, even if I wanted to (except the career bit). And because I never expected them or wanted them, I am somehow OK with that.
I should rewind and explain why all this even matters. In 2008 I found a painful lumpy area of my left boob and decided to completely ignore it until I was on holiday with my mum and sister and decided to let them have a prod. Mum sent me packing to the GP, who told me it was A-OK and probably a hormonal ‘thing’. I hopped, skipped and jumped back into my invincible life and buggered off to China to pursue a career in travel - yup, I wasn't sure what that meant either, I just wanted to be paid to see the world. Six months later I came home, revisited the GP as my friend - the lump - was still there, still growing and hurting like hell, and again I was told not to worry. My mum intervened, being the pessimistic lady she is, and demanded I go back and ask for a referral to the Breast Clinic. I complied.
And no doubt you now know where this is heading: I was eventually, after some tests and scans, told that, at 23, I had breast cancer. Within a week they had also discovered the cancer had found a jolly little home on my spine too, thus deeming my cancer ‘incurable’ ‘advanced’ ‘stage 4’ ‘secondary’ - I use all the terms because there’s often confusion about what they all mean, but the confusion ends here: they all mean you are SCREWED. It becomes less about curing the disease and more about keeping me here for as long as possible, throwing lots of different types of treatment at it, like shit to a wall, and seeing what sticks.
Just after I was diagnosed, I read the average survival was 2.5 years. I don’t think that ever really sank in, and I certainly never let that determine my next steps in life, but bloody heck, I shouldn’t have been googling at 2am when I was mashed out of my brains on pain meds and chemo. Fast forward to present day and I am happy to say I turned 31 this month. Whilst many people spend their twenties figuring out their lives, I spent it figuring out how to stay alive. And not just me, but you lot too.
With the frustration of not knowing I should check my boobs and being completely unaware of the risks of getting cancer at any age, I thought something needed to be done. After my very first chemo session I plotted and planned with some friends and family, none of whom had much (read: any) experience of the charity/campaigning world, and we set about spreading a message of boob love, and how early detection saves lives. We became a charity called CoppaFeel! and the rest, as they say, is history - a great seven years' worth of history at that. It has been a huge challenge and at times I’ve wondered why am I bothering but when an email pops up thanking you for the work you do because without it this person wouldn’t have got an early cancer diagnosis, you kinda realise you should get out of bed after all.
Although I don’t really like the title, I am the CEO of CoppaFeel! and my goodness I would have LOL’d hard if you’d told me I’d be one way back in my late, slightly troubled, teens. I have made a career for myself but what makes me most proud is establishing a life with this disease - showing people it's possible - and becoming a boss of my own life and health.
Since the initial diagnosis in 2009, cancer has started various other parties in my hips, my pelvis, my liver and in my brain. I have avoided any debilitating treatments and have managed to keep it under control with various hormone treatments. Earlier this year, I even took the ultimate oestrogen removal step and had my ovaries taken out – if there was ever any thought I might have children, they are well and truly gone now. Sadly, my cancer decided to wake up and cause more havoc in March. At this stage I opted to do some research before jumping straight into what my oncologist wanted me to do: chemo. I wanted to see how else I could help my body, to understand how likely the chemo was going to work (not very) and whether there was anything else on the horizon for the poor sods like me who, in research terms, get a little left behind. (Once the cancer has already spread, there are far fewer options for us.) My main priority was quality of life. When you have this disease for so long, you inevitably see a lot of people die; I have learnt a lot from others, and one thing I was not going to compromise was my independence and lifestyle. I chose an integrated approach (combining conventional and immune-boosting treatments), moved to Cornwall to be by the sea and found a doctor who understood my needs. It’s rare for cancer patients to swap oncologists because they grow a strong bond of trust, but, as my story started so badly, perhaps I never fully felt that trust, and ultimately, I have taught myself that my choices matter. I hate it when people with cancer are called ‘victims’ – I am far from that.
I started a brand new treatment and, although it has some side effects, it is still allowing me to live the life I want. I have learned a lot over the last few months about how I cope with news, both good and bad, and how I want to approach scary thoughts. I guess I can be philosophical now that I have good news (my cancer is stable! Hurrah!), but I genuinely think this shitstorm of a few months was meant to be. I needed something drastic for me to move my cancer care to Cornwall, and I needed a new perspective on my health and my future again. I’m not naïve – I know this won’t last – but for now I’m revelling in good thoughts.
Sometimes life teaches you lessons you didn’t know you had to learn. But you know what? It needn’t have required an incurable cancer diagnosis for that to happen, and so I would like nothing more than for people to realise how precious time is, with or without a deadly disease. Wake up now, get up now, and be present now. I could throw a multitude of cancer clichés at you, but I hate them, so instead I will tell you to check your boobs and go get living.
So what do my thirties look like? Who cares, so long as I am here.
Text KRIS to 70500 to donate £5 to coppafeel.org