Postpartum Breast Cancer: Helen’s Story
I don’t recall exactly how many days after I found out I had breast cancer it was that I was standing in the clinic getting my first ever mammogram.
I do recall that seeing milk splashing on the floor—the very same milk that I’d been feeding my baby with for the last ten months. Knowing I had only a few more precious days of breastfeeding ahead of me was one of the saddest moments of my life.
There are moments that you know—even as they’re happening—will be paired with the perfect soundtrack & appear in the trailer of your life. As milk mixed with tears on my bare feet, I knew instinctively that this was one of them.
But let’s start at the beginning.
Noah Ray (the Ray added in a moment of very last minute intuition on the call with the registrar) was born at 8:47am on Sunday, December 29. Nearly 10lb of him crashing into our worlds & changing them forever.
It’s a cliché, but the first months of his life were a beautiful blur of sleepless nights, constantly changing rhythms, a new relationship with ourselves, each other & him, and a lot of gratitude.
So when I found a lump whilst I was breastfeeding when he was about 8 months old, it didn’t do a lot to sharpen my focus.
Breastfeeding protects against cancer, my boobs were doing a million weird things & time to go to the doctor… well, brushing my teeth was already a stretch, so anything else could definitely wait.
It was a breakout on my face that eventually led me to the doctor (turns out vanity can save your life…), and as I finished telling her about the (completely unrelated rash around my nose), I did the classic
“Oh & there’s one more thing, I’m sure it’s just a clogged milk duct, but could you have a quick peek at my left boob?”
I don’t know if she was worried or not, but I found myself leaving with a referral for a scan.
“It doesn’t have all of the signs of being something suspicious,”
the radiologist told me, a couple of weeks later & less reassuringly that I’d hoped, as he looked at the multitude of shades of grey on the screen,
“but it does have some, so let’s get you in for a biopsy—no big rush, I’m on vacation for a few weeks—I’ll see you when I’m back”.
A few weeks later, we sat in the same hospital I’d given birth in just 10 months earlier waiting for the biopsy results.
I knew it was cancer as soon as the doctor—who, in totally random coincidence, was a long-lost university friend of my husband—started with taking a history instead of telling me the biopsy was normal.
But I was still completely unprepared for it being a highly aggressive strain of cancer & the world-changing ride that I was about to embark on.
I’d kind of thought it’d be one of those “not really a big deal” cancers (which I now know is not a thing), and either way, the solution would be to chop my boobs off, pop some implants in (maybe even an added bonus) & to crack on with my life.
LOL
The doctor kindly explained that in my case I’d need a treatment plan that’d last pretty much a year (I’ll bullet point it because you’ve only got so long)…
6 months of intensive chemotherapy (4 different drugs in 2 different combinations), 16 sessions in all
12 months of immunotherapy (a new drug that has only been used for the last 5 years & has drastically changed outcomes for women with my type of cancer)
Surgery (likely not the mastectomy I’d imagined - but a partial mastectomy, or lumpectomy to remove the “zone” where the tumor was)
Radiotherapy
And that was just the treatment itself.
Add 2 PET scans, 5(?) MRIs, a “CIP” (Implantable chamber that chemo & immunotherapy get fed in in through), heart scan, countless ultra sounds & the mammogram (one of 4 at this point) where I began this story.
It was a good thing that sitting down that day in the doctor’s office I didn’t know what was awaiting me in the 338 days that’d follow… because, although I’ve had many happy moments in those days—
I’ve watched my baby become a little boy, his first steps, his infectious giggle, his first bilingual words. I’ve swam in the sea, hiked trails, stretched in the sunshine. I’ve seen my family fly around the world just to sit in waiting rooms & hold the fort when I was too sick to get out of bed. I’ve eaten delicious nourishing food. Done fulfilling work. Laughed until I had belly ache. Watched my husband single-handedly build an actual house.
—it’s still been objectively really hard.
Really scary (and I’m not just talking about the admin). And I’m not sure how I would have coped if I’d seen the whole path from the beginning.
But now, standing 338 days later, with 2 sessions of immunotherapy to go, a clear scan (just this morning) & actual plans to celebrate Christmas in all of its European glory, I’m strangely thankful for this year.
Don’t get me wrong—I’d have MUCH preferred to not ever have been diagnosed with cancer.
I’d prefer that my life expectancy was as it was before (I VERY much want to live a long healthy life—96 feels like a good number), I’d like my hair not to be growing upwards & I’d very much have opted to have waited a few more years before I had to deal with menopause (in the list of surprises I had from treatment, that was probably the least welcome).
But it’s pretty bloody fantastic to be ALIVE!
And with a list of things to be thankful for… that has done nothing but grow over the last year…
Here are just a few of them.
An AMAZING body with the capacity to heal, and heal again. A healthy, happy little boy. Sunny days. Rainy days. All the days (even the hard ones). Fulfilling & interesting work. Clients who didn’t even stop to think whether they wanted to keep working with me, fully knowing none of us knew how I’d be showing up. Supportive friends. Friends who opted out. The deep ocean of a family’s love. Fireflies. Our neighbor’s swimming pool. HOPE.
And here’s what I’d like to leave you with—and I found this bit the hardest of all to write—because who am I to give advice, or a punchline to something so profoundly individual & something I’m still in the trenches of? I certainly don’t have all of the answers. But, I’m nothing if not an opportunist & if you’re still here this is it…
Check your boobs
Check your boobs
Check your boobs
If you’re pregnant. If you’re breastfeeding. If you’re chestfeeding. If you’re bottle feeding. If you’ve birthed babies. If you’ve never birthed babies. If you’re 21, or 38 or 53 or 80.
CHECK YOUR BOOBS.
And if you don’t have boobs - remind those in your life that do to check theirs.
If you don’t know how, find out. Have your OBGYN show you. Find a reputable video on YouTube. And practice.
The better you know your body, the quicker you’ll be able to notice if something’s different.
Believe me, even if you’d prefer not to know, the earlier anything untoward is caught, the better your chance of getting away with minimally invasive treatment, and most importantly surviving. 96 sounds like a good number.