Cancer Vixen

Just over a year ago I was going about my business, worrying about trivial matters, wearing size ten trousers and getting depressed with no good reason, when suddenly, "out of a clear blue sky" as they say, I had an invasive tumour in my right breast. Since then I have had two operations, 6 doses of the most horrible poison that is chemotherapy, a month of radiotherapy, and now have at least 4 years 8 months of hormone tablets to look forward to.

Women with breast cancer have to be "positive". As soon as you are diagnosed with the disease you are constantly told this by everyone in sight. Men with prostate or testicular cancer, people with lymphatic cancer - all are quite reasonably allowed to be depressed, angry, maudlin and tearful. But breast cancer - you must be positive! Wear pink! (Even the gowns in Oldham breast clinic are fuschia pink, which I find wrong in the extreme.) Have fun with wigs! Think of the money you'll save on haircuts! Have fun with headscarves! Just look at Trisha Goddard! Any of us could be run over by a bus tomorrow! You must not be a Cancer Victim but a Cancer Vixen.

It would all be so much more convincing if, when you walked into the Victoria Breast Unit in Oldham, there was not a spray of fake flowers on the table in front of Reception, a spray of flowers closely resembling a funeral wreath.

My "breast care nurse" asked me what I was so scared of. I said "Dying". She laughed and said "of course you're not going to die!" How interesting. I am the first person on the planet who can expect immortality. Quick quick, call the Archbishop of Canterbury and tell him.

My lovely friends bought me a rose called "Woman of Courage". I suppose there is no rose that has been named "Woman of Outstanding Cowardice and Terror", but it would have been more appropriate.

I was very, very scared, particularly of chemotherapy. When I went for my first chemotherapy the nurse accidentally punctured a vein and injected the very toxic chemotherapy drug into the tissue of my wrist. My wrist swelled up like a balloon. The nurse ran from the room crying. I assertively demanded a tranquilliser. My oncologist, who looks about 14 and has shiny shoes and no sense of urgency, prescribed me 5 mg of Diazepam (Valium) for the following chemotherapy session. 5 mg! That would not keep a fly calm!

In truth, I could have done with a continuous infusion of Valium for the first 6 months after diagnosis, and a gas and air machine installed in the corner of the living room so I could have had a few gulps of it every time I thought about having cancer.

I am now back to worrying about trivial matters but now I have cancer to worry about too. Also I have very short hair and wear size twelve trousers.

I know I am lucky the cancer was found, lucky to have treatment on the NHS, lucky to have a (touch wood) good prognosis and lucky to have my eyebrows and eyelashes back. I just wish people who haven't been as lucky as me and are still walking around cancer-free would stop telling me how lucky I am. What would they tell me if I had weeks to live? "You're lucky it's not Ebola virus. That kills you really quickly, that does."

As I look out of my kitchen window on this sunny June morning, the "Woman of Courage" rose is ready to burst into bloom. I'm choosing to take this as a good sign.