“It’s the Best Cancer to Have”. MY ARSE.

This happens a lot when you get diagnosed with breast cancer. You get told “it’s the best cancer to have”. Family say it. Friends say it. Just people. Even oncologists say it. They say it because they want to make you feel better about that horrendous diagnosis. We even said it to our daughters when we told them about my diagnosis. Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything, and I understand the intentions are good, but now that I’m on the other side of active treatment, and staring down the barrel of long term hormone treatment, still feeling right there ‘in it’, I’m not sure how helpful it was, as I stand here now. 

Let’s just unpack it for a moment. Breast Cancer is the most common cancer in the UK with 1 in 7 developing it in their life-time (once more, just to drive that home, ONE IN SEVEN.). During Breast Cancer Awareness Month in the UK alone, 5,000 people will be diagnosed.

What this means, is that Breast Cancer is a loud, hungry beast that attracts loads of dosh for research and support services that ultimately benefits the patients.  Critically, the survival rates are good – nearly 9 out of 10 women will survive for five years or more. There’s a lot to be glad about, statistically speaking.

But here’s the thing, there are humans at the end of those statistics and, when people refer to the survival rates, even the Oncologists, they’re not telling you how they achieve those stats.

What you very quickly realise when you’re down there in the trenches is that the treatments are still surprisingly, almost comically, blunt. Caught early enough, the approach is still very much to cut the cancer out, and/or chop the cancery bits off the healthy bits, nuke the bits, and/or deliver a whole-body contaminant to poison the cancery bits, and then hope for the best.

80% of breast cancers diagnosed have a hormone receptor which means the cancer grows with oestrogen. This is what I have. Or had? Difficult to say. Now on the other side of active treatment, there’s no way of telling if there’s any more cancer floating about and this is why the treatments are so brutal. The solution in my case, following phase one active treatment, is to create an environment in the human body where the cancer can’t grow back. Ergo, strip out all the oestrogen. Let’s take aaaall the oestrogen out of that woman, starve the bastard cancer, job’s a goodun’.

The result is an extreme, medically-induced menopause more akin to chemical castration that throws the surviving human into a bit of a living shit-show. Honestly, writing it, it sounds like the ‘in theory only’ solution you’d come up with on a work away-day shortly after building the raft with 3 planks to get you across the metaphorical river. I mean, you wouldn’t would you…?

The current ‘survival strategy’ after the last batch of trials is to keep women on hormone treatment for ten years instead of five because data shows it cuts the incidence of recurrence by a third. It does not, however, impact on overall survival rate according to this report. Call me naive, but that just sounds like a really expensive delaying tactic, not a scientifically brilliant line of treatment.

Now, I am going to say this with caution because I am sensitive to the ‘triple neggers’ out there who don’t have hormone treatment to fall back on once they’ve gone through the un-holy trinity of surgery/chemo/radio, which is another point in itself really, but surviving ‘the best cancer to have’ comes at great cost to quality of life, physically and mentally. The triple-neggers live in mortal fear of breast cancer’s incurable return, and the hormone-pozzies are a shell of their former-selves, moody as fuck, dry foof, rattling around with crumbling bones, knowing full well that IF they can endure this bollocks for 10 years, there are no actual guarantees of staying cancer free after it. Don’t get me started on the incurables.

I am still in the very early days of my hormone treatment and at the moment it’s really tough going particularly from a mood perspective; CAN YA’ TELL?!!!!. The big question is, I suppose, could I have handled a bit more realism back then about what the future held? In truth yes, or a least not an untruth delivered to ease the pain then to make the future harder.  ‘The best cancer to have’ made it sound like it was the easy one. ‘The best cancer to have’ made me think it was something I could just just do for a bit and walk away from.  The reality is, I am in treatment now for the next ten years even with an early-stage diagnosis (it was in half a lymph node. HALF). If I choose to forgo that treatment (there’s a 1 in 4 drop out rate, according to my oncologist), I risk incurable cancer spread.

But Can I tell you something else ‘the best cancer to have’ does? It engenders future guilt in the breasties for struggling with their treatment. Seven months on, it makes me feel like I should put up and shut up because I’m ‘lucky’ to have this cancer. Suck it up sister, you’re alive!  ‘The best cancer to have’ leaves a bitter taste in my mouth

All cancer is shit. Whether you’re walloped by chemo, cut to pieces, having an organ re-shuffle, shitting through your stomach, radiation on your unmentionables, losing limbs, or drained of your womanly hormones, all the treatment is horrendous and society needs to quit with the ranking business. So what should people say instead?

When in doubt, go full empathy. Maybe something like, “what a bucket of absolute shite mate. I’m not gonna lie, you’ve got tough times ahead but one way or another you’ll get through it, mark my words, and I will be with you 100% of the way, even when you’re a moody cow. Fancy a foot massage?”.

This blog was written on the 1st Day of Breast Cancer Awareness Month 2019. I’ve only recently had my ovaries switched off and started on aromatase inhibitors so there was a bit of angry-typing going on here – I don’t want to diminish the sterling work done by everyone in the NHS and anyone who works in cancer research. Although, please do hurry up with the cure ‘yo? And as for the rest of you… for the love of god, know your normal. Now go check your boobs.

I’ve Got Cancer, And Every Reason To Be Glad.

I’ve been wanging on about the Breast surgery for a while –  it’s time to talk about the cancer bit of my Breast Cancer.

This week, my surgeon confirmed that a bit of cancer was found in one of the sentinel lymph nodes that was removed at the time of my mastectomy surgery. I was told that I’ll definitely have radiotherapy, and chemotherapy is highly likely. I left that meeting on cloud nine. Despite the fact that my cancer has spread from its original home in the duct, to my breast tissue (making it ‘invasive’), and thence to a lymph node,  I am still at the ‘curable’ end of the scale. It’s all relative you see. I’m not just looking on the bright side here – there’s no forced positivity when you come out of an appointment and know your life isn’t hanging by a thread.

I had “the cancer fear” much like anyone else. But once you’ve GOT the cancer, the fear scale shifts. All cancer is bad. But there’s bad cancer, and there’s really fucking bad cancer and all the bits in between really matter.

It’s grotesquely over simplified, probably highly offensive, and almost certainly inaccurate, but this is how I understood how to position my own cancer before going into the meeting.



At each point of not-knowing, early on in the process of diagnosis, when I  knew I had “something’ but I didn’t know what the something was yet in wait of the tumour biopsy results, and then again waiting for lymph node biopsies,  I had moments where I mentally placed myself up and down this scale, dialling the fear-factor up and down accordingly. On the left, (American accent) “I can do this. I am going to nail this fucking fucker”. To the right, “Oh fuck. I’m fucked.  Completely and utterly fucked” (definitely a British accent. Probably northern). Squaring up to face death. Most of this happened in my mind , and only fleetingly. I was trying not to think, you see, dealing only with the information in front of me, but the thinking was happening without me even thinking I was thinking it. Damn brain.

Following my last meeting with the surgeon, as of Wednesday the 3rd of April 2019, in spite of this early spread, I am still firmly down at the left hand side of that shitty cancer spectrum.  I have a fairly common cancer, a treatable one, and It’s only been found in one lymph node and that’s now out. The working assumption is that surgery has nailed it, and radio and maybe chemo, plus further hormone treatment,  will do their magic to blitz anything else sinister lurking about and prevent a recurrence (with the understanding that treatment does not come with guarantees). It may not seem like it, but this IS cause for celebration. So many people aren’t this lucky at this moment. Some people, with very few symptoms, get terminal off the bat.

And there’s more.  The gladness comes from something much bigger than “shit but treatable”. My friend Emma pointed me in the direction of an article by George Monbiot, columnist for the guardian, who last year wrote about his prostate cancer.

In his own reflections on being grateful for his diagnosis, Monbiot goes wider in his assessment and creates his own scale – The Shitstorm scale. The Shitstorm Scale doesn’t just consider what might have been had the cancer not been caught early, but also any number of other tragedies and life disasters. It also considers within it other life circumstances to assess his position on the scale, and by his own calculation he’s a 2/10 as opposed to a 7/10, the latter being where he’d be placed on the Prostate cancer scale. Now that’s positivity for you.

My wider circumstances aren’t dissimilar to his; I have the NHS. I have a roof over my head. The love of a bloody good husband. My daughters. Family, here and abroad. A network of people – an extended ‘family’ of friends, neighbours, even acquaintances who hold us aloft, champion us, send us good vibe texts, hug emojis and playlists, and leave Shepherd’s Pie on the doorstep. And a rocking therapist. Helps.

Like George, when I look at my cancer for what it is, and in the context of a Big Life around it, I am one of the lucky ones.

Monbiot also writes about not letting fear rule your life


“There are, I believe, three steps to overcoming fear: name it, normalise it, socialise it. For too long, cancer has been locked in the drawer labelled Things We Don’t Talk About. When we call it the Big C, it becomes, as the term suggests, not smaller, but larger in our minds. He Who Must Not Be Named is diminished by being identified, and diminished further when he becomes a topic of daily conversation.”

George Monbiot

Making ‘cancer chat’ a daily reality through social media and this blog has helped me enormously.  It’s important we all talk about it. Not in hushed tones. Not with pity. Not with fear-faces. But just for what it is. Something that needs to be faced, my new reality, for the time being at least, and yours in part as someone who might know me. Bring it into the light and trust me when I say there is a hell of a lot to be glad about right now, and a bloody good life to be lived as I move through treatment. So let’s just crack on shall we?

{With thanks to George too, for unwittingly helping me to crack the title of this post. I totally remixed you Monbiot}