I lie back and reluctantly prod at my breast. My fingers immediately find a large, solid mass. I explore the other breast, looking for its twin. Nothing. I return to the lump. Still there. Not true, surely?
Tom leans in for a goodnight kiss. Then he sees my face. ‘What’s up?’
‘Can you just,’ I ask, lightly, ‘see if you can feel a lump here?’
‘They’re different,’ he confirms.
Typically, with Covid regulations beginning to ease, we’ve made arrangements to catch up with family, but my trip to the GP the next day means these plans will now have to be cancelled. I’d like to keep my worries to myself but instead I have to tell people I love that I’m waiting for an urgent referral to a specialist breast care unit. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell everyone blithely. ‘Mum, you’re allowed not to be,’ my elder daughter says and I almost lose it.
I can’t pretend that the next two weeks aren’t some of the darkest of my life. When my sliding door day arrives, we arrive at the hospital an hour early yet the car park is already full. Covid restrictions mean that Tom can’t come in with me, so he drops me off and faces a miserable wait whilst I’m inside. My bottom barely touches the seat before I’m called for my mammogram. Back in the waiting room I read until my eyes blur and I simply can’t take anything else in. I close my eyes and try not to think what will happen if I get bad news. When my name is called part of my mind closes down so I have to fight to be in the present and to pay attention. After a round of long, thorough examinations during which I’m treated with great kindness, the consultant gives me the news. ‘It’s a good lump,’ he announces, looking at the ultrasound screen. ‘It’s a cyst.’
I’m almost too relieved and too closed in on myself to react, but the atmosphere in the room lightens considerably. One of the specialist nurses touches my arm in a kindly gesture whilst I slowly digest the news. After a small procedure, I’m on my way. I’m so dazed I get lost on the way out of the hospital but eventually manage to find the main entrance where I message Tom and the girls and ring Ma. Back home, Tom and I breathe huge sighs of relief. The last thirteen days have felt like thirteen years, but I’ve been lucky. I’m acutely aware that other women at the clinic that day might not have been as fortunate as me. It’s another reminder, I think, as Tom and I celebrate with champagne, to make the most of every precious moment.
Eight weeks on from my bump in the night, I still feel raw and vulnerable at times but I hope I’ve learned not to take my health for granted. If you don’t do it already, please check your breasts regularly - not the way I used to ie a quick, ‘oh, there they are. All good,’ - but really thoroughly.
With travel restrictions easing, we have had the joy of catching up with family at long last. It’s almost a year since we’ve seen Ma or Tom’s dad so there are changes, of course there are, but given how much they’ve both had to bear, how lonely they must have been, they’ve come out the other side. They’re remarkable, resilient people and we’re so proud of them.
My profound and heartfelt thanks to my GP and to the wonderful staff at the Peony Breast Unit at Llanelli’s Prince Philip Hospital for taking such good care of me.
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