Cancer is one of those words that makes your heart race and your palms go sweaty. How would you react if your doctor said to you, 'We've had the test results and I'm afraid it's cancer.' You automatically think, 'I'm going to die.' I did. But living with that self imposed death sentence is not as clear-cut as it sounds.
I was 25 when the lesion I had removed from my leg was pronounced cancerous. Twenty-five and so sure nothing like that could ever happen to me. Cancer happens to unlucky people, I thought, and I was a lucky person, had a good job, never smoked or drank to excess, lived a healthy, fulfilling life. Now I know just how lucky I am.
The mark on my leg first appeared without me taking much notice of it. I had always been pale, but just always believed I looked better with a tan. I had the odd sunbed in my late teens, and enjoyed having white bits. Yet it wasn't natural for me to tan, in fact I rarely did properly. I remember one holiday in L A when my legs burnt so badly that I couldn't wear shoes for a week. The risks you take when you don't think it will happen to you!
The lesion on the lower part of my right calf was about the size of my little fingernail when I first noticed it, pinky-coloured and opaque and nothing like the pictures you see of dodgy moles. It had smooth edges, wasn't patchy in colour and didn't hurt. Yet I just had a gut feeling something wasn't right. I went to the doctor three times before he finally said he could remove it if I wanted. 'But I've told you, it's nothing to worry about and it will leave a scar,' he warned. Hmm. I asked for it to be removed and left the surgery with three stitches and a weight lifted from my shoulders.
Ten weeks later when I got a letter asking me to come back to the surgery I didn't think anything of it. It had been removed, after all, hadn't it? But the look on my doctor's face was serious. 'We tested your lesion and I'm afraid it was a malignant melanoma.' I stared at him, uncomprehending. 'It's cancerous. I'm going to have to check the rest of your body.' For the first time ever, I stripped off in the doctor's surgery with something bigger than the doctor seeing my lumpy bits to worry about. He checked me over while I had tears streaming down my face. 'I can't see anything else, but I'm going to need to refer you to an oncologist. You'll need to have some more tissue removed,' he said. I sobbed, barely taking anything in. 'I'm sure it'll be fine,' he said. 'Malignant melanomas generally have a five-year survival rate.' Too stunned to even ask him about it, I left the surgery with one thought going round in my head: I have five years to live.
Of course, if he'd been clearer, I'd have known that what he meant was at the stage my melanoma was at, the chance of surviving five years after diagnosis was very high. Unfortunately, I just thought I'd been given a life sentence. That night, I spent an awful lot of time searching the internet for skin cancer. I found out there are three different kinds: basal cell carcinoma – which is generally on the top of the skin, unlikely to spread internally and can be easily removed;squamous cell carcinoma – which is the second most common type of skin cancer and can penetrate the epidermis and spread within the body if left long enough; and then there is malignant melanoma – the most frightening and potentially fatal cancer. Statistics state that 66% of adults with a later-stage malignant melanoma die.
Luckily for me and for thousands of others, if diagnosed and removed while still thin, and if they are limited to the outermost layer of skin, malignant melanomas are almost 100% curable. I wish I'd known that that night.
It's funny how a person's survival instinct kicks in during times of stress! I decided that night that if I had five years to live, I wouldn't give up my job as a radio presenter, I'd just take it less seriously and not be bothered about career progression! I would cancel my pension and I would go on holiday to Morocco and I would do some voluntary work. Funny how the brain works! I also got very upset at the thought of telling my parents but actually, they were amazing, calm and supportive, certainly in front of me. My mum later told me that she went to pieces as soon as I left the room. Cancer was not something we knew about in our family.
But like I say, I was one of the lucky ones – I got an appointment very quickly to see the specialist. He told me the lesion was not too thick on the Breslaw scale (the way they measure the seriousness of the melanoma) and with an operation to take a large chunk out of my lower leg, he should be able to remove all of the cancer. Thankfully, that was exactly what happened. After the op, I had what looked like a big chunk taken from my leg. Twenty stitches and four weeks later I was told all the cancerous cells had been removed. I had more scans, and tests and like I say, I was incredibly lucky. I didn't need chemotherapy or radiation, and my treatment was technically over. The psychological stress however, took a longer time to heal.
When you're diagnosed with cancer, it makes you realise how oblivious you have been up until then about how easily life can be taken away. For a while after the diagnosis, I really thought this was it; death had found me. I was single at the time and the thought of never having anyone to hold, never having a child of my own, never being able to carry out all the plans I'd made for my life really shook me up. My friends would say, 'It'll all be fine' but as much as they meant well, I wanted to take them by the shoulders and shake them hard and say, 'It might not be! Sometimes people die! I could die, don't you get it?' But I couldn't do that obviously. I had had a minor brush with cancer. They didn't understand.
For a long time afterwards I felt like I had to keep a brave face on what had happened to me, because I was going to be fine and lots of people weren't. I felt guilty that inside I was still shaken and upset when everyone thought I was OK. How lucky you are, I'd tell myself, so what are you still crying for? Time passed and my friends and family assumed I'd got over it, but inside I was furious with them for not understanding that this had affected me mentally. A friend once mentioned going on a sunbed before her holiday and I was outraged that someone who had seen what skin cancer could do would still consider risking it! "Oh, I forgot..." she said. Didn't she remember what sunbeds might have done to me? Forgot? I could never forget. I lost sight of the life I still had. I'd see cancer patients with headscarves on, attached to drips, weak yet smiling and I'd think; I wasn't that brave and I didn't have even a small portion of their suffering. I'm not that brave, even now.
Counselling was a big help to me, as was a website with a chatroom for fellow melanoma patients. It was there that I could talk through the guilt, a common feeling for patients in remission, and work my way through dealing with this small thing that had happened to me.
Five years on, with my final check up under my belt, I am considered low-risk for reoccurrence. I still get very emotional when I look back though. I found a lump in my neck a few years ago and was inconsolable, immediately thinking the worst, but it turned out to be nothing. Cancer has made me aware of every part of my body and I am thankful for the way it works and its beauty just in its very existence. I'm not as hung up on how I look as I used to be, I've got cancer to thank for that. I call my scar my shark bite and I'm proud of it and what it represents to me: life. There are many people who will get cancer in their lifetime and one of those people could well be you. If there's anything you can do to prevent any of these cancers, do it. Don't use sunbeds, don't smoke and try to eat a healthy diet. Every life is fragile. Treat yours with respect and care.
For more information on skin cancer and how to prevent it, visit Cancer Research UK
