October 16th 2024.
I remember the moment I discovered the lump in my breast. It was completely by chance. I had sat down to eat after a long day at work, but I was also multitasking - talking to my mom on the phone and half-watching TV. As I absentmindedly reached down to retrieve a piece of food that had fallen into my bosom, my hand came into contact with the lump. I immediately called my GP the next day and he sent me for a mammogram and ultrasound. They ended up doing a biopsy as well, just to be safe.
A few days later, I returned to the hospital with my mom to get the results. The doctor's words hit us like a ton of bricks - the lump was cancerous. My mom gasped and I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I knew I had to stay strong, so I just sat there, not moving, staring straight ahead. Then, without thinking, I leaned forward and gestured to my breasts, telling the doctor to take them both off. He was taken aback, but I knew what I wanted. As a former theatre nurse, I had seen too many cases where taking a piecemeal approach to cancer treatment just wasn't enough.
The doctor suggested running more tests, but my mind was already made up. I was going to stay strong and face whatever came my way. That's what I told myself as my mom and I walked home, both of us overwhelmed and scared. The hospital called me back in for a scan and repeat ultrasound the following Friday. That's when the radiographer dropped the bombshell - my cancer had spread. I was in shock and started crying, demanding answers. But the radiographer just looked at me blankly and told me I would find out more at my next clinic visit.
I couldn't bear the thought of waiting all weekend, so I called a friend who happened to be a breast surgeon. She was furious and immediately arranged for me to be transferred to the hospital where she worked. Feeling completely overwhelmed, I just did as she told me. My first appointment with my new female consultant was the next week, and from the moment I met her, I felt at ease. She examined me, explained the course of action she wanted to take, and even encouraged me to take a holiday in Tobago while we waited for the results.
I told her that I wanted a double mastectomy, but she sympathetically pushed for a single mastectomy instead. I trusted her and knew she had my best interests at heart. And now, looking back, I am so grateful for her guidance and support. But the journey was far from easy. The day of my surgery was filled with pain and discomfort. It took an hour for me to receive any pain relief, and even then, it was the weakest of all the painkillers prescribed by the anaesthetist.
To make matters worse, the staff at the hospital were not very helpful. I remember one incident where a healthcare assistant refused to get me a bottle of water, and another who couldn't even take my blood pressure without causing me immense pain. And when I asked for help to use the bathroom, I was told I would have to wait for a nurse. It was a truly uncomfortable experience.
And it wasn't just the physical discomfort that made my hospital stay unpleasant. Being a patient can be daunting for anyone, but I believe that certain factors, such as race, are often overlooked in decision-making processes. For example, there is a common misconception that people of Black ethnicity have a higher pain tolerance. This is simply not true - pain is pain, and we should be believed when we say we're in pain.
Another issue is the idea of a "postcode lottery" in healthcare. I've personally experienced how where you live, your level of knowledge, and even how you present yourself can all impact the quality of care you receive. Unfortunately, people from ethnic minorities are often at a disadvantage in these situations. However, I did notice a change in how the hospital staff treated me when they found out about my nursing background. Suddenly, they were more attentive and respectful.
After being discharged, I began to lose my hair due to the medication I was taking. As a woman going through cancer treatment, losing my hair was a huge fear of mine. My dreadlocks were a big part of my identity, so when the first one fell off, I couldn't help but sob. But I knew I had to stay strong and keep fighting. Now, I am in my fifth year of my cancer journey, and I am grateful for every moment. Cancer may have taken my breasts, but it can't take away my spirit.
As I sat down to eat after a long day at work, I found myself multitasking - talking to my mom, watching TV, and trying to enjoy my meal. But then, a piece of food fell down my chest and I absently reached down to retrieve it. It was then that I felt a lump in my breast. My heart dropped as I held it in my hand, unsure of what it could possibly be.
The next day, I called my doctor and he sent me for a mammogram and ultrasound. I didn't think much of it, assuming it was just a precaution. But as it turned out, I needed to have a biopsy as well. My mom came with me to the hospital to get the results. I could feel her nervousness and fear as we waited for the doctor to come in.
Unfortunately, the news was not what we were hoping for. The doctor informed us that the lump was cancerous. My mom gasped and I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I didn't want to look at her, afraid that it would make her break down even more. Instead, I leaned forward and gestured to my breasts, telling the doctor to just take them both off. I knew it was extreme, but as a former theatre nurse, I had seen too many cases like this and knew that a piecemeal approach was not what I wanted.
The doctor was taken aback by my request and assured me that we were not at that stage yet. He suggested running some more tests, but I was already mentally preparing myself for the worst. As my mom and I walked home from the hospital, she was upset and scared, but I made a decision to stay strong and face whatever came my way.
I kept reminding myself that I would get through this, that I wouldn't let this cancer beat me. When I went back to the hospital for a scan and ultrasound, the radiographer made a shocking comment. She told me that my cancer had spread. I immediately sat up and started crying, demanding to know what she meant. But she couldn't give me any answers and said I would have to wait until my next clinic visit.
I couldn't bear the thought of waiting all weekend, so I called a friend who happened to be a breast surgeon. She was furious and immediately took charge, arranging for me to be transferred to the hospital where she worked. Overwhelmed and scared, I just followed her instructions.
At my first appointment with my new consultant, I felt a sense of ease and comfort. She listened to my concerns and explained the course of action she wanted to take. She even suggested that I take a holiday while we waited for the results. When I expressed my desire for a double mastectomy, she listened and was sympathetic, but ultimately convinced me to go for a single mastectomy. I trusted her and felt like she truly had my best interests at heart.
The day of my surgery was a blur, but I remember waking up in a lot of pain. It took an hour to get any pain relief and even then, it was the weakest of all the painkillers that were prescribed. To make things worse, the hospital staff seemed to be making things more difficult for me. They refused to get me water, couldn't properly take my blood pressure, and wouldn't even assist me in walking to the toilet. I was forced to use a bedpan, which only added to my discomfort.
My entire hospital stay was a nightmare. Being a patient can be scary for anyone, but I couldn't help but feel like certain things were not being considered because of my ethnicity. There's a misconception that people of color have a higher tolerance for pain, but that's simply not true. Pain is pain, and we should be believed when we say we are in pain. I also experienced the "postcode lottery" when it came to healthcare. Where I lived, my knowledge, and even my appearance seemed to influence how I was treated and the information I was given.
It wasn't until the hospital staff found out about my nursing background that they started treating me differently. I remember having to confront a nurse who was about to administer medication on her own, which was against protocol. I had to insist that she bring her colleague before I would allow her to give me the medication.
Now, I am in my fifth year of my cancer journey. After being discharged from the hospital, I started losing my hair due to the medication. As a woman, losing my hair was a terrifying thought, especially since my dreadlocks were a big part of my identity. When I saw my first dreadlock fall out, I couldn't help but break down in tears.
But despite all the challenges I have faced, I have learned to stay strong and never let this cancer beat me. I am determined to continue fighting and to raise awareness for others who may be going through a similar experience.
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