August 24th 2024.
When I was 38 years old, I found myself in a situation I never imagined I would be in. It was spring of 2022 and I was undergoing radiotherapy treatment for breast cancer. But no one warned me about the difficulties I would face during this process.
Every time I went to the hospital for my radiotherapy appointments, I would lay there as the radiographer struggled to locate my tattoo markings. These markings were crucial in targeting the cancerous cells in my breast, but my skin tone was too dark for them to see. What should have been a quick five-minute treatment would always take 20 minutes or more due to this incompetence.
This was just one example of the many challenges I faced during my illness. It was clear that healthcare professionals had limited knowledge on how to treat Black patients like myself. It's a shame that this could have been avoided if they had more insight and understanding.
It all started in June of 2021 when I discovered a lump in my breast while play-fighting with my two young boys. I ignored it at first, but a little voice in the back of my mind kept nagging at me. Finally, I asked two colleagues about it and they advised me to get it checked.
I went to my GP the next day and was referred to the hospital. I assumed it was just a precaution, but a week later, a consultant at the rapid diagnostic centre confirmed my worst fear – it was not benign. I had a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy all in one day and was told the devastating news that I had breast cancer.
My mind immediately went to my children. As a single mother, I couldn't help but worry about who would take care of them if I didn't make it. But I had no intention of giving up. My kids were my motivation to keep fighting throughout my treatment. It still didn't feel real – I didn't know anyone my age who had ever had cancer.
I told my children about my diagnosis right away, and my seven-year-old's first question was if I was going to die. I reassured him that I had no plans of leaving them. My focus was solely on my children, which gave me no other choice but to keep going.
During this time, I learned a lot about breast cancer and its symptoms. A lump in the breast, armpit, or chest, nipple discharge, changes in skin texture, redness, inverted nipple, rash on the nipple, and persistent pain are all symptoms to look out for.
I had my first surgery in July of 2021 to remove the tumour, but unfortunately, I was told I needed a second surgery because there were still cancerous cells present. I did some research and discovered that chemotherapy is usually given before a second surgery to help kill any remaining cells. After advocating for myself, my oncologist agreed that this was the best route for me.
Chemotherapy was incredibly difficult for me. I had to constantly remind myself that there would be light at the end of the tunnel. I developed many side effects, including neuropathy, which caused numbness and tingling in my fingers and toes. It was something that no one had warned me about, and I never saw anyone who looked like me in the information leaflets. It was a very isolating experience.
At the age of 38, I found myself in a situation that I never could have imagined. It was the spring of 2022 and I was undergoing radiotherapy for breast cancer. However, what I didn't anticipate was the immense difficulty and hardship that came with the treatment. Every time I went to the hospital, I would lie there as the radiographer struggled to locate my tattoo markings. Being a Black woman, the color of my skin made it nearly impossible for them to see the markers. What was supposed to be a quick five-minute appointment turned into a grueling 20-minute process.
This kind of incompetence was unfortunately a recurring theme throughout my entire battle with cancer. It was clear that healthcare professionals lacked the necessary understanding and knowledge to properly treat Black patients like myself. It was a frustrating and disheartening experience that could have been avoided with more awareness and education.
It all started in June of 2021 when I first felt a lump in my breast. I was roughhousing with my two young boys, aged seven and five, when my youngest accidentally kicked me in the chest. As I was checking for any injuries, I noticed the lump. It was only noticeable when I was lying down, but I initially brushed it off as nothing to worry about. However, a small voice in the back of my mind kept nagging at me.
Eventually, I confided in two of my colleagues who urged me to get it checked out, just to be safe. I went to see my GP the very next day, assuming it was just a routine check-up. However, a week later, I found myself at a rapid diagnostic center in the hospital, and the consultant could tell just by feeling the lump that it was not benign. In the span of one day, I had a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy, only to be told the heartbreaking news that I had breast cancer.
My first thought was of my children. Who would take care of them if I wasn't around? It was all I could think about, and nothing else seemed real. At 38 years old, I didn't know anyone who had gone through a similar experience, which made it even more difficult to process.
As a single mother, I made the decision to tell my children right away. My youngest was too young to fully understand, but my oldest asked me the question that I had been avoiding - was I going to die? I reassured him that I had no intention of leaving them and that became my motivation to keep fighting throughout my treatment.
But the battle was far from over. I soon underwent my first surgery to remove the tumor, only to be told by a surgeon in a rather blunt manner that I needed a second surgery because there were still cancerous cells present. This was not the news I was hoping for, and after some research, I discovered that most people in my situation would have chemotherapy before a second surgery. I had to advocate for myself and convince my oncologist that this was the best course of action.
Chemotherapy was one of the toughest things I have ever gone through. It took a lot of mental strength to remind myself that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I experienced many side effects, including neuropathy, which caused numbness and tingling in my fingers and toes. It was a side effect that was never mentioned to me and made me feel even more isolated in my struggle.
Throughout my journey, I never saw anyone who looked like me in the information leaflets or the medical staff. It was a reminder of the lack of representation and understanding in the healthcare system. But I didn't let that discourage me. My children were my motivation, and I was determined to beat this disease for them and for myself.
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