Breast cancer truths: It’s not a journey, don’t give me pity and don’t tell me I’m lucky

EVERY time someone tells me I’m lucky to have breast cancer, a little part of me wants to punch them in the face.

Renata Gortan. Profile Picture Picture by Chris Pavlich for The Daily Telegraph

EVERY time someone tells me I’m lucky to have breast cancer, a little part of me wants to punch them in the face.

“You’re lucky, it’s such a well-researched cancer.”

“You’re lucky, hardly anyone dies from breast cancer
these days.”

“You’re lucky, breasts aren’t essential, you can just chop them off.”

I know all of these things are true, and yet, every time I hear the L-word I want to rage at the world.

Renata Gortan after her pre-chemo crop.

Daily Telegraph reporter Renata Gortan before her diagnosis.

Yes, it is a well-researched cancer and yes, the fatalities aren’t what they used to be but not everyone makes it through. And while it’s easy enough to be blase about someone else’s mastectomy, you don’t realise how attached you are to non-essential body parts until someone casually brings up the possibility of removing them.

It’s hard breaking the news to people and I understand that their first instinct is to look for the positives. It sure beats being told a tale of woe about such-and-such who didn’t make it through breast cancer. And I’m not joking about that. It’s happened a few times.

Although BC (before cancer), I was a glass-half-full type, right now I don’t want relentless positivity.

I also don’t want to be looked on with pity or told that it is all part of God’s great plan. God and I are not friends right now.

The week after being diagnosed was a blur. I wanted people to ignore it, I wanted people to recognise it, I didn’t know what I wanted except to stop being told how lucky I was.

And if I couldn’t identify what I needed from others, what right did I have to be angry at their responses?

It turns out that what I needed was a recognition that this is shit.

I only realised that when a friend railed at the world on my behalf and said, “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

Because she was right, there is nothing good about it and there is no silver lining, it is something that I have to go through even though I desperately don’t want to.

The only other word that makes me angrier than the word lucky, is journey.

This is not a journey. It’s a long, sweaty, arduous, uphill trek that I would never sign up for. After all, I’m the girl who took the train up to Machu Picchu rather than do the four-day hike.

And I had a choice in that. With this, it’s not as if I’ve picked up a brochure and decided that six months of chemo would be a good idea, now would I like to administer it via a pill or IV? And then choose between the drugs that make your hair fall out or the ones that cause your nails to fall off? Let’s throw in a case of early menopause too, just because it will round out the journey nicely.

I’m 32 years old, with no family history of breast cancer, but I had a grade three, invasive, HER1 positive, early breast cancer, which means I got it before 35, it was well-developed and is sensitive to estrogen.

A lumpectomy and axillary lymph node removal, because it had spread to my lymphs, have left me with two new scars, a neat, not-so-little arc above my nipple and a longer, thicker scar under my arm. It’s a testament to my surgeon’s skill that every nurse, physio and doctor who has seen those scars comment on how good they look.

Although they took it out, I’ve got six rounds of chemo and five weeks of radiation to go. I tried to get out of it, but the consensus was that I’m young so I could handle it.

And as a friend who went through it twice said, I’m looking at it as insurance. Six months of my life for another 50 years.

Before chemo started I went through IVF, where I had the fun task of injecting myself with hormones every two days. The thought filled me with revulsion the first time, but then I got used to feeling like a human pin cushion and I now have four embryos safely stored away for when my fiance and I are ready to start a family.

Which won’t be for a while yet. Estrogen feeds hormone-receptor-positive cancers, so even after chemo and radiation I need to take a drug called Tamoxifen for a few years to stop my estrogen production and reduce the risk of the cancer returning.

If I’m really lucky I’ll also have to take Zoladex, a drug that shuts down my ovaries to stop them producing estrogen and sends me into an early, temporary menopause.

But when I’m done feeling sorry for myself, I know that what everyone says is true. I’m lucky. They found it early, removed it and I got to keep my breasts.

No such luck with the hair though. I’ve had my first chemo session and it’s falling out as I type.

Guess I’ll be lucky if my nails don’t follow suit.

Renata Gortan is a reporter with The Daily and Sunday Telegraphs who is blogging at whenlifegoestitsup.com and for rendezview.com.au

Originally published as Breast cancer truths: It’s not a journey, don’t give me pity and don’t tell me I’m lucky