I wanted my breasts removed immediately after hearing the words 'cancer'.
I did not give it the slightest bit of consideration.
They'd told me to have chemo first and see how I responded and then consider the mastectomy.
I wouldn't hear of it. What if the chemo didn't work and the cancer grew?
I had to see a psychologist and the surgeon to make my decision clear, and to prove that I hadn't lost my mind with terror.
So that's what happened.
Ivy was brought out of my warm, comfy womb a month early and when she was six teeny days old, they whipped my little booby off.
The day of the surgery, I was so frightened.
I had only ever had minor surgeries in the past and this one was a biggy.
My body was still recovering from the three day labour and my hormones were in that 'bonkers zone' everyone goes through after giving birth.
I woke up feeling so sick and so sore. Michael's lovely face was there waiting for me as I came round.
I peeped under my nighty expecting a bloodbath but it was the neatest little scar. I could see my heart beating through my rib cage where my breast used to be and I cried.
The night of the surgery, my hormones exploded and I had the breakdown I had known was coming.
I sobbed and sobbed, clung to Michael with my clammy hands and begged and begged him to help me.
I told him over and over I was too scared, I was too scared. I needed someone to tell me it was going to be OK – that I was going to be OK, but nobody could.
I had drains coming out of me with large bottles of blood and stitches to hold the drain in. It was grim.
I went home to recover for three weeks and get to know my little babe and then the chemo began.
It was so hard. Constipation, nausea, my hair.
I gained more weight than I had throughout my pregnancy and I remember looking in the mirror and genuinely not recognising myself.
Almost like I'd had one of those makeovers Ant and Dec do. I felt horrific.
Until now I had told myself I didn't care about losing my breasts, my hair and my weight gain.
I didn't care about not being able to breast feed – as long as the cancer had gone, that's all I had any right to care about.
But in reality of COURSE I cared. I was just 32 years old.
I liked my boobies, I loved my hair and I had been so looking forward to getting my body back after growing this wonderful human.
Now here I was – a round, bald, boobless blob who was terrified of dying. Cancer, ya bastard.
Little did I know I would be going through it all again just three years later.
Ugh those bloody side effects – nausea, constipation – I had never really experienced this before but OMG, the constipation was excruciating.
I remember sitting on the loo for seven hours, sweat running down my back and praying for a poo. (Yep, I got wobbly toilet legs a lot).
The sweats, the sleepless nights, the itching, the inability to remember anything – I honestly have hundreds of notes in my phone as it is literally impossible for me to remember ANYTHING.
The mouth ulcers, the dry skin and obviously the bloody hair loss again.
Luckily I mastered the turban this time and found the loveliest wig so that bit wasn't as awful as it had been first time round. See my little turban tutorial here!
I'm still having chemo and I will be for life – luckily it's not the super toxic Red Devil which makes your hair fall out and your mouth blister, it's a much more tolerable one – Palbococlib along a with a few others.
I look at my scarred body now and I genuinely don't feel disgusted anymore.
My breasts have been rebuilt – wonky but I don't care too much about that.
I feel pride, I love my scars. It seems such a cliche but they truly are my war wounds, my life savers and my reason I still live to fight another day.
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