Summer of 2025 brought scorching heat, the Musk versus Trump divorce, Oasis in Ireland and, for our household, a diagnosis of breast cancer.
On a humid May evening while flicking through Netflix I turned to the other half and said, “oh, there’s a little lump here”.
Neither of us seemed really concerned or thought much of it. The summer kicked off and between summer camps, work and life in general, my pea-sized lump didn’t feature very much in my mind. I figured it might just be a blocked duct and waited for it to pass.
It didn’t.
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So off to the doctor I went. My GP thought the same, that it was a blocked duct or cyst, but, since there is a history of breast cancer in my family, my doctor and myself agreed a further referral was still needed. I’m lucky, I attend a practice that listens to me, but I’m also conscious that after two decades in and out of hospital, I tend to be vocal in what I think my body needs. Not many people will be as comfortable advocating for themselves, so if you do think there’s something wrong, even if your doctor doesn’t agree, ask them to refer you for an assessment. Women report feeling their health concerns go unheard and dismissed. This is not just a feeling, RCSI experts say women’s health is poorly understood and underfunded in Ireland.
It wasn’t long before I got a letter from St Vincent’s Breast Check, but it wasn’t for a specific time, it was to tell me that there was a backlog and so it will be longer than their usual turnaround time (more on that later). Again, I wasn’t too panicked since I was “sure” it was nothing.
The day finally arrived for my triple assessment. For those who are unfamiliar, a triple assessment is a clinical exam, a mammogram and an ultrasound biopsy if required. I was told a biopsy was required. This was done with local anaesthetic so not much in terms of pain but perhaps the more disconcerting part was the clanking noise when the sample was taken. Some markers were put in and I was sent for another mammogram before being seen by a consultant whereby I was told they did find a “blob”, but it may be all fine and to await results.
At no point was I sure what would happen next – apart from waiting. That’s the difficulty with cancer, there are lots of unknowns and uncertainties, and you can’t know the next step for definite until this one is finished.
Everyone who has ever had any illness will tell you that it’s the waiting for a diagnosis that is the hardest part, since you don’t know what you’re dealing with. It’s the fear of the unknowns and your mind running through every best- and worst-case scenario.
The call finally came just as I was leaving a dear friend’s mum’s funeral. The lovely Kathleen had died of breast cancer.
The nurse explained that the consultant would like to see me in person the following Monday and if I would like to have someone there with me to bring them.
I knew “blob” was not just a “blob”.
That following Monday we were told it was indeed cancer, but that it was in very early stages. My husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. We were told what would be needed was surgery where they take out the mass and a lymph node and then radiotherapy. All very straightforward and simple, with me thinking I’ll be done and dusted by October (it was early August at this point).
Alas, no illness, especially cancer, is simple and there is a huge element of preparing yourself mentally for the uncertainty of this disease, how it may change from initial diagnosis to actual treatment, and how it may come back in future.
It may not, but as I spoke with more people who experienced it, everyone was unequivocal on a few things: “be kind to yourself”, “this may be longer than you think” and “be prepared for the unexpected”.
To provide me with a treatment plan they needed to know exactly what they were dealing with. I thought we had determined that already with the mammograms and ultrasound biopsy, but that was just an initial assessment. Next came the MRI and MRI biopsies. For a breast MRI, instead of lying on your back going through a very closed space, you’re lying on your front with the metal from the machine two inches from your nose. During the 20 minutes of clanking, whirling and invasion of my senses, I felt a surge of loneliness and fear. No matter how much support you have, no matter how many people love you, inevitably you are alone when sick, since you are the one dealing with it. And, inevitably, you start to wonder “am I going to be okay”?
For those who have never experienced an MRI biopsy, it is a procedure I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy
I came out of the scan, sat in reception and cried.
It was the first time I cried properly since my diagnosis – without any symptoms, it was the first time I realised I was sick.
The MRI caught things neither the mammogram or ultrasound did. It showed there was more than one site on my right and another on my left, so back in I went for three more round of biopsies, one via ultrasound, (more clanking) and two via MRI.
For those who have never experienced an MRI biopsy, it is a procedure I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I’m sure there are other scans and tests that are worse, but for me, this was the one. While lying very still, face down in the most claustrophobic environment, you then have the two grids squeezing the life out of your breast while someone tries to put a needle in. I had this done twice, one to my right side, one to my left.
If it were not for the amazing Dr Amy and her colleagues who carried out these procedures with such care and humour, I’m not sure I would have lasted through them as well as I did. We compared notes on the phenomenon of Frozen versus KPop Demon Hunters and how our children took to each.
The results showed the various spots were cancerous, which was the bad news – but still early stages which was the good news.
During all this we had made the decision to tell our seven-year-old. I was reluctant at first since there had already been a lot of changes for her, her dad had very publicly lost his job, her granny hadn’t been well, and, at the young age of seven, she was going into far more hospital appointments than we would have liked.
But as the diagnosis changed we realised we had no choice. We explained how they had found a lump which then led to more findings. She helped named the lump “Todd” (much better than “Blob”) and was insistent that Todd had to go and so did his friends. I felt bad for anyone she meets in future bearing that name, she’ll have an irrational hatred for them without quite remembering why.
One evening when she asked “Mama, are you going to die?” I felt so lucky to be able to say “No, sweetheart, I’m not”. But in that instance my heart broke for the many parents and children that had to give or receive a different answer to that question. I immediately thought of Vicky Phelan, who I had the good fortune to work with once, our good friend Jane who died at 29 from cancer, and many others who I knew had left family and loved ones behind. I was so very grateful for how incredibly lucky I was.
With the expanded results, I was back in again to talk to my consultant, Ruth, and my clinical nurse, Sharon. I was given an option of a mastectomy or a breast conserving surgery. Since it was for both sides, I opted for the latter. Unfortunately, there was no other way to perform the surgery but to have the front of both removed. Sharon tried to advise me on planning for the aesthetics and choosing a plan that would make me most comfortable in future, but I kept just saying, “I just want it done”.
If you are about to have breast conserving surgery I want to stress how important it is to listen to the advice and consider your options. Yes, you will want the cancer out of you, but you have to live with what you’re left with afterwards so take some time to think about it. I don’t regret my choices, but I do think I should have listened to my nurse and thought about it more.
Last Thursday, I went through the surgery. The post op wasn’t great (I was quite sick), but the surgery was a success. The pain that comes with breast surgery is intense and there’s also a massive sense of loss as I look at the scars and wish I hadn’t lost parts of me.
If you have recently been diagnosed, you will feel so many things. Among them is a sense of loneliness
But that sense usually gets replaced by the sense of relief and also gratitude since I know how many I have met in the past two months in St Vincent’s that are managing a much worse diagnosis. It’s not to minimise what I have, but it’s perspective.
Currently, they should be dissecting my tumour and lymph nodes and if the histology is as originally diagnosed then I will be going through a month of daily radiotherapy in a few weeks. If it’s not and it has changed then it could be chemotherapy, but I have been told it’s more likely the former so fingers crossed.
Throughout the last two months I’ve stayed working since I was worried what people might think if I took time out. But, more than anything, I was able to work so kept working. Cancer is tough but it doesn’t render us useless or diminish us. At times, we may need to listen to our body and be kind to it and rest when required, but each patient is different and we know ourselves. I’ll still be performing my duties through the next step of treatment. I may not have the energy I need to help with presidential campaigning, but I certainly will be back for future elections, including my own. This time last year I was running for general election and I hope to be doing it again in future.
Also, as I mentioned above, waiting lists are long and for St Vincent’s, one of the reasons is because they only have two mammogram rooms when they need three, along with a mammogram unit and a prone table. These are all items I will be asking the Minister and Department of Health about, as well as asking why there is not a mandatory triple assessment for individuals from 40 years of age onwards with dense breast tissue. The fact I had dense breasts meant that it was harder to catch any issues initially via a mammogram and why it was picked up via ultrasound and ultimately the right side via MRI. We need to reduce screening age, but first we need to ensure that our breast clinics and radiology departments are fully resourced with equipment and personnel.
If you made it to the end of the piece and want to do one thing for me, please, please, check your breasts and if you find anything at all unusual, especially if you have dense breasts, go to your doctor. Don’t wait, you’re not too busy and you’re not wasting anyone’s time.
I would not have made it past day one without my friends, family and the team at St Vincent’s, a special shout out goes to Sharon and her colleagues in the breast clinic, the best clinical nurses anyone can ever have, my consultants Dennis and Ruth, radiologists and radiographers Amy, Sheena and Justine among others and the amazing nurses in my ward. Also to Karen, Jim and Mary, my cancer buddies, and Patrick who hopefully will still love me with my wonky boobs.
If you have recently been diagnosed, you will feel so many things. Among them is a sense of loneliness, since, despite all the support, you are still the person who’s sick. You are, but there’s also relief in the solidarity that comes from others who have had the experience or going through it. Irish Cancer Society Cancer has a freephone nurseline at 1800 200 700 and ARC Cancer Support have centres and a support Line (01) 215 0250.
Last, but not least, no matter how hopeless it may seem, don’t lose hope. There’s lots of people who I have spoken to who are survivors even when it seemed hopeless. All we can do is fight what is in front of us, one step at a time.
