‘I did what I’d seen so many patients do – I ignored it. But when I felt that little lump in my right breast growing slowly, I knew it was bad news. It took me another several months to approach one of my colleagues about it. He felt the area, did an ultrasound and took a biopsy. I clearly remember getting the phone call from the pathologist; the news travelled through the ward like wildfire. We’re a close-knit team, and it was unnerving to know that we were just as vulnerable to breast cancer as our patients were.
I wanted the surgery in my own hospital, of that I was certain. I felt such a bond with my fellow surgeons, where else could I possibly be any better off? The hardest part was having such a detailed knowledge of the procedure myself. It was a surreal morning when, for the first time, I went to work as a patient rather than a doctor. Being wheeled into the operating theatre, all I saw were familiar faces.
The operation was followed by five weeks of radiotherapy, a treatment whose effects I had grossly misjudged – another thing I saw my patients do all the time. Breast cancer is common among middle-aged women, who are often juggling so many balls: work, family, ageing parents. They think they can fit the radiotherapy in among their other commitments, and so did I. The reality caught me completely by surprise. As I felt the wound tighten, all I could think was: this is hurting me, make it stop. As a doctor I was used to making assessments, evaluating outcomes and reviewing statistics, but suddenly all my well-trained medical logic was out the window. The surgeon and radiotherapist sat down with me, had a talk and got my feet back on the ground. I finished off the radiotherapy, and two weeks later I was back at work. But then, seeing every patient sitting opposite me was like looking into a mirror. All those people were me; their stories were far too close to home. I attended a congress in Berlin, where hundreds of doctors from all over the world met to discuss breast cancer, and I couldn’t stop thinking: these people have no clue whatsoever. After that I took three months off. If I wanted to be a doctor again, I needed to stop being a patient first.
I was re-diagnosed with breast cancer six years later during a follow-up scan. It was in the same breast, buried so deep I couldn’t feel it. After radiotherapy, it is no longer possible to preserve the breast during a second surgery. I would need a full amputation and reconstruction, which meant five days in hospital, drains, a catheter … the first day after the operation, I couldn’t even sit up on the edge of the bed.
I talk a lot to patients about the period that awaits once the treatments are over, when everyone thinks life will just return to normal. But it’s only then that you finally realise what has happened. And worse – what could have happened. That eerie, oppressive feeling, I underestimated it both times and now I also see that doctors ignore it completely when dealing with their patients.
I almost never tell patients that I’ve had breast cancer myself; the consultation is about them, after all, not me. But the experience has changed me as a doctor. I now know first-hand what women face, since I’ve been through it all myself: the sense of weakness, the fear, the anxiety.
But most of all, I now see just how pervasive and persistent cancer is. In my case, I knew it wouldn’t kill me, but it was still a wake-up call. I realised for the first time that I can’t take my health for granted, that cancer can happen to me too, that I can’t escape my mortality. I’m for ever a different person now.’