Yesterday The Great Telling began. It is not exactly something you can slip discreetly into conversation.
‘Isn’t it a lovely day and oh, by the way, I have breast cancer.’
‘You look fabulous in that dress, d’you think it will work with one boob?’
‘Doing anything at the weekend? Me? Oh you know, contemplating breast reconstruction.’
None of these really work do they?
The hardest was telling the children. I say ‘children’ but they are not really. Being 23 did not stop my daughter needing to sit on my lap and sob though. Nor did it stop her needing to be held in the pouring rain after she fled the restaurant. Our tears added to the general wetness.
By the end of the evening, our roles were reversed. My lack of sleep, general anxiety and feelings of utter crapness caught up with me and I could no longer hold it together. As I broke down, my beloved 23 year old stood with me while my darling 22 year old sat by my side and they both held me. They were strong for me. It was a precious moment.