‘I had farewell drinks for my boobs: A very candid story of my body after breast cancer.'

I am not a warrior. 

I don’t believe that people who beat cancer are warriors, because I’m unsure what that’s saying about the people who don’t make it through. 

I don’t think of the time with cancer as a journey, either. I love travelling, and for me, associating cancer treatment with a travelling noun just doesn’t do it. 

I’m sharing my story in case there’s another person out there, living with other people’s expectations to be a warrior, to be positive, to fight the good fight, who may need to know my truth. 

I endured. I was pissed off. I was sad. I was happy. I was frustrated. And when, at times, I wasn’t grateful enough to be living, I felt guilty.

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The letter and the phone call.

Once you hit the fabulous age of 50, a letter arrives inviting you to a free breast screening. I almost threw mine out – there was no breast cancer in my family. 

My husband, a nurse, told me I should go. “Only if you have your male 50 check-up,” I bargained. The deal was done. The deal saved my life.

Two days after my initial mammogram, I received a phone call at work. Something came up on my scans, can I come in straight away, they asked. That phone call was the first clue – one I didn’t recognise at first – that it was serious and time was a factor.

On my second visit, the nurse did a breast exam and stayed on the left breast a little longer, but finished up by saying there was nothing she could detect. I sighed with relief.

I then went for a more extensive mammogram, twisting and turning and being squished while pics were taken. I was asked to stay still again as they ‘didn’t get the whole area’. Well shit, now I realised there was something definitely there and it was an ‘area’.

Time for the ultrasound – while examining my right breast the radiographer and I chatted about her life. When we got to my left breast, her speech slowed. So I asked directly, “Are you allowed to tell me?” 

“Not usually,” she said. “But in your case, it’s so evident, I can – you have breast cancer and I am going to bring in the doctor to have a chat.” 

They explained I had two types of cancer and needed to do a biopsy right away. The pain was high, the position I was in hurt my shoulder, and about halfway through I felt a hand grab mine. It was the breast screening nurse. I needed that hand. I will never forget that human touch – but I also felt how serious this was – in the room full of experts.

Back in the screening room, the nurse explained more about the cancers, and made me a follow-up appointment with my GP for results. My tears fell silently; She seemed surprised by them. I thanked everyone – and I walked. 

When my body went into fight-or-flight mode, I chose flight. 

Farewell drinks.

Lumpectomy, mastectomy, double mastectomy. Reconstruction, breast implants.

The trouble I was having, above all else, sounded like vanity to many: I loved my breasts.

It took a long time to get big ones and they hadn’t dropped with age. They were an integral part of my sex life. And as self-critical women are of their own bodies, my breasts were one of the few things that I had written in the positive column of my body.

So, before my scheduled lumpectomy, I went to a friend’s place and sat with a glass of wine on her veranda while another friend took photos of my wonderful breasts. That afternoon as the sun went down and we chatted, laughed and cried our goodbye to my boobs, it’s one of the few moments I look back on where I acknowledged what I was losing. 

I was meant to feel glad, because…

‘Breast cancer is a good cancer to get.’

‘They can do so much now as breast cancer has so much funding.’

‘Lucky they caught it in time.’

‘They are just breasts.’

‘Lucky you get free implants.’

But the guilt of feeling sad for my breasts turned me inside and out. 

I went in flight mode again: I worked as much as I could, even at home, sending emails, writing programs, checking on my Year Group and my class (I’m a high school teacher). I was putting the face on, ‘Yes, I am so lucky, I have an amazing surgeon.’ I was still easy to be around. I was faking it till I made it.

The words you don't want to hear.

When you have a lumpectomy, you are hoping for the magic words of ‘clear margins’. The words you don’t want to hear are ‘the cancer has metastasised’. 

I failed that one.

The visit after the lumpectomy to my breast surgeon was loss after loss. The cancer was most aggressive, fast growing. We made big decisions real fast: a double mastectomy and, at that time, total reconstruction from tummy fat. This meant a couple more surgeries with chemo and radiation in between.

The drive home was when my husband sobbed. He understood everything the surgeon was saying, while I was punch-drunk. This was f**ked.

At the time of being diagnosed, it was apparent that mortality was going to be something my mind needed to come to terms with. I felt lucky that my kids were grown, wonderful adults off following their dreams. 

I would miss my people. The thought of not being there for when my son needed a chat or my daughter needed a mumma cuddle felt gut-wrenching. I worried about my husband and my parents, but underneath it all was a calm, constant thought: “If it's my time, it's my time.” 

Whenever I mentioned this thought to anyone, it’d scare the hell out of people. A close friend put it best, "You need you to be positive."

When you have cancer, people want you to be positive. And I could be, not authentically, but I could fake it right up to bloody chemotherapy.

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The Red Devil.

There were two types of chemicals needed to kill off those pesky cancer cells. One of those is nicknamed ‘The Red Devil’. The nurse had to watch it go into the drip – if the vein blew, the chemicals could destroy my tissues. 

It was an intense situation, so I decided it was the right moment to see how many times I could make the nurse laugh while she watched my hand. Distraction – the type of flight response that helped me.

That night, my body recoiled at the poison it had been subjected to. In those hours of retching, I looked at my husband and said the words no warrior ever says: “I don’t think I can do this.” 

As awful as it was, my body got used to this new way of being and we worked out a better drug regimen. 

But I lived with that moment – the moment I realised that there was no ‘mind over matter’ at play here – that when you cling on to just feeling a little bit present, it takes all the energy you have. 

So, ‘faking it till you make it’ went out the window. When people asked, “How are you?” I’d answer, “Chemo is kicking my arse,” and I would see that person’s head tilt, wishing I was more positive. 

I got out of bed every day. I ate regularly to stay on top of the nausea. One morning my dad came in, one foot after another, he looked at me. “It’s so hard,” I said. “It’s just so hard.” And we cried. Me in his arms and him, not on the outside but on the inside. I felt him crumbling with me. 

I miss my body.

I spoke with my nurse about sex. I had read that between chemo and menopause, the Sahara desert moves into your vagina and tearing and pain follows. She suggested a lubricant.

What we didn’t really discuss was the absence of orgasms. I have friends who don’t have orgasms. I have friends who occasionally have orgasms. Friends for whom sex has never been that important. And friends who have every toy known to mankind under the bed. The spectrum is wide.

I’ve been lucky to be partnered with a very sexually compatible partner, which has meant not only orgasms but often multiple orgasms. My breasts were highly sensitised, and therefore, played an important role in my achieving the waves of the sexual release orgasms have gifted me over the years.

So when your sexual drive takes a dive, and sex is suddenly painful, and the usual ‘get you going’ zones are now numb… it was time that I faced my situation. 

In between surgeries and treatment, I could put on a padded bra, and with the breast implants I ended up choosing, I could slowly look at myself again in the mirror. I could avoid, shift, distract and I could pretend I was back to normal.

But when I was kissing, and cuddling, and being touched, I was revolted with myself and I was sad and angry that this important magical part of my life was gone.

With a loving, patient partner, and the persistence to change things and utilise lubricants to improve this part of my life, I’m now not in pain and I’m enjoying being intimate with my partner again. I also know that part of my grief is saying goodbye to my before-cancer sex drive. I’m sad and angry about that, for myself, for my husband, for us. 

The final word.

With help from a good counsellor, I’m working through my grief around having and losing my breasts to breast cancer. But please don’t call me a warrior – I endured the saga – I am aware that secondaries are a real possibility but lucky for me I’ve always lived my life surrounded by good people and a whole lot of love. 

Mortality is not the fear – the fear rests in losing yourself, bit by bit. The endurance is in being true and kind to yourself, and that’s something I’m willing to slow down for.

Feature image: Getty + Canva.

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