We sit in the waiting room and I can tell the sound of the pop anthems blasting out incongruously from the incorrectly placed speakers is doing my husband’s head right in. “This is so inappropriate” he exclaims as the minutes pass interminably slowly. I am on high alert, watching the nurses come and go and trying to work out which one will be coming for me. I suddenly realise that there is a doctor’s strike today which means that they are only seeing the emergency patients, and that given that I am here, this means me.

The nurse finally appears, clutching a pack and I instantly know what’s coming. People with benign lumps in their boobs do not need a special pack to explain it all to them. Special packs are reserved for people who need to be given a lot of information in written form as they will not take it all in face to face. We are led through and I meet the surgeon, he is slow, considered in his way and careful with me. I am not surprised when he tells me that the two biopsies I had both turned out to be cancerous, but this does not stop the bottom of my world from falling out.

I can see my husband is shocked. He holds me and we cry. The doctor gives us some time and then tells me that the main thing I need to remember is that “It’s very early and it’s very treatable” and that he expects me to still be here in 40 years time. He is not so careful when he confirms that I will need to immediately stop my HRT, and that after I have an operation followed by radiotherapy I will then need to take oestrogen blockers for 5 years. Now the tears come thick and fast.

We live in the time of Davina, we have all been informed about the benefits of oestrogen to our bodies, brains, libidos and vaginas. Before I went on HRT I cried every day for about 6 months until I realised that I was perimenopausal rather than depressed. The thought of going back to that frightens me most. Later when I get home, I feel so angry about this latest betrayal. The hormone that fuels my body and protects me from heart disease, Alzheimers and osteoporosis is now the hormone that is fuelling my cancer and threatening to rob me of my life. Who would be a woman?

A few days later as I write this, I can already see how the cancer is starting to creep in and attempting to insert itself into my life, my family, my identity. I have to take out my piercings for my MRI scan and I don’t like the feel of my nose without a ring in it. The nurse told me not to go to work at the moment and I resent that I know she is right and that I don’t feel able to. I look at my long hair in the mirror and desperately hope that I can avoid the chemo, as I can’t bear the thought of having to grow it all again. It’s my son’s GCSE year and I’m so angry that he has to deal with this at such a stressful time. My daughter is 12 and I feel so sad that breast cancer is now something she will always have to be vigilant about. I want to protect her from its clutches, find it and rip it out of her genes.

I’m just at the beginning of this process and it is unbelievably daunting. The idea that this is a ‘battle’ I have to fight is already annoying me. I don’t want this battle and I don’t want to fight. The closest thing I can liken it to at this stage is that it’s a bit like being pregnant – suddenly your body is going through a process over which you have little control. Your body is public property again, medics poke and prod you and tell you what will happen next and you agree because you want to sustain the life inside of you, this time not a baby’s, but your own.