A stern word from my boss made me realise I had to laugh in the face of my cancer

When you’re told you’ve got breast cancer, you think nothing will ever be funny again (Picture: Estelle Maher)

Opening the door to a delivery driver, I smiled and held out my hand for my parcel. 

But rather than handing it over, his eyes fell down – towards my chest.

Following his gaze, I gasped. I was only wearing my ugliest post-mastectomy bra. His face was priceless as I apologised, grabbed the package and slammed the door shut.

It was August 2019, and hormone therapy had forced me into menopause.

Walking around sweating and semi-naked was my new ‘normal’, so much so I’d barely remembered I was half-dressed when I’d answered the door.

But after a good swear, my embarrassment lifted and I found myself laughing. Hysterically.

When you’re told you’ve got breast cancer, you think nothing will ever be funny again. But my experience has been quite the opposite.

In this moment of deep humiliation, laughter rescued me for the hundredth time.

I co-host a podcast, ‘Get It Off Your Chest – The Funny Side of Breast Cancer’, with my friend and fellow breast cancer warrior Andrea Moulding (Picture: Estelle Maher)

I was doing my usual self-check in December 2018 when I found a lump.

I don’t do panic – it’s a waste of energy – so I initially dismissed it. But I couldn’t ignore the dark vein that popped up near my nipple on the same breast the following February.

I’m mixed race, so my veins aren’t typically easy to see. This one snaked up to my collar bone, which concerned me enough to go to my GP.

He wasn’t overly worried, which felt reassuring, but he scheduled a precautionary appointment at The Clatterbridge Cancer Centre in Wirral. Busying myself travelling to London with my new training job, I barely gave it another thought.

Two weeks after my GP scheduled my appointment, I had a physical examination, mammogram and biopsy. I felt calm initially, but alarm bells started ringing as, one by one, the other 20 women in the clinic were all sent home.

When a Macmillan nurse walked into the consultant’s room, my husband Pete and I looked at each other. Pete has had liver and bowel cancer. We knew how this scenario would likely play out…

I still need regular physiotherapy on my scar tissue and years of hormone therapy (Picture: Estelle Maher)

‘We’re very suspicious it’s cancer, but we need the test results to confirm it,’ the consultant told us.

Ten days later, I got my results. The initial biopsy detected cancer, and I was scheduled in for a lumpectomy. Shocked and overwhelmed, Pete and I flew to Fuerteventura to pass the 10-day wait until my surgery.

I turned my phone off the second we landed. I wanted time to process, to consider the worst. I planned my funeral, who would carry my coffin and what songs would play in church.

I arrived home to a voicemail from the hospital: ‘We need to see you urgently’. My stomach dropped. I took the first available appointment the next day and went for an MRI scan.

A week later, I found out I had another four lumps in the same breast. The cancer had also spread to one of my lymph nodes, meeting the criteria for stage 3.
 
‘You’re going to lose your breast,’ I was told. That was my lowest point. I went straight from the hospital to the off-licence, bought two bottles of wine and downed the first one at home in 15 minutes. 

My boss convinced me my breast had to come off, and the sooner the better (Picture: Estelle Maher)

Due to Pete’s illness, the word ‘cancer’ in our house was as common as ‘bread’ – and because of what Pete had gone through, our children Chloe, 20, and Zack, 15, had built up some resilience.

But, of course, it was still a huge, horrifying shock. There were lots of tears, but Pete and I played down the risks. ‘Your dad survived, and I will too,’ I reassured them, pushing my own fears aside.

Once they’d calmed down, I ordered no-one to talk to me, took my second bottle up to my room and rang my boss, who’d had breast cancer herself.

She listened in silence while I completely lost it, crying hysterically in a way I hadn’t done before or since. ‘Have you finished?’ she said. I was gobsmacked… How could she be so dismissive?

‘Your “lovely breast”, that you don’t want to lose, is trying to kill you. It’s going to rob you of your future, seeing your kids get married and having grandchildren.’

I sobered up instantly. She was right. My breast had to come off… the sooner the better.

My family always helped me find the funny side, even in my most vulnerable moments (Picture: Estelle Maher)

Half my chest was going to be carved away. There was no humour in that situation. I was convinced I’d never laugh again.

My physical state had to take priority over my mental state, so I couldn’t afford to wallow or get depressed. But even I knew I had to purge my emotions somehow.

So, a week later, I put Bette Midler’s film Beaches on and sobbed the whole day.

That final release freed up all my mental strength to focus on recovery. It also left a gap for the humour to move back in.

‘Look at the state of me, what a drama queen!’ I joked to the kids. For the first time, I thought I might be able to see the funny side in my situation.

During treatment, I wouldn’t let anyone speak negatively or call me ‘brave’ or ‘an inspiration’ (Picture: Estelle Maher)

The likelihood of my cancer recurring fell below the threshold for chemotherapy so, in May 2019, I had a left-side mastectomy and lymph node removal.

My cancer used hormones to grow, so I started a 10-year hormone therapy course.

‘Watch out for mood swings!’ I warned the kids, popping my first pill. I knew it would trigger the menopause. Within half an hour, I had my first sweating fit.

Already a mum, I had no issue with becoming infertile. The biggest adjustment was having fans everywhere and taking my top off and on like an indecisive stripper!

During treatment, I wouldn’t let anyone speak negatively or call me ‘brave’ or ‘an inspiration’, something my family were fully on board with. It became a running joke: ‘Don’t cry around Estelle!’ 

I found that, with cancer, there’s no choice but to keep dark thoughts at bay.

So, I binge-watched comedies. I couldn’t go in person to gigs – risking a knock to the chest – but the sitcom Still Game became a staple. I howled through every episode, and I loved any film starring Adam Sandler.

Pete and I giggled like school kids when choosing my breast implant (Picture: Estelle Maher)

The more comedies I watched, the lighter my mood got, and the easier it became to find reasons to laugh. Peppering my updates with humour made talking to family and friends about my cancer more palatable for them too.

I cracked jokes with consultants and porters. If I put a smile on someone else’s face, I thought: ‘Job done!’
 
I first realised laughter was helping to heal me when I was selecting my breast implant. Pete and I were giggling like school kids, groping all the options.

I consented to my treatment plan in under 30 minutes, joking to the consultant: ‘I spent longer deliberating my mobile phone network provider!’

What could have been a depressing moment became something Pete and I laugh about to this day.

There were plenty of other comic moments too. After the DPD incident, I inadvertently flashed a busload of rugby players through my bedroom window. Their wolf-whistles made me realise I’d stripped off my top again!

I wrote a darkly comic book based on my journey (Picture: Estelle Maher)

I knew how much I was loved when I went public with my illness on social media. The amount of gifts, cards and prayers I received was overwhelming. You couldn’t move in our house for flowers.

‘If we get one more bouquet, I’m going to have to take a hay fever tablet!’ Chloe laughed.
 
My family always helped me find the funny side, even in my most vulnerable moments.

Showering the first time after surgery, I knew I couldn’t get my wounds wet. I had to put a ridiculous-looking Disney cagoule on and stand with my arms aloft to protect my surgical drains. ‘You look like the Statue of Liberty!’ laughed Pete, as he got in the cubicle to scrub my bum!

Shared humour got us through his cancer, and now it was helping me with mine. I could always count on Pete and the kids to rescue the moment by cracking wise.

Cancer will either paralyse or propel you. I wrote a darkly comic book –  The Killing of Tracey Titmass – based on my journey. More recently, I’ve published my first comedy novel, Dear Jane, Love Daisy.
 
I also co-host a podcast, ‘Get It Off Your Chest – The Funny Side of Breast Cancer’, with my friend and fellow breast cancer warrior Andrea Moulding. She invited me to do a show with her – I agreed to get involved if it was funny from the get-go.

Thankfully, we were both on board with the idea of creating a safe space for people in the cancer community to tell ‘inappropriate’ but relatable stories! 

Our outlook is more common than you might expect. We get guests from all over the world who want to share their stories. From a news anchor whose chemo wig blew off in a hurricane, live on air, to a high-flying exec who had eyeballs tattooed on the back of her head ‘to give people something else to talk about’, we’ve heard it all!
 
My cancer expedition is not over. I still need regular physiotherapy on my scar tissue and years of hormone therapy.
 
But if you’re newly-diagnosed, I promise there is always a bright side. Mine was realising how much I am loved – and the healing power of laughter.  
 
As told to Michelle Ewen

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When you’re told you’ve got breast cancer, you think nothing will ever be funny again. But my experience has been quite the opposite.