There is no such thing as the ‘all clear’ after breast cancer

I’m a self-confessed control freak (Picture: Esther Shaw)

I run my fingers over the scar tissue at the site where I had my operation and worry that I can feel a lump.

I feel an odd pain under my left arm, in the area where the lymph nodes were removed during surgery. And my brain, no matter how much I try to rationalise, asks me one thing: Could my cancer be back?

You might think that after a breast cancer diagnosis, I’d be happy to hear the words: ‘now you can put it all behind you.’

The truth is, while I willingly raised a glass of champagne to mark the moment my treatment finished in October 2020 and tried to feel joy – those words uttered by loved ones were tough to hear.

It was almost the exact opposite of how I felt back then, and of the way I continue to feel three years on – in the aftermath of going through something that rocked my life so profoundly.

Because there is no putting cancer behind me, even if I have been given the all clear.

I am constantly worried about it coming back; I am still overwhelmed by fear.

I’m doing everything I can to ‘get back to normal. I truly am.

I was utterly shocked – and in complete disbelief (Picture: Esther Shaw)

But despite being back at work full-time, back at the gym, back on the netball court, back out socialising lots – and all the while juggling the demands of a seven-year-old and high-octane four-year old – a cancer diagnosis can never be forgotten.

I was diagnosed with grade-three triple negative breast cancer back in April 2020, aged 4, just weeks after the first Covid lockdown had begun.

I found the lump when I was sitting in the bath. I was in really good health at the time, and exercising most days. That same evening, I spoke to a GP friend who lived locally, and she agreed to jog down to see me informally the next day.

She recommended I get it checked out. My husband had private medical insurance through work, so I was lucky to see a consultant pretty quickly.

When I heard the diagnosis, I was utterly shocked – and in complete disbelief.

There’s no family history of breast cancer. I’ve always been sporty and active – I’ve ran the London Marathon twice. I’ve been vegetarian since I was nine, and I’ve never smoked.

I am still overwhelmed by fear (Picture: Esther Shaw)

But as I’ve learned the hard way, cancer does not discriminate. And I was one of the unlucky ones.

In the late spring and summer of 2020, I went through four months of gruelling chemotherapy, followed by surgery, and two weeks of intensive radiotherapy. My treatment ended on October 31 that same year.

But while I am so utterly grateful to have been given the ‘all-clear’ almost three years ago – especially when so many get a far more complicated prognosis – trying to find a way to ‘put it all behind me and get on with my life’ has been hard. Really hard.

In my mind, there’s no such thing as an ‘all-clear’ after breast cancer – for anyone.

Once you’ve had it, the worry and the scars – including the emotional scars – are with you for the rest of your life.

So, while I know that when someone says ‘put it all behind you,’ this comes from a place of love, and of wanting to be positive for me – it’s just not something I can do.

What I’ve come to realise is that a big part of this phrase is about loved ones wanting to reassure themselves that I’m OK, because that’s what they need to tell themselves.

Friends see me laughing and joking around, looking like I used to, now my hair has grown back long and thick – and seem to think, ‘ah what a relief. She’s getting back to normal.’

But I feel that my friends and loved ones just can’t understand what’s going on inside my head.

Because the part that they don’t see is that on the inside I’m terrified. Utterly terrified.

I’m perpetually petrified about it coming back, or having spread. And while time does heal, I don’t see how that fear will ever truly and completely disappear.

Equally, as the years pass, people stop asking questions like, ‘How are you?’ and ‘How are you coping in the aftermath of a breast cancer diagnosis?’ People think the cancer has gone away. But although the disease has, the emotional scars and worry haven’t.

I’m perpetually petrified about it coming back (Picture: Esther Shaw)

They think cancer gets ‘cured’ like other conditions – but the reality with cancer is that it’s a whole lot more complex than ‘getting cured’.

I try hard not to worry loved ones, and yet I have a ‘scare’ maybe one or two times every year. Each new ache, pain or ailment can now send me into a spiral of panic.

It takes all the strength I can muster to remain calm and rational when my brain is screaming ‘the doctors told you to remain on the lookout for signs and symptoms that could be an indication it has returned.’

So then it’s back to the GP. And more appointments. And sometimes another scan. And then the wretched waiting for results. It’s utterly terrifying. But that’s just how I live my life now.

Post treatment, I’m ‘officially’ down to just one routine mammogram a year, which should be brilliantly reassuring, and yet just isn’t enough for my anxiety-ridden mind.

I’d regard myself as a pretty open person, and yet I open up to very few about cancer still being part of my life.

Over the years, I’ve compiled a ‘toolbox’ of coping mechanisms, including weekly therapy – which gives me the chance to reflect with someone I trust – regular exercise, yoga, cold swims, and meditation. All these things are helping tremendously, and I’m living a happy and fulfilled life. I truly am.

But at the same time, it’s only really my husband and two of my very closest friends who actually know what’s going on in my head.

The mum of one of my best friends summed it up very aptly when she said: ‘Breast cancer isn’t over for Esther. At least the physical treatment might be over, but the fallout will live on for months, years – and maybe even decades to come.’

I’m a self-confessed control freak, and yet everything about this is uncontrollable.

So no, I can’t see the day when I can just ‘put this behind me’.

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I am still overwhelmed by fear.