My longest week

IT all started innocently enough. Long day at work, with an early start from York to be in Reading, Berkshire, for 9am. Then back by train, hurtling across London to just make the 5pm train north, straining for family time. In the door to be greeted by supper smells, a kiss and hello from Himself. Say hello to The Boy - another kiss, time for a cuddle, how was school and what have you been up to?

Dash upstairs to rid myself of work gear, Himself following with news of his day. Chatting as we went. Clothes off in time-for-a-shower abandon.

Talking, gesticulating as I did so. Then - but then... Hand brushes right breast in passing. I'm sorry? Run that by me again. And there it was. A Lump. It felt massive and hugely frightening.

No. It can't be. But yes, feel it, feel it... is it just me or can you feel it too? Yes? You can? But you can't - you mustn't... Shoulders slumped, hiding myself, nervous pacing of the bedroom floor. A hint of a tear, brushed angrily away.

I suppose that means a trip to the doctor, not that it's anything of course. Lots of women have lumps. It's hormones, periods, The Change - stuff like that - no worries. So I'll leave it then.

You won't, he said. You can't. You mustn't. Perhaps you're right - I'll look it up on the Internet, that'll help. It didn't. Because I didn't know what was wrong and no amount of fumbling self-analysis via a computer screen was going to tell me. I had to find out.

So I rang the surgery. I hardly ever go there, for heaven's sake - it took me ages to find the phone number. I'm one of those who's never been in hospital apart from when I had my baby ten years ago. Doctors and me? No love there, certainly on my part.

And having decided I needed - wanted - to get this over quickly the only appointment I could get was with A Man. Who wasn't my husband. Who would have to feel The Lump located in one of my most personal places. Hmmm... Still - I've given birth so what the heck.

Suffice to say he was wonderful. Time for the one-stop shop at the hospital, he said. It's probably nothing but I can see you're worried. We'll get you in quickly just to be sure. (Do they talk to every woman the same, I wondered? Is there a form of words in a doctors' textbook somewhere?)

Saw him on a Thursday evening and got the letter from York Hospital, complete with an explanation of what to expect (very helpful) on the Saturday morning. The appointment was for the following Wednesday, just eight days after the The Lump was found.

Quick or what? Steady on - this felt just a bit too fast. It must be bad news or they wouldn't be in such a rush would they? How perverse the mind can be when people are trying to help you...

Days of furtive feeling followed to see if The Lump was still there. Sometimes I couldn't find it, my spirits soared and I felt a fraud. At those times my hand would reach for the phone to cancel the appointment. Didn't want to be seen as a time-waster, you see.

But on other occasions, there it was, just nestling there, somewhat sinister. And very, very frightening.

Unbidden, my mind would turn the clock forward in almost ritualistic horror. If it was cancer how would I be? Brave, optimistic? Taking it in my stride? A survivor? What about my husband and son? How would they feel? What if I had to have surgery? Life in those few days was one big "if".

The one-stop breast clinic at York is a sort of BYO, Bring Your Own husband - or wife for that matter, because men get breast cancer too - partner, or friend. All welcome. Not exactly a party atmosphere, but it's certainly friendly, although brisk and business-like.

The best thing, though, is they know so much how you might be feeling. They offer a warm smile here, a quick squeeze of the hand there. Nothing overt or obtrusive, just a careful understanding of what might be.

Then it was the initial examination, the nerves careering around in my stomach. Ah yes, said the doctor, I can feel it. Just need to extract some fluid, only a little prick, it won't hurt... tell me about your holiday... where did you go?

What is this? Some perverse version of "Wish you were here?" No, a diversionary tactic - that's probably in the textbook too. But it worked.

It's a cyst. She said it so matter-of-factly I almost missed it. Nothing to worry about but we still want you to have a mammogram and possibly ultra-sound to be sure. Mouth dropped open. Stammering thanks like some demented doll with a faulty voice box.

And would you believe it, she gave me the thumbs up and winked when she left the treatment room. Doctors don't do that sort of thing. Do they?

The rest of it had to be a doddle. Down to the breast screening unit past x-ray, the step more springy now. Behind the curtain, whip your bra off (one of the newer ones - you don't do off-white bra straps in a place like this...) top back on until they're ready for you.

Sitting with others waiting for the same thing, none of us really talking. Until one of us comes out of the screening room and says "Trying to get your boobs on to that x-ray plate - they don't tell you it's like kneading dough do they?"

An involuntary snort of laughter from one of us, and the ice is broken. We swap stories. Some of us have been before, but for many of us it's the first time. And we all agree, shyly, how scared we've been.

Back to the clinic with your x-ray and ultra-sound plates for a word with the doctor. The waiting area is heaving, but what's this? The ones sitting down trying to look nonchalant are the accompanying husbands and partners while the women - the patients - stand there, waiting their turn to learn their fate. The age of equality is obviously alive and well.

So this was finally it. Back with the doctor, it taking all of three minutes to confirm the original diagnosis. A cyst. Loads of women get them. You might get another but don't assume it is a cyst just because you've had one before. Always come back to us to make sure - it's what we're here for.

Sensible, practical advice and the whole process took just over two hours from walking in the door of York Hospital to walking out again. This is the NHS at its very best.

But as I walked away, elated but drained and not a little emotional with it all, I felt guilty. Guilty and sad for those women that afternoon who didn't receive the good news I had. Whose worst fears had been realised. Who were about to start on the rollercoaster ride of treatment for weeks, possibly months.

But at York they will be in very good hands and to those women and the medical teams who will look after them I pay tribute.

Updated: 09:49 Monday, October 27, 2003