CA 153 Breast Cancer Tumour marker blood test, Clinic visit – £150

Breast cancer

By Laura Mazzeo

Twelve years have passed… 12 years ago, at this time, I entered a very cold operating room of a Roman hospital. I was scared to death, crying and shaking. I only remember a nurse holding my hand while they were giving me anaesthesia, and he told me to be strong and that everything would be fine. Then I woke up in my room, and in front of my bed was the doctor who operated on me (whom I can never thank enough), my husband and my daughter. They said things, but I just wanted to feel that “the guest” had completely disappeared… I still didn’t know what was waiting for me.

I remember New Year’s Eve; from the bedroom window, I saw the fireworks in the sky of Rome, and I thought of my husband and daughter in a hotel room and of my son and grandfather at home. Alone. An unforgettable New Year’s Eve… in every sense.

I just wanted to go home, but after a few days, they let me into a room and told me that the “host” had been removed, but it was a bit aggressive, so it was better to do some chemotherapy and then also some radiotherapy.

Ok fine. It begins.

A small intervention to insert the Pic and the first session begins, and then every 21 days, we return to Rome for the following. A nightmare. The hair falling out, the moon face and the pain… the post-chemo pain is one of the strongest I’ve ever felt.

And then…then we start with the radio. Every day at 1:05 pm they char a piece for me, always the same and every day at 1:05 pm I would like to be anywhere but there.

Looking back today, I realise it was the worst year of my life.

But now I’m out.

I am a survivor, and today, after 12 years, I have to thank those who made this happen.

First of all, my Prof. “forced” me to do the biopsy, and then my doctor operated on me on New Year’s Eve and saved my life (he is now a Prof respected everywhere). My family never left me alone. Never. Me, my husband, my daughter, my son and my father-in-law.

The five of us did great.

A team. A force. My strength.

My best friend (she knows I’m talking about her) forced me to eat even when I couldn’t hold anything back, go out even if I couldn’t stand up, and cut her wonderful curls so I wouldn’t feel alone.

Here… I’m here to tell anyone going through a similar period that “the guest” can be sent away; it takes courage, tenacity, strength and luck. But it can.

I write all this to raise awareness among women to do prevention, have checks, and trust their innate sixth sense. We know our body; if we feel something wrong that shouldn’t be there, we check because the “guest” is smart, but we are smarter!”

Christina

It was March 23, 2021, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Since then, my life has changed completely; everything around me has taken on a different meaning; the certainties I had have started to crumble like a sandcastle, fears have taken over, and the light-heartedness that has always characterised me has left space for concerns.

You are never ready for news like this: cancer arrives, it makes no distinctions, and it bursts into your life like a tornado, uprooting everything in its path.

The monster had hit me, a girl of just 29 years old.

In the days that followed, I fell asleep with the hope of waking up from a nightmare, but unfortunately, the cancer was reality, and to remind me of it, there was that lump that was proliferating inside my breast.

Since then, I have always tried to find an answer to the question, “Why me?”.

In the months that followed, I blamed myself; I was convinced that I had done something wrong in life to deserve cancer. Then, one day, a Doctor told me: “Cristina, the Lord entrusts evil only to those who are strong, to those who know how to face it!”. I have clung to that phrase ever since.

I began to fight against the pain not only of the body but also of the mind, which are the most difficult to fight because they take root in your every thought, conditioning your every choice, your every gesture, even the stupidest.

I thought, “I can handle anything. I have to fight.” It was with this thought that I faced the long and endless months of neoadjuvant chemotherapy and the subsequent bilateral mastectomy surgery.

I then began to convince myself that cancer couldn’t bring me to my knees, couldn’t hinder my decisions, my habits, and my daily joys.

I have always tried to smile at life, even though cancer had given me, to resist the excruciating pain of chemo, the suffering of seeing myself in the mirror without my long black hair and the unstoppable change in my body. Fighting, however, would not have been possible without the support of the people closest to me, who fought day and night at my side. Cancer made me understand who matters in my life, what it means to love a person and to be loved in the same way, to build a future with them after cancer; it highlighted the boundless love of a mother, a father, of a brother, of an aunt. Cancer also introduces you to a world of doctors and nurses who do everything they can to fight this terrible disease with you on the front line. It is not true that angels are found only in heaven; angels are found here, around us, and I was lucky to meet them. I am referring to the doctors who treated me. Without them, I would not have been able to overcome the evil attacking me; they picked me up and healed me with unimaginable care. I felt protected, cared for and above all, understood, and this is what is needed most by a person facing harsh oncological treatments. In this obstacle course, the women and men who faced the infamous chemo with me every Thursday had particular importance. I remember their eyes, looks, words, and the strength and courage we transmitted to each other to win our battle. Everything changes inside that room, and it’s as if you were living in a parallel world, incomprehensible to the eyes of those waiting for you outside. That place is now part of me and will always be, as are all the details that characterised it: the suffocating smell of disinfectant and chemotherapy drugs, the red colour of chemotherapy, the sound of the therapy machine and that strange sensation of fear mixed with a desire for life that enveloped me every time I lay down in the armchair.

It was March 23, 2021, when my life changed. Since then, a new Cristina has been born; there is a Cristina before and after cancer. Today, I am getting to know this new person; I am trying to manage her anxieties and fears linked to the discovery of the BRCA1 genetic mutation. Today, Cristina is on a boat in the middle of the calm sea; she is tired after fighting and overcoming the waves of the stormy sea. Cristina is there; she is rowing towards her island of happiness. There is no certainty about how long it will take to reach her, but one thing is certain: Cristina is rowing with all her energy against any weather.