In 2021 I followed my dream to move to the coast. We took the plunge, packed up our life, and moved to Pembrokeshire. And it was amazing. We’d spend our evenings swimming in the sea, having barbecues on the beach, and going on long walks. After a tough few years of health issues (I was diagnosed with lupus and kidney failure in 2017) it was the easy, calm, and happy life we’d been dreaming of.
But, a few months after making the big move, things got turned upside-down again. A mole on my leg had been bothering me for years. But I’d already been to see two doctors about it. They told me it was nothing to worry about. They said it was a benign tumour called a fibroma which may have been triggered by an insect bite. So I kept pushing it to the back of my mind. The doctors know best, right?
But, for some reason, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong. The mole kept getting bigger, started changing colour, and (as gross as it sounds) was starting to get crusty and itchy. I debated going back to the doctor but worried I was wasting their time.
A few weeks later I was working from home. It was a lovely sunny day and I was wearing a summer dress. As I sat back in my seat I looked down at my leg. The angry-looking mole stared back at me. I decided there and then to just bite the bullet and call my GP. Turns out that summer dress probably ended up saving my life.
As soon as I showed the GP her worried expression confirmed I’d made the right decision. She sent me to see a specialist who looked equally worried and wanted to book me in to have the mole removed.
Although I was worried I still didn’t let my mind wander to that dark place that told me it could be cancer. I kept telling myself: ‘It’s an insect bite but we’re just making sure’. So, when the specialist asked me to come in the following week for surgery I naively asked if it could be pushed back. It was my best friend’s 30th birthday and she’d been planning a big party for months.
The specialist looked me straight in the eye and told me I needed to have it done as soon as possible. At that point I knew in my heart it wasn’t just an insect bite.
The next few months passed in a blur. I went in for the surgery under local anaesthetic and the mole was popped in a test tube and sent off for a biopsy. I was booked in for a follow-up to get the results in a month or so.
A few weeks later I had a call asking me to come in sooner. The woman on the phone told me to bring someone with me. My stomach dropped and I knew exactly what they were going to say.
I felt like a scared little girl. What are they going to say? Who do I take with me? How am I going to tell people if it is cancer?
I decided to take my mum. Mostly because the thought of having to tell her myself was breaking my heart into a million pieces.
We walked into the appointment together. I knew straight away by the look on the doctor’s face what he was going to say. My heart hurt knowing what my mother was about to hear. She’s already been through so much pain and worry with me being diagnosed with lupus. My parents and fiancé have been so strong throughout it all but how are they all going to cope with this?
We sat down and the doctor started with: "There’s no easy way to say this." No s*** doc. There’s no easy way to hear it either so please just get it over with. He went on to explain how I had a malignant melanoma. It was stage 2B. It sounds bad. He told us not to Google it.
I noticed he didn’t use the word cancer. It was all medical terms. But I just wanted it straight. I asked him: "So, it’s cancer then?" And he replied: "Yes."
At that point I just went into survival mode. I couldn’t even cry. I avoided looking at my mum because I knew that would send me into a spiral. It was such a strange experience. So I sat upright in my seat and matter-of-factly said: "Okay, it’s cancer. What do we do now?"
We walked out of the hospital with a pile of Macmillan leaflets with pictures of cancer patients on the front. My dad was waiting in the car. In the same matter-of-fact tone I told him it was cancer. Unlike the doctor I decided to use the word. I didn’t want to be afraid of it. So I just used it. I then had to tell my fiancé and my friends and my parents had the awful task of telling my family. I don’t know how I would have coped without all the amazing people around me.
A few weeks later it was more surgery. Because my melanoma was so deep I had to have more skin removed around it. A lymph node biopsy would then determine my fate. If the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes, well, from what I could gather – it wouldn’t be good news.
I went to the radiotherapy department at Singleton Hospital and spent an hour under a huge nuclear scanner. They injected dye into my body and marked out the lymph node they were going to remove in my groin. I remember staring up and counting the ceiling tiles. I lost count a few times and started over – but it passed the time.
I then went to a different hospital in Port Talbot and had major surgery on my leg and my groin. Sitting in the waiting room before going in felt so bizarre. This Morning was on the TV and people were sitting around reading magazines like it was the most normal thing in the world. I think that helped me really. I kept telling myself: 'Look how normal all this is.'
I had the surgery. And then it was a waiting game.
That was the worst bit of the whole awful experience. Carrying on with normal life – getting up, making breakfast, doing chores – like I wasn’t waiting to hear, to put it bluntly, if I was going to die. I tried my best to be normal and strong but it hit me in waves. Every time I heard a sad song I wondered if it could be played at my funeral. One night a cancer storyline came up on TV and I started crying and just couldn’t stop.
A few weeks later I was called back in. The dread in my stomach was intense. It felt like, if I let it, it was going to consume me. I kept pushing those dark feelings back down and resumed my ‘matter-of-fact’ persona.
My mum wasn’t allowed in this time. So, I went in on my own. The doctor who performed the surgery – who was really lovely – explained that the operation was a success. She looked at me with a friendly face and told me the cancer hadn’t spread. The intense dread in my stomach turned into intense relief. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks.
Although it was good news the emotional trauma of going through a cancer scare doesn’t go away. I still get days where I feel overwhelming panic and anxiety.
I have to go for monitoring every three months for five years where they check all my moles. It’s funny – I never really noticed how many I had before. At the risk of sounding rude – my bum is absolutely covered in them!
And there is, of course, a chance the cancer could come back. Around one in 10 people who get a negative lymph node biopsy result still die within 10 years. But, thanks to the amazing NHS and that cheap summer dress I bought from Primark, I wasn’t one of the 3,200 people who died this year because of skin cancer and for that I am forever grateful and feel very lucky.
So please, I beg you, if you find a mole and have concerns – don’t put it off. Trust your instinct. Be one of the lucky ones like me.
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