When I was 11 years old, I was convinced my hair was falling out, and that it was a sign of cancer. Of course, my uneducated brain didn’t know that hair loss was a side effect of chemotherapy, and with hypochondria common in my family, my otherwise (and since) non-hypochondriac brain went into panic mode. I wore my hair up all the time, thinking it would keep it all together. My friend at the time, a full time panicker, supported these concerns with her own. She once thought her gums were turning black, and that her belly button was going to fall out.
But, with relief and no embarressment whatsoever, I realised that the ponytail was actually my enemy, and I was pulling it too tight.
I’ve never had concerns since then, until a week ago. I found a lump. No pain, no heat, no rash. But all the stuff about tumours and breast cancer I’d learned in human biology a level fell out my ears, and my stomach dropped like it was in an elevator. I couldn’t sleep all night, and the next morning my brain was filled with it at my desk. A battle between self assurance and what ifs. It’s nothing, there’s no pain or any of the symptoms from the NHS website. But what if it’s early stages? I can still catch it if I get a check up. But what if they say nothing can be done? I’d rather live my life without that ticking above my head reminding me that I only have limited time left.
Of course, we do have limited time. We are living things afterall, and living things don’t last forever. And I’ve had those moments of clarity at random times once every few months. But never before have I been so struck with it. We, as humans, are naturally predisposed to think it’ll never happen to me. But it might, and it was a lesson that was wretched as it was necessary.
Monday rolled around, and, after a week of scaring myself and a panic attack, I told someone, and went to get it checked. It’s funny; once I’d spoken about it I was okay. Acknowledgement was key, apparently. I even went back online to look up benign breast tumours such as fibroblastomas, which are very common occurrences. Very few become insidious.
But the chat with the doctor helped. After an examination she also told me about fibroblastomas and how that was probably a worst case scenario.
At the end of it, it has been a learning curve. I like to treat what I can as a learning curve, and I probably overuse the term to annoying levels. But it was. It taught me that it can happen, to anyone at any time. Regardless of family history, or how little alcohol you drink. I kept thinking about my old school teacher. He told us his mother brought a book that detailed everything that was known to increase the risk of cancer. Certain soaps, tins, all that. She cut everything she could out of her life style and swapped for safer options, and a year later she was diagnosed with early stage cancer.
It told me about checking, and being familiar with what shouldn’t be there, and what should. It also taught me about bravery. A large portion of the battle was to admit to myself that I needed to acknowledge it, if just to confirm to myself that nothing was wrong. Not everyone is that lucky.
But it’s worth getting it checked, if just for the peace of mind. It most likely is nothing. But wouldn’t you rather know?
Paint a Mental Picture 