Annie Belasco - Love and Remission: My Life, My Man, My Cancer

This book is for you, Sammy.

Thank you for putting my heart and my mind back together again.
I am so lucky to have you in my life.

Disclaimer: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the book are the authors own and are not representative of Breast Cancer Now.

Trigger encourages diversity and different viewpoints, and is dedicated to telling genuine stories of peoples experiences of mental health issues. However, all views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this book are the authors own, and are not necessarily representative of Trigger as an organisation.

YOU-KNOW-WHAT

Benidorm was booked for July 2009 and we had everything: tickets, accommodation, outfits, ego, and tan. One week of pure indulgence and prowling to find Mr Right. I was 25 years old and sick of being single. It had been three years and there wasnt a single sausage in sight. God knows how many frogs Id kissed, how many princes hadnt rescued me. When I was growing up, fairy tales had never mentioned that the prince would never text back. They never said Id be left in a state of constant anxiety just waiting for something.

Apparently, when youre a 30-year-old woman, the presumption is that you should be married and have kids hanging off you. I was 25 so, with five years to go, I was over the hill and an ugly stepsister.

But surely this was going to be my year. Right?

None of that mattered right now, though, because all I cared about was getting out of my bloody office and on an easyJet flight!

Your tan looks amazing, Lauren said on the way to the airport. Lauren was a close friend of mine. Wed met at secondary school and bonded over similar tastes in materialist possessions and aspirations. Wed been inseparable since and helped each other through life. I had signed up for one of those course things Id seen advertised around: one week of intensive get me sun-kissed sunbed sessions, UV rays, and eye goggles. I had been treating myself to sunbed sessions ever since I was 18, when Id crossed the legal threshold for being allowed to be fried in a booth. I practically lived in there.

It had become an essential part of my life. It was just so easy and accessible, like buying a pint of milk. I would nip out on a Sunday morning, lunch break or Friday night and go and get baked. Fake tan had never been enough for me; I needed a massive colour boost to try to bring some life to my skin. I would pay 30 quid and get as many minutes as I could cram into my lunch hour.

I worked as an IT Recruitment officer in North London, smack bang in the middle of it all, which meant that it was fairly easy to pop out, lie on the sunbed, soak up all the high-voltage UV rays, and forget about the rest of the world. I returned to work one shade of mahogany deeper every time. And I loved it. I loved all of it; my job, my family, my friends, my pokey little overpriced rented flat in East London. I also absolutely adored my social life. No, it was more than just adoration; I was dependent on it. I relied on it to get through each day at work. No matter how bad things got, whatever went wrong, I just knew that by 7pm that night, nothing would matter. I would have vodka, cigarettes, and my friends.

Benidorm was mine and Laurens own heaven. We loved the sun, the clubs, and the men. Our mission was to capture our dream men, to reel them in and bring them home, but we arrogantly expected them to find us first. We had our pick of men and were super popular at the resort young, obnoxious, and up for anything.

We ran out of money twice while we were away and had to make the pleading phone call for my dad to send more money over. We drank our weights in vodka, slept all day and partied all night. We met stag parties, married couples, divorcees, teenagers on first holidays, and terrified locals. We were only interested in the men, of course all of the other women were completely irrelevant.

After our fourth night on the town, we parked ourselves in a greasy spoon caf for some heavy food to soak up all the damage the binge-drinking had caused. We ordered fried breakfasts by pointing to a cartoon drawing of a fry-up. As a frying egg spat out fat on the grill across the table from us, I could see the chef mopping his brow while pouring more oil into the pan. How are you feeling about next Friday? Lauren asked me half-arsedly, her voice tinged with the pain of a good night.

For a moment, I had no idea what she was talking about. But then I remembered: that poky thing in my right breast.

A cyst. A bloody huge cyst. A week ago, Id come out of a sunbed booth, got in the shower, and saw it underneath the glowing UV light. I dont think I would have noticed it under normal lighting. It had started off big enough, but it got bigger and bigger with each passing day. By now it was larger than a golf ball, but not quite as big as a tennis ball.

JESUS, that is huge! Lauren had exclaimed when I suggested she inspect it. I didnt think that it could be anything too sinister. I was too young for anything major and had no other symptoms of illness, I told myself.

I had been to see my doctor a week after Id found it. I just needed to be reassured about it. After a lot of poking and prodding and questions about my family health history, my doctor suggested that the big lump need testing, because of the sheer, alarming size of it. He told me that, in relation to my age, the lump was not common. Finally, after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, he decided assertively that I needed an urgent referral. There would be a two-week wait, which was fine because it actually coincided with my pre-booked holiday. I did feel it was a bit over the top at the time. We werent on a first-name basis, but I saw this doctor regularly. I liked him. There was trust there, built through our constant meetings. He even threw a statistic at me as I was leaving: Theres a 70 per cent chance of it not being too serious. That was enough to reassure me, to let me enjoy my holiday without having it hang over me.

I had been through something like this before. Years ago, Id had a cyst on my thyroid and I had needed an operation. Id had two weeks off work and only four days to recover. I assumed it was something like this again. Maybe I was carrying another lump around with me but in my breast this time.

I was 100 per cent not in any way worried about it, not after what I had been through already. But I did want it to go because the lump was just there. Frequently on the plane, off the plane, in the hotel, in a bar, in a restaurant, on the beach I would find myself checking the cyst. Even when waking up, I would check it was still there, as though it might have magically disappeared in the night.

The fried egg had now been sizzling in what looked like six inches of animal fat for 15 minutes. The egg white was now entirely black, and the yolk completely disintegrated. Im not worried about Friday, I replied to Laurens question. I was completely convinced that it was nothing more than what had happened last time. It had to be. My breakfast plate was thrown down in front of me, the egg now unrecognisable after its torture in the heat. It was burnt to a crisp and a quarter of the original size. I didnt eat it. Our holiday came to an end, like all must. The holiday blues kicked in as we dragged our suitcases and exhausted bodies home. Home was my flat in Walthamstow, East London, which I shared with my friend Gudrun who, at this point, I had barely seen in weeks, due to the frantic nature of our work and social lives.

Our home was just how Id left it: cosmetics and chaos, products piled everywhere, hangers, empty cigarette packets, and a massive pile of washing-up. I sent a message to Mum to say we were back safe and that wed had a good time. No other details were needed. Dragging myself to bed, I fell asleep straight away. After trying to snooze off a weeks hangover in eight hours, my alarm went off just after 10am. It was my appointment for the cyst in my breast. I was irritated by this. I couldnt be bothered with all the messing about that would happen during the course of the investigation into this bloody lump. For a second, I contemplated not showing up, and then quickly changed my mind. Before I went on my well-deserved holiday, I had been for a mammogram followed by a long and bloody painful biopsy. Imagine having a shooting needle the size of a rolling pin firing into your breast. It had also been both physically and mentally draining, especially considering I had done it on my own. I hadnt told anyone I was going apart from Lauren, not even my mum.