A cancer diagnosis is like being hit by a bus. You hear the words: I’m afraid it’s not good news and you think, is she talking to me? No matter how gently the medics break it to you or how much empathy they splash about, the realisation that your body has let you down and is playing its own nasty little game, silently trying to kill you, those words are the start of an ongoing drama you never imagined would completely encompass your body, life and mind, even though you read somewhere that one in two people get cancer today.

            Cancer of the endometrium, or for the uninitiated, womb cancer was what my body served up at the MRI and CT scans. How could my womb do this to me? Inside its dark, cosy interior it had nurtured four healthy babies, been slashed open during a caesarean section, healed itself and taken me through the menopause without too much hullaballoo.  Now, it was harbouring an evil baby; a large cancerous polyp that had to be removed sharpish, along with all the other bits that made me female, otherwise it would consume the rest of me. 

            My youngest daughter, who had bravely accompanied me to the pre-op meeting with the surgeon, took it all in her stride. Her youth and optimism was comforting. You need someone like that when the dreaded words are spoken and you see, for the first time, the CT picture of the invasion of abnormal cells in there, out to get you. 

            Telling other people is not so easy. Cancer is a word no-one really wants to hear. Getting too close to someone who has it, might rub off. Is it really not catching?  Despite the advances in treatment, it still means a painful death to many. But if you catch it early, you can be cured, though the medics say you will be in remission, which makes you feel as if you’ve just come out of the confessional with your soul temporarily starched and white again until you commit the next sin.

            No one tells you that when half your innards are removed you will feel crazy and emotional, as well as hurting. You are told you won’t feel like doing very much and you will need to rest for six to eight weeks, but they don’t tell you about the chronic constipation, the visions that wake you in the wee small hours, where you see yourself on your deathbed with blood seeping out of every orifice, and the sense that you will never be the same again.  It takes a lot of self-love and support from family and friends to see you through.

            That said, who in their right mind can fault the NHS and the amazing care you will receive, before, during and after the operation or procedure as it is politely referred to. Those people are saints; skilled and compassionate, professional and knowledgeable, they put our mealy-mouthed politicians to shame. 

            Pay our doctors and nurses and all who work with them what they deserve, Rishi! Access to excellent healthcare is the right of every citizen. To achieve this you must   adequately reward the people who make us well, without quibbling or talking nonsense to them.  If one in two people will get cancer, our representatives in parliament should realise that they are dicing with their own deaths by making our amazing NHS jump through hoops. It’s the NHS that defines Britain as a great country, not the divisive national conservatism that appears to be taking hold. Be warned!