On the first day of my holidays last year, I answered a number I didn’t recognise because I assumed it was work-related and I was keen to have everything wrapped up. It was my doctor, confirming some devastating news.
“Hi Em, it’s Gabrielle. I’ve got your biopsy results and I’m sorry, but it’s cancer.”
Like everyone who’s walked this path before me, my first thought was, “But I have plans.” See, this was meant to be my year. I absolutely love my job, and I’ve been working on some big stories that would see me win journalism awards. I’m healthier than I’ve been in a long time, and I didn’t know this was lurking in the background. My marriage is absolutely beautiful and my kids are thriving. I was going to take 2025 by storm.
Instead, I’ve got the smell of hospitals, a complete lack of control over my life and every time I think of work, I remember all the times I told Miss 10 to go away because I was busy.
There’s actually this moment when you walk from the carpark to the hospital doors, and there’s a split second before they open. In that moment, you are still on the outside – there’s warmth, sunlight and nature. Once the doors slide apart you are hit with a blast of cold, stale air, a waft of antiseptic and walls of white. That’s what this phone call felt like – one side was freedom, the other one a fight.
My doctor went on to tell me that even though this was caught late and it has spread, thankfully, I’ll be fine. There’s a really high survival rate, even at stage four.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
But I can’t help but think that lucky people don’t get cancer in their forties. Although I’m very grateful not to be fighting for my life, and my heart goes out to those who are, I don’t feel lucky. I feel scared, displaced and pretty angry, really.
But right now, as you’re reading this, I don’t feel anything – today is surgery day, and I’m in Sydney under the care of my brilliant surgeon. I’m excited and thankful to take this first step towards beating this thing. Then I’ll have time to rest and recover, and finally, we’ll finish it off with radiotherapy.
I knew that we couldn’t do this alone, so I reached out to my beautiful village, who responded immediately with love and support. The girls have been spoiled and made to feel special, we’ll come home to a month of dinners made for us, and there have been many coffee dates and safe shoulders to cry on when I needed to.
Our family and friends have stepped up to take care of my family so they can take care of me, and I can’t thank everyone enough for what they’re doing for us
I still don’t feel lucky, but I do feel so very loved.
