A personal story about breast cancer

I knew firsthand what cancer is. My mom had cancer. When I was 25, she took me to an oncology clinic, and from then on I went there every year. Mom died in 2006 — from a relapse, as I thought at the time. Even so, I didn't have a habit of examining myself, of checking my breasts by touch.

Then I found something in my breast. I walked around with it for a week, thinking. And I realized: I need to go to the oncology clinic. I started getting examined.

It happened right before March 8 — there was a party at work, and I sobbed with the ladies from accounting, and we drank everything that wasn't nailed down. I didn't know the diagnosis yet, but I could feel it in my gut — this was it.

Recently I asked my husband what he actually felt back then. He said: uncertainty. What will happen to your mental state, what comes next, how long will you be out of it, will you be wailing and feeling sorry the whole time, what about work, how much money the treatment will cost — complete uncertainty.

I always say it's much harder for our loved ones. For us patients, the picture of the world gradually becomes clearer, but for our loved ones it's a total void. They don't know how to help us, how to cope themselves, how much money will be needed.

It's only now that I advise everyone to discuss everything with their family before treatment: agree on who does what, divide up the household chores, decide how to deal with the outside world — relatives, acquaintances and people who are simply curious. But I didn't have conversations like that.

I'd be knocked out for three days after chemo (who fed the kids, who walked the dog?). But everyone coped. I remember my husband asking back then, “So how are you?” And there's a fine line here: not telling him to get lost, and not playing the dying patient either.

I didn't have any special talks with my daughter. I didn't want to scare her with the fact that she was born into a family where her mom has cancer and her grandma had cancer. Everything just took its course.

As a psychologist says, if the atmosphere in the family is normal and no one makes a drama or a tragedy out of it, the child will most likely take it all normally too.

The only thing I remember is her fear: since mom went to the hospital, they'd cut something off her there. She asked me about it every time.

I liked that she wasn't embarrassed by me. Sometimes people hear things like “don't walk me there” or “a friend is coming over, put on a wig and put your breast in” — I never got anything like that.

Now she's 17, she makes her own decisions, and it's important to me that she pays attention to her health. Just recently we got her vaccinated against HPV.

In March 2016, I had a sectoral resection — that's removing not the whole mammary gland, but only the tumor with a small area of tissue around it.

Then the detailed test results came in, and I had a second operation: removal of the mammary gland along with the axillary lymph nodes. Then there was chemotherapy.

Five years later I was found to have a BRCA mutation — a mutation in this gene significantly increases the likelihood of breast cancer and ovarian cancer. And I chose to have my other breast removed.

So the first time my breast was removed because of the disease, and the second time preventively.

I had the chance to get what many girls dream of — an “aspiring size eight.” But that's not me. I decided not to have reconstruction. It's calmer and simpler for me this way.

For me, reconstruction means, above all, pain, surgeries, time. And what for? A different value emerges. People aren't loved for having an organ or not having it. The absence of a breast is easily disguised with an external prosthesis — it's a bra insert, a plastic pouch filled with silicone gel.

When I went to have my second breast removed, it was very important for me to talk to my family and tell them I wouldn't be getting plastic surgery. It was important that they support me and accept me and my opinion exactly as they are. We talk about everything and laugh. My husband said, “How are you going to wear a swimsuit now?” and I said, “Now I'm just like you, in swim trunks.”

It's been two years since my double mastectomy, and in all that time no one has pointed a finger at me or called me a boy.

I've always really liked standing out, being bright. Maybe that's why I didn't get plastic surgery — so as not to be like everyone else. Some kind of spirit of adventure, of anything goes: today you're alive, tomorrow you're not. If I used to keep quiet about something — not anymore. A photo didn't turn out — so what. Black — no, I don't want black, something brighter. Femininity isn't about having or not having breasts. I'll just wear that low neckline back to front!

My nipples were never an erogenous zone for me, so their absence didn't affect sex at all. And word has it that sensitivity doesn't come back to them anyway. After treatment I developed vaginal dryness and pain, but there's always lube on the nightstand (the main thing is not to mix up the tubes and grab the warming gel for your lower back).

At first I'd cover up, I'd wear a top, but my husband said, “Come on, at least take off the tank top, what's with you.” Or he'd move my hand away when I was covering my scars. And now I think — come on, how much of this life is left, you've got to enjoy it. Of course, it takes two. That's what partners are for — they work as a pair. We talk, we understand each other.

I worked on a flexible schedule and found out that decoupage workshops were held not far from my home. Women gather there; you don't know them, they don't know you; you sit and make something for about four hours. That was my time.

Support from loved ones is very important. I have a friend who's over seventy; she took my mom's place for me. She'd come over, cook something and say, “Sit down, dear!” Sometimes you need someone like that who'll give you a kick.

And five years ago I became a peer counselor* at a cancer support foundation, and then I set up a local community for another cancer support foundation. I help people who've just been diagnosed with cancer, and their loved ones.

I'm in the cancer topic 24/7. I couldn't have managed without my family's support. They help me and ask me to advise people they know.

The most important thing is to talk. Your partner doesn't know what you can or can't do; we get offended at him, and he lives with these thoughts of his.

What feels comfortable, what's uncomfortable, what's embarrassing, what's scary; touch this breast, don't press hard; what you feel, what I feel. And sometimes what matters isn't sex but attention, foreplay — being hugged, having your hand held, being taken to the movies. I wish everyone understanding and love. And of course, health.