My name is Rebecca. I live in Hertfordshire with my husband and two young daughters plus our very lazy cat. I used to be a teacher but took early retirement due to ill health.
I was first diagnosed with primary breast cancer in June 2021. I found a lump whilst breastfeeding my one-year-old. It was lockdown so support for new mums was limited. I was diagnosed with secondary breast cancer in my bones in 2022 following a routine PET scan which was supposed to mark the end of treatment. The cancer looks like it has recently spread to my liver.
I was initially told by my GP that it was nothing to worry about and was probably a blocked milk duct. When I was eventually referred for a scan, I was angry because they actually found three lumps, including in my armpit. I knew nothing about secondary breast cancer before my diagnosis. I had to give up work because I wanted all my energy to go on my girls and I really suffered with fatigue.
My youngest daughter was a toddler when I was diagnosed so she does not know any different. But my eldest, exacerbated by Covid, became extremely anxious and really
struggled to let me out of her sight. My husband is obviously worried about me but we try as a family to make the most of every day and to be positive.
I get most of my support from my immediate family, but also some wonderful friends
who cheer me up and watch out for me.
I started writing poetry in the summer of 2022, when the hospice I attended for a wellbeing course gave me a gratitude journal. Once I started, I could not stop! I share my experiences through poetry and an occasional blog, writing about growing up disabled and living with cancer, motherhood, mortality, relationships, loss and love. I hope to provide insight into the struggles and triumphs of daily life. I have had work published in national and international journals and anthologies.
I found Make 2nds Count through a Google search. I wanted to share my story and reach a wider audience of people experiencing the same things. I find hope in the advances I hear about in medical treatments and in the love of my two precious daughters, for whom I must keep living.
You can read Rebecca's poetry here: https://theseboobsweremadefortalking.co.uk/ or find her on @TheseBoobsWereMadeForTalking on Instagram
SANCTUARY
You are anchored to the bed
as a place of safety, your daughter says
Mummy, can you stroke my back until you’re too tired?
as she falls asleep.
She tells you to leave your hand
on her so she feels safe.
You cannot, will not leave her.
Safe. Funny that the bed
feels safe. The only place you allow
yourself to relax.
The space you long for
when exhaustion beckons.
This is the place
you fretted after surgery
unable to lie flat.
This is the place
you leaned out of to
vomit so many times.
This is the place
you soiled the sheets
as your body betrayed you.
This is the place your nails tore,
rash itched, lungs crackled,
hair littered the pillow.
At night you perform a dozen rituals
to cajole sleep into becoming your friend:
Earplugs and lotions and lip balm
and water and tissues and pillows.
Take a tablet if all else fails.
If you lie down you must not
start thinking. If you wake up
you must not start thinking.
Thoughts that seem kind will trick you
down rapists’ alleyways,
so that you wake hours later
sweat-drenched, exhausted, trembling,
hoping that the children are still alive.
And yet.
The soft sheets with faded stains tell a story.
The cushions remind you of newborns
propped against them who found sleep
when the birds began singing.
You listen to the rumble of cars outside
as life goes on just the same.
The midsummer breeze
ruffles your daughter’s hair.
A stretch of evening sun
warms the hand still resting on her back.
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