Testimonials

My grandmother had time to grow old, and breast cancer.

My mum died of ovarian cancer at the age of 58. It was in the early hours of 14 September 2007. She had been unconscious for a few days, but I think she put her last strength into getting past the 13th, the day I turned 33. She didn’t lack strength, willpower or courage for six years. We even thought she’d won. She so deserved it.

She found out that my sister and I were BRCA 1. We reassured her that we would be monitored and if there was cancer, it would be caught in time. Not like hers.

My sister was 30 and expecting her first child. I was single and going through a professional transition, which meant I could accompany my mother for the last few months. When she died, I jumped at a job 800 km away and arrived in Belgium. I contacted a gynaecologist I’d been referred to by the cancer centre I’d come from. On the phone, he painted a blunt picture: I was BRCA1, I was 33 and still had my breasts, I wanted children but I didn’t yet have a father… It was completely irresponsible, with statistics and cases he’d come across in his career to back it up! Luckily, I then met an extremely humane gynaecologist/senologist, who has been with me ever since.

I found the father of my children in Belgium! I quickly told him about the sword above my head. His reaction was to say that he might have one too, who knows? And then we asked the question: prenatal screening for a BRCA1 mutation was not authorised (this has since changed).

My sister announced her second pregnancy and I miscarried. When she gave birth in January 2011, I was pregnant again. After the first trimester, I told my employer about my pregnancy. I started to feel a stabbing pain in my right breast and a lump. We went from saying “it’s common during pregnancy, we’ll do a check-up as a precaution” to “we can treat you and you don’t have to choose between your health and your baby”. The sword fell at the end of the day and I had an appointment at the hospital the next morning. I was told it would take a year…

While the baby was developing, sheltered by the placenta, the tumour was being attacked by chemotherapy. Pregnancy photo session with scarf and wig. Baby carried me morally, calmed the nausea caused by the treatment, and arrived like a flower a little before the scheduled delivery date! Baby turned out to be a little girl weighing 2.5kg who is steadily climbing her growth curve. Described as a ray of sunshine at nursery school, she’s quick to catch on at school and does well in all sports. Today she’s a beautiful young lady with a full diary and list of contacts!

After she was born, I had the last session of chemotherapy and then the diseased breast was removed. Luckily, there was no need for radiation. I was able to go on with the preventive removal of the other breast and the fitting of temporary prostheses. I had my short haircut and my figure back, so I went back to work. Then came the third operation for the permanent prostheses. Almost 2 years had passed since the diagnosis… And then my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer.

History repeats itself, even though it’s a different type of cancer and the treatment is slightly different. She is coping, while remaining a mother (her children are 2 and 5) and carrying on with her professional life.

For my part, the medical team gave the go-ahead for a second pregnancy. It was important to give our daughter the chance to develop a unique bond with a sister or brother. In this case, it’s a little fellow who’s arriving for my 40th birthday.

Young mum at 40 – and menopausal at 41. In my head, it was all whippin, as the teenagers say now! It wasn’t easy to come to terms with the operation, but it was inconceivable that I’d let another sword hang over my head. My sister followed suit. The effects were a bit different for each of us, but on the whole we managed well.

My daughter is taking part in a study of children whose mothers were treated with chemotherapy during pregnancy. To gather new data, to advance science.

It is now recommended to check the pancreas from the age of 50. Another sword hanging over my head. The anxiety is still there – lurking, chilling, blocking.

But there’s also recognition – overflowing, warm, uplifting. I heard about the Bounce Back Festival organised on 12 October 2024 by the non-profit organisation Baob Brussels, a community dedicated to empowering women in the face of cancer. I met Martina, the founder of the BRCA network, whose family story is very similar to mine. So I decided to do my bit. As a tribute to Mum, and in solidarity with all those who are fighting for themselves or for others.