The beginning of my story is an ordinary night in April 1990. I was 19 years old and the oldest of three sisters. Our family sat around the dinner table just like any other night – except that night, my mum told us she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. It was stage 3c invasive lobular carcinoma and was bilateral (in both breasts) and throughout more than 22 lymph nodes.
Mum was 44 years old and had sought medical advice over at least 18 months—advising of pain and lumps in her breast. She had a history of very dense breast tissue and fibroadenoma growths. She had undergone mammograms, been checked by GP and a breast surgeon and had been cleared. They all missed her cancer. She was finally diagnosed by a specialist breast centre which she attended at the urging of my dad and her sister. The breast clinic immediately identified that there was something badly wrong and were quietly horrified at the delays.
On 23rd June 1993—after a three-year battle—we lost our beautiful, vibrant, wise, loving mum at 47 years old. Our world imploded and has never been the same since.
It was an ordinary night in June 2016 and I was at home with my two small children preparing dinner. My phone rang—it was my youngest sister—she was crying so hard that she couldn’t speak. I could only hear her sobbing. She eventually managed to tell me that her standard screening mammogram had shown something. She had gone to the appointment by herself and was trying to get home. The world went dark and all I could do was hold onto the phone. It was like the movies where the world falls away and you can’t see anything else clearly. I told her it would be fine. It would be nothing.
It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t nothing. It was Stage 2a Grade 3 triple positive invasive ductal carcinoma—breast cancer. She was only 42 years old. She went through hell and back for two years of multiple surgeries, chemo and treatments.
Today, she is now well and happy, and we could not be more grateful.
On 24th January 2024, it was just an ordinary day and I went for a standard annual mammogram—just a bit of life admin before a much-anticipated family holiday. I had been monitored by a senior breast surgeon for a number of years due to my family history. This time—a flurry of tests and biopsies ensued—and on 7th February 2024 I was diagnosed with Stage 0 Grade 3 breast cancer (also known as Ductal Carcinoma in Situ or DCIS).
DCIS is the earliest form of breast cancer—the cells within the breast ducts have become malignant and are rapidly multiplying (in my case)—however, the cancer is still contained in the breast duct and is pre-invasive.
At first, the lesion was thought to be relatively small—treatment plan was a lumpectomy and perhaps radiation. I was calm at that stage—although a little surprised at the mention of possible radiation. Seemed a bit… much… for such an early stage? Overall though—it didn’t sound that bad?
Subsequent screening MRI showed a much larger area of concern and my breast surgeon began to talk about a mastectomy.
I had an immediate visceral physical reaction to hearing that word and every cell in my body screamed NO!
I imagine news of any stage or type of cancer is like an atomic bomb going off in the life of most women. I can only imagine the trauma and distress of being so blindsided.
That was not the case for me. Subconsciously, I had been waiting for a diagnosis for over 30 years. The massive shock—for me—was not the diagnosis. It was the prescribed treatment plan. I had not anticipated that the earliest possible diagnosis could result in such intensive and invasive treatment.
My breast surgeon had booked me in for a lumpectomy surgery on 4th March 2024 to try to remove the cancerous lesion in my left breast. He was prepared to try the lumpectomy surgery to see whether he could excise the whole lesion without a mastectomy given my strong emotional resistance. I was far more nervous about the results than the procedure—anxious that the pathology would show invasive cancer. Hopeful that the lumpectomy would remove the cancerous lesion and spare me further surgery.
The lumpectomy pathology came back with 60mm of ER/PR- and HER2+ grade 3 DCIS with comedo necrosis, and LCIS (lobular carcinoma in situ) without clear margins. The strong medical recommendation was to proceed with a full mastectomy.
My heart shattered.
This has been a really hard thing to admit. Most women—very sensibly—are far more concerned about the disease although they may also have grief around the physical impacts. I was the opposite and completely devastated about the surgery and surprisingly nonplussed about the disease itself. That is certainly partly due to the good fortune of the encouraging prognosis for DCIS in comparison to invasive disease. The dichotomy of having a good prognosis and yet such a scorched earth treatment plan was very difficult to comprehend and accept.
I had another minor surgery with plastic surgeon no. 1 to test the tissue under my left nipple for reconstructive planning—unfortunately, this tissue was also positive for cancer and I was then told that I had to lose my nipple too, which was gut-wrenching. Another piece of me to be lost forever.
To make matters worse, I had an awful experience with plastic surgeon no. 1 during that process. He was cold, careless, and bordering on cruel.
I’m a born people-pleaser and a very compliant patient—to this day, I have no idea why he treated me this way. Perhaps he found my obvious anguish irritating given my good medical prognosis—I really don’t know.
It’s hard to describe the impact that such awful treatment had on me in an already vulnerable state. My entire treatment team and plan fell apart as I was waitlisted for an alternative plastic surgeon. I could not bring myself to ever see him again and did not return to his office—not even to get the results of the pathology from the surgery. My breast surgeon arranged to obtain the pathology from his office for me.
The looming spectre of the mastectomy surgery, the awful treatment by plastic surgeon no. 1, and the interminable delays in treatment all took their toll and my mental and emotional health began to really suffer. I started to lose quite a lot of weight under the emotional strain. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. These pre-surgery months were some of the most difficult of my life.
I sought the support of an onco-psychologist and would highly recommend this sort of support to anyone going through a cancer diagnosis.
Finally, I underwent a double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction on 10th July 2024. This was an intense surgery and I was fortunate to have a textbook recovery with no complications.
The mastectomy pathology found another 40mm of ER/PR- and HER2+ Grade 3 DCIS with comedo necrosis and bilateral LCIS—a total 100mm ductal carcinoma in situ lesion at the widest span. My breast surgeon has said that—accounting for my dense breast tissue, family history, and the extent and grade of the disease found—he is as certain as it is possible to be that my disease was on a pathway to progressing into an invasive cancer.
I try to hold onto that thought—that this surgery really may have saved my life and that all this trauma has been worth it.
I have since had a revision reconstructive surgery in April 2025—again, I have been very fortunate to have a wonderful aesthetic outcome by my kind, gifted, and meticulous plastic surgeon no. 2.
I feel very grateful for my physical outcome and also for my very good prognosis—even so, I am still finding the mental and emotional recovery difficult. It is hard to accept the unwanted changes to my body—the numbness and lack of sensation, ongoing pain—I am so unfamiliar and strange to myself.
I feel very alone in the breast cancer community—shuffling around the outskirts and knowing that I have no cause to complain or grieve given my excellent outcomes compared with so many others. I feel a lot of survivor’s guilt about having such a good prognosis in comparison with my mum and sister.
There is tremendous pressure on cancer patients to be relentlessly “positive”—I have utterly rejected this philosophy.
It was not at all in alignment with my actual feelings and felt dishonest to me to present that way publicly.
Sometimes I have been judged—found to be weak and disappointing because I haven’t taken the “positive thoughts only” path.
I have heard dismissive and invalidating comments—“they’re only breasts”, “your breasts don’t define you” or “at least you got a free boob job”—with painful regularity.
I’ve tried to be brave and vulnerable in sharing my real and sometimes uncomfortable feelings. Perhaps some patients genuinely find the “positive” road helpful to their overall well-being—but there are others who do not find the pressure to be positive supportive.
I wanted to tell my story so that any other women who feel the same way as I do or who have the same diagnosis might feel a little bit less alone.
I am slowly continuing to work my way through the storm and can see the light coming through the rain.
At Learn Look Locate, Tamara’s courageous battle against breast cancer touches our hearts deeply. We are honored to share survivors’ stories, offering a platform for survivors to come together, learn, and find solace in one another’s experiences. Through our diverse range of resources including Tamara’s survivor narrative, our mission is to empower individuals at every phase of their cancer journey. We proudly stand by Tamara and all those who demonstrate remarkable courage, celebrating their strength and reminding the world that hope shines brightest, even amidst life’s greatest trials.
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