My Breasts Could Kill Me
As you will know, my new documentary series starts tonight at 9pm on Sky ONE. My Breasts Could Kill Me, is all about breast cancer in young people. The following article is one that I wrote originally for Cosmopolitan but was recently published in the Sunday Times. Hopefully it will help you understand why this subject means so much to me. Dawn x
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My mum died at 12. 35pm on January 21, 1986; it was just two days before my seventh birthday.
She had been diagnosed a few years earlier and had had a mastectomy. But the all-clear that she was given wasn’t to be the case for long, because, in 1985, the cancer came back and spread to her lymph glands and then to her cervix. This is what eventually brought her life to an end.
I remember the moment that I was told she had died like it was yesterday. My sister, Jane, who was nine at the time, and I were at the house of my auntie and uncle — who were later to become our “parents”. We were tearing around and making lots of noise when my uncle (my mum’s brother) suddenly said: “Girls, come and sit down, there is something we need to tell you.” Still laughing, we sat either side of him on the sofa — me to his right, Jane to his left. “I am so sorry girls, Mummy died today,” he said. I instantly blurted out, “Ha-ha, very funny!” and then went to leap on my sister. He pulled me back down. I looked over to my Auntie Jane, who was sitting on an armchair opposite us, and saw a look in her eye that caused me to freeze. I don’t remember the rest of the evening.
I am not sure I cried again for a very long time after the night that my uncle told us she was dead. I always felt a little like my emotions were not as important as all the grown-ups’. I remember the frustration of not feeling like I could talk about it without upsetting somebody, as I was very aware that everyone else seemed to have more memories or seemed to know her better than I did. My sister was devastated, and was allowed two days longer off school than I was. I had to go back and cope with all the children in my class saying things like “We don’t believe you that your mum died” and “Did you see her when she was dead?”.
But I knew exactly what I had lost. I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and when she died I was left with a hole that I had no idea how to fill — and still don’t. I missed her cold winter lips and warm breath when she used to come in from work and wake me up from my nap with a kiss before she was too ill to work. I missed the wafts of Chanel No 5 I breathed in every time she walked into a room, and I missed her long, red nails, which she used to scratch my head. I missed scrubbing her back in the bath. Near the end, I missed peeling the skin off her body when she had been out in the sun too long and was lying in bed at the end of the day, wearing a turban because all her hair had fallen out. Most of all, I missed cuddling her and knowing that I was undoubtedly the center of her universe. I missed her so much, and every time I took a nap, I used to squeeze my eyes shut and pray that she would be there when I woke up.
My memories are few, but those I have are so clear. The one that I think about most is a day we were in the kitchen and she was crying. She said she had cramp in her toe. I made her come outside and lie on a sunbed, and then I sat between her legs and read her Jack and the Beanstalk — the best that I could at age six. She cried continuously. It was only a few years ago that I realised that she was probably crying because she had just found out that the cancer that she thought had been removed two years before was back, and this time it wasn’t going away.
During my teenage years, Mummy didn’t play as big a role in my life as you might think. I was so preoccupied with my friends and boys that I was pretty normal on those accounts. I do remember knowing I wanted to be like her, though. In the short time that I knew her she had made an impact on me that would be with me for life. I viewed her as this funny, sweet, quirky, flirty and soft-to-cuddle woman, who found love really easy to give. I have never met anyone since whom I think of as so perfect, so I try really hard to be like that myself. I hope one day I get the chance to be that person for somebody else. The idea of motherhood is becoming more important to me. But I would be lying if I said that my biggest fear of having a family isn’t suffering the same fate as her and not being around for my children.
People can be surprisingly cruel when you have suffered something so sad. I think my happy disposition and confidence used to flummox people. I could write a book on the mean things people have said to try and break me. I remember at drama school a teacher slammed me down in front of the entire class saying that I used humour to mask my “tragedy”. I was mortified by his presumption about how I had coped with my own loss. I had never felt tragic; I had always been happy, despite what had happened. My mum dying was a tragedy, but not mine. I never felt as if I was hard done by because I was still alive. I never made my experience of it worse than hers; she was the one who had lain on her deathbed at the age of 36.
Although it was devastating, her death made me into the person I am. I was taught a very hard lesson at a very early age that most people realise far too late — that life is brief and you have to make it count. I swore to myself that if my destiny was to be the same as hers, I would never be able to say that I hadn’t made the most of it. With this incentive behind me, I have striven forward. I reach out for things that people tell me I will never achieve, and I rarely stop until I have them. I find that so many people have negative attitudes and try to dissuade others from reaching for the unreachable. I just follow my gut and try to encourage other people to do the same. It is so easy to sit and wait for life to come to you and wallow in things when they go wrong, but, unfortunately, in most cases, that doesn’t get you very far.
People often say to me: “You are so brave.” I like it, because I feel brave. I got through something really tough, and ever since my life has been better and better. I feel like I can enjoy my life without living in fear of things going wrong. The confidence I gained from having to be there for myself set me up well, and I like who I have become very much.
I miss my mum more now than ever. I think the reasons for this are that I am about to turn 30, and in many ways I feel like my life is just beginning, but it was around now that hers began to end. I always wonder if we would have been close, if she would have supported me when I wanted to be a performer, if we would have shared clothes, gone on holiday together, spoken on the phone much, talked about boys, gone dancing — but who knows? I try not to speculate too much and just accept the way my life has turned out.
I do wish I wasn’t robbed of the opportunity to have that person in my life, but I was. So the best that I can do is to wish her well wherever she is, and promise myself that I will make the most of my own life, and always do her proud.
xx
This entry was posted on Monday, July 6th, 2009 at 4:21 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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July 6th, 2009 at 8:19 pm
Dawn, please take the opportunity to have a thermogram before you make any decisions about mastectomies ‘just in case’. Check the website. There is a way to see if there is any activity very early and then take measures to reduce your risk. No pain, no radiation, non-invasive. It’s worth checking everything before you make a decision. Good luck.