Fuck.

Invasive, stage two.

Bastard.

How did this 'harmless cyst' become such a huge fucking deal? It wasn't supposed to work this way. Even my GP said so. 'Oh, it'll be nothing to worry about. Go and enjoy your holiday and it'll have disappeared by the time you get back.' So I did. And I forgot all about the supposedly-harmless lump, instead concerning myself with the celeb-spotting I could do in LA, and the margheritas I could sink in Mexico. Even when my lump popped out the side of my bikini, I blamed it on the number of nachos I'd been scoffing. It was hardly going to be anything to worry about, was it?

But a week after getting back, and it still hadn't buggered off. My GP said I could have it drained, but that they'd have to take a 'routine needle biopsy' at the same time which could be done in about six to eight weeks' time. Hang on there now – a biopsy? Eight weeks? 

Alarm bells.

Even though every part of me knew that the chances of breast cancer were super-slim (zero family history, no suspicious symptoms, twenty-fucking-eight), I knew it made sense to be seen privately for the biopsy to get a quick answer. And, short of saying 'yes' to P's marriage proposal, it was the best decision I've ever made. Within two days I'd had my needle biopsy. Within five, I'd had my diagnosis (I'm lucky that P was there with me to take it all in – I heard the words 'breast cancer' and the rest was white noise). And within just over a week, I was booked in for a mastectomy and knew exactly what I was up against.

Talk about post-holiday blues. My tan has never faded so fast.