MY heart goes out to the Princess of Wales and her young family.
It takes immense courage to speak out so honestly and bravely at such a vulnerable time.
Sharing her own experience and reassuring those of us who have been touched by cancer that we are not alone is a powerful reminder of how we can pull together and support one another during the hardest of times.
Her heartfelt message makes me think back to my first diagnosis of breast cancer in 2010.
I was 39, my baby triplets were just six months old, far too young to be aware of what was going on.
My eldest son Jake was another matter, he was nearly seven, just a bit younger than Princess Charlotte.
He was Spiderman-obsessed, full of beans and blissfully unaware of what pain life can bring.
I thought long and hard about the best way to break the news to him that mummy was unwell.
Where to begin?
I had barely begun to absorb the news myself and could actually feel my heart break as I mentally rehearsed how to instigate a conversation that might alter my beautiful boy’s childhood forever.
I searched online and came across a book, ‘Mummy’s Lump’ by Gillian Forrest.
It seemed to strike the perfect balance of being reassuring, using non-frightening language, while being practical and informative at the same time.
When it came to having that conversation, I sat Jake down after school one day, and I put the book in front of us.
Together we turned the pages and I read the words aloud, I told him: “You’ve probably noticed lots of people coming to see us over the last week or two.
“You might have noticed mummy looking a bit worried or sad.
“I’ve actually got a lump in my breast as well but the doctors are going to give me lots of strong medicine to make the lump go away.”
Jake looked up at me, through his Harry Potter glasses, and it was hard to read what he was thinking.
I carried on: “The only thing is, the medicine is so strong that it’s going to make my hair fall out, so I might look a bit silly for a while.”
This was the bit I had been dreading, there could be no hiding or pretending, no ‘business as usual’ performance once chemo began, and its side effects took hold.
It’s worth noting here that the type of chemo I had was likely to mean I lost my hair, it’s not the same for all chemotherapy drugs.
Jake’s response? “Okay, mummy. Can I have a biscuit?”
I was slightly taken aback and incredibly relieved.
One of the many magical things about being a young child is their ability to absorb, adapt and live in the moment.
In his little world, he knew he would still be getting all the hugs, warmth, food, ‘I love yous’, his routine would go on, and that’s what mattered. My relief was palpable.
Fast forward to the end of 2014 and the devastation of my secondary diagnosis at the age of 43.
Jake was 11 – a year older than Prince George – and the triplets, Ella, Louis and Theo were just five, the same age as Prince Louis.
This time, I didn’t lose my hair so it felt a bit easier to explain that “mummy needs some more treatment”.
They were all at school on chemo days, and the subsequent recovery days I needed.
It gave me plenty of time to rest and I could just about ‘fake it to make it’ by the evenings and weekends came around.
Again, all four of them adapted by living in the present, and they seemed to come through it largely unscathed.
My third diagnosis came in 2019, I was 47. By this time, Jake was 15 and the triplets were nine.
On the day I got the news, I took Jake for a walk on his own and attempted to strike a balance between reassuring him that we’d get through this latest rough patch, while also trying to gently warn him the months ahead might be tough.
He was ashen faced at first, and very quiet.
He just listened as I veered between mumbling through wobbly lips to bright and breezy confidence.
I had barely begun to absorb the news myself and could actually feel my heart break as I mentally rehearsed how to instigate a conversation that might alter my beautiful boy’s childhood forever
Emma Campbell
As we left the park and headed home, he turned to me and said quietly: “Mum, you’ve just got to live like it’s not there.”
His wisdom stopped me in my tracks.
Five years on and soon-to-be 21, his compassion, care and sensitivity astounds me.
I am a cancer patient for life and my kids see me go off for treatment every three weeks.
They seem fine and not too weighed down by fear or worry.
In fact, I’m not sure they attach the same weight to the word cancer as so many of us do.
I’m well aware that the time may come when I have to sit them down once more and tell them of progression or poor prognosis.
But until that day, the open conversations, our version of ‘normal’ as a family, reassurance and showing them that a life with cancer does not mean the end is the very best I can give them.
Oh, and also – doing my best to “live like it’s not there”.
