In my reckless youth, I used to go to gigs with my mates Danny Nadds and Bingo. When it was a quiet bit in between the songs - the artist sipping on his bottled water - the audience standing in anticipation, our favourite past time would be to dare each other to holler “Get your tits out!” Oh how we laughed. Little did I know, years later I would be getting my tits out on a regular basis.
Standing in the shower 2 months ago, my hands down by my side, my left hand suddenly became possessed. It was like ‘Thing’ from the freaking Adams Family. Zoom. It went straight to my right boob, and there I felt it. A lump. When I told the Doc about this he said often our bodies tell us when something is wrong. Spooky.
It’s a cyst said 3 doctors and an ultrasound later, but we’ll just do a biopsy to be sure. Come back in a week’s time for the results.
The walk from where I live in Peckham to Kings Hospital in Camberwell is lovely. The sun was shining and I was listening to Nick Mulvey and feeling all ‘everything is beautiful’ and wanky. The waiting room is full of anxious looking ladies, some with their husbands for support. I sit there drinking my nice cup of cold water and smile at a cute little kid climbing on the chair next to me. “Lara Honnor” I jump up, and follow the Doc. I realise I’ve left my empty cup on the floor and go back to pick it up, and then drop it and then pick it up again, and look for a bin and there is no bin so I sort of dance over to the Doc and follow him in. “Sorry have you got a bin I can put this in?” “Of course, thank you for asking, here you go.” Then, procrastination with a capital P kicks in for the next 5 minutes, “the doctor you saw last week was Asian wasn’t she?” (was she? cool!) “And then you saw a Welsh doctor who did your biopsy” (Um, ok, who gives a fook?! Why are you telling me this?) “Right, well, I’ve been looking at your notes, and…. and I’m afraid it’s not good news…….” And then he goes and drops the C Bomb. The absolute last thing I was expecting.
"I have no doubt I’ll get you through this but the next 6 months to a year are not going to be great I’m afraid. I can’t promise I can get you to 95 but I will do my best. Grade 3. Invasive. Chemotherapy. (Don’t cry Lara. Don’t fucking cry.) Radiotherapy. Your hair will fall out." “I don’t care about my hair, I’m an actor, I’ve always wanted to shave my head.” "Oh really? Okay… right… can I have a look at the lump?" I take my t-shirt and bra off and lie down. “This is so ironic, I’ve got the smallest breasts ever!” The poor Doc doesn’t know where to look or what to say, he laughs nervously, “I’m now going to look at your breast…um… purely in a medical way.”
As I leave he sees sparkles on my coat “Is it raining outside?” “No”. I ponder. “That’s glitter on my coat from the summer. From some festivals I went to.” (From the best summer ever.)
Next I’m led to the room of doom, the bad news room, with soft pink coloured arm chairs. I’m told my Breast Care nurse will be in soon. FUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
The lovely nurse comes in. She has a soft Dublin accent. I can’t remember a word she says except “would you like to stay for a bit and have a cup of tea?” “No, thank you.” “Do you have any questions?” “No, I’d just like to go if that’s OK.” (Don’t you dare fucking cry Lara.)
I speed out of the hospital. It’s pissing down with rain. NOW it’s okay to cry but I can’t! I’m trying to squeeze a tear out but it won’t come! I almost feel like punching myself in the head just to make myself cry!! I shelter from the rain in a hut in the middle of Ruskin Park. This is not real. Fuck I have to call my parents. Right this moment, not a single soul I know knows. How nice that must feel. I stare at two chubby squirrels burying their nuts. “NO, no, no you can’t have. You’re too young,” Mum is distraught. “You have to come home right now, we need to see you.” “Sorry mum but I can’t. I have to drive to Barnsley in a bit, I’m presenting the Ten Pin bowling for Sky Sports tomorrow.”
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