Today’s blog has been written by Ahsen (@coffeeism_) who shares how she faced her own breast cancer journey at the young age of 27, whilst working as a research scientist.

How My Grandmother’s Cancer Shaped My Path from Scientist to Survivor  

Losing my babaanne, paternal grandmother, to contralateral breast cancer in my childhood was the biggest catalyst in my earning a PhD in molecular biology by the age of 25. Landing a postdoctoral research position in a research team I had been inspired by throughout my doctorate studies resulted in a swift move to Cambridge, and a shift in my research focus to early detection of oesophageal cancer. Leaving my social and professional circle in London felt like a drastic change, but I settled into my job and the quieter life in the English countryside before long. 

 

On the last day of work before the Christmas break, I had enough energy to do a HIIT workout when I got home. I was due to drive down to Kent to visit my parents the following morning, and was spending the night alone while my husband was away on a trip with his friends. As I stood under a warm rainfall of water, mindlessly scrubbing away the tiredness of the past year adapting to the expectations of a job, my hand froze upon brushing against an unfamiliar lump in my right breast. It felt like a small rock had wedged itself into the deeper quadrant of my breast overnight. I felt panic surge through me, and my first thought was my babaanne, and a terrifying conclusion flashed through my racing mind: breast cancer.

  

The GP was closed over Christmas, and being the rational scientist that I am, I decided not to tell my parents nor my husband about my discovery. I would have to wait until boxing day to call and plead for an emergency appointment, and until then I pushed my anxious thoughts to the back of my head. But pleading was not necessary. The moment the receptionist heard the words “breast lump”, she scheduled me in for an appointment the very next day. I finally told my husband, five days after I first stumbled upon the lump. Being an optimist who looks at life through a very positive window, he assured me that it couldn’t be anything serious and that 27 was much too young- the exact same logical argument that I had internally made for days. The gnawing doubt that had set roots in the deepest corner of my heart would not go away.

  

My GP was nice enough, examining me in a dignified way. Immediately noting that it felt quite large and hard, she didn’t seem at all concerned that it could be anything sinister, given my age and the fact that my family history of breast cancer was on my paternal side (the molecular biologist in me had major alarm bells ringing at this point, despite wanting to believe her assurances). She wanted to re-examine me the following week when I would be off my period, to see if the lump was still there, being worried that her referral might be rejected by the tertiary hospital since I apparently didn’t meet the criteria to be ‘high-risk’.

  

When I returned next week, the lump was of course, still there. At this point I disclosed my profession, that I worked in a research institute next to the hospital, and that I could hop over any time for a scan. She finally agreed to give me a two-week emergency referral. I received a letter in the post a few days later, and had my ultrasound appointment scheduled for 10 days later. The GP reassured me that they would just be doing an ultrasound to understand what was going on, but it was highly likely just a benign cyst- a fibroadenoma, that was frequently seen in young women.

  

My husband and I were both unbothered about my lump at this point, going about business as usual. I clung onto the GP’s false hope despite being unconvinced- she was a medic after all, and should know better than me even if I thought she was wrong. I ignored the presence of the mysterious object in my breast, and it sat quietly, not causing pain or any other symptoms.

  

My appointment at the breast unit was first thing in the morning which meant that I had a relatively short wait. We had not even discussed the possibility of my husband accompanying me to the hospital since it would be a quick scan and I would be on my merry way back to work. I was first seen by a specialist nurse, who repeated all the questions the GP had asked but had more detailed queries. She said I would soon be seen by a member of the radiography team who would perform an ultrasound, and if they were worried about something, they might take some biopsies.

  

Biopsies? My GP hadn’t mentioned anything about biopsies. I was led back into the waiting room which had become busier and echoed with the buzz of middle-aged white women and their partners coming for their breast screening mammogram. After an irritatingly long wait, a nurse in white uniform came out of the radiography corner to call me into a big, cold, dark room. I was met by the friendliest doctor inside, who told me, once again, that it would likely just be a quick scan, but they might take biopsies if they were unsure of anything.

 

 Apologising for how cold the gel was, she glided over my right breast with the ultrasound probe. She continued making small talk as she maneuvered around my breast tissue, asking what I did for a living. Then, her face suddenly dropped- her smile vanished, and her eyebrows became furrowed. Perhaps she was unaware that I was watching her face the whole time we spoke about my cancer research, or maybe she lost the ability to multi-task in the moment when she came face to face with my lump. She then asked if it would be okay for her to take some biopsies, and I accepted while panic rose up in my chest. They quickly rearranged the bed and swung me round to allow the left-handed radiographer to access the tray which had all her biopsy needles and anesthesia. Now my head was where my feet previously were, and I had perfect view of the screen. The ultrasound probe glided over my right breast once again, stopping when the lump came into view to formally introduce itself by staring me straight in the face, resembling a black hole with rugged edges waiting to expand, sucking in everything into its ominous abyss. I stared at the rugged black hole as the radiographer inserted the anesthetic needle into my breast, unbothered by the sharp pain. Then eventually everything became numb, and two biopsies were taken. She said I did very well, and that she would speak to me shortly.

  

The nurse in white led me back into the waiting area, only this time I was led into a private room with lavender print wallpaper and two depressing purple sofas. She asked if I would like a cup of tea, and quickly left to make it. Now I was really beginning to panic- why did they bring me to this quiet room as if to break bad news? I began frantically texting my husband again, who had also become worried upon my mention of biopsies and sent multiple messages during the time that I was getting scanned. The radiographer walked me through what she saw today, and how lumps of this kind could be three things: a fibroadenoma, a phyllodes tumour- a benign tumour that was harmless but still usually removed in case it developed into something malignant, or, a cancerous tumour. She dropped her head apologetically as she said the third possibility. Based on what she had seen, she thought it was more likely to be the phyllodes or invasive cancer. Tears streamed down my face in disbelief. I would see one of their surgeons next week, who would talk to me about the biopsy results after their multidisciplinary meeting. She said to bring someone with me that day.

  

The day they tell you “Im sorry but it’s cancer”, you sink into an unfamiliar abyss. This disease that you’ve spent years studying at a molecular level suddenly takes over your life en masse. A 3.9cm highly invasive malignant mass wedged into the middle of your life. You gain titles like strong and brave even though you feel anything but. You stumble through the intense pain and grief somehow, calling strength from within that you didn’t know you possessed. You are suddenly thrown into countless scans, biopsies and needles- oh so many needles. Yet, you never feel like it’s a battle that you’re fighting. Like many others, you were living your life frivolously, thinking life-threatening illness is something you go through at old age, but quickly learn that cancer does not discriminate. You see nobody your age at chemotherapy. The elderly patients smile at you sadly, and you exchange looks of understanding.

  

The scars of the past 9 months are permanent. Your body will never be the same. It will never function the same, look the same, or feel the same. YOU will never be the same. How can you? You are so much wiser. The disease that people thought you were fighting was actually a guest in the temporary house of your body. You host it with prayers and incredible life-saving drugs that modern medicine and a load of research has blessed you with. It moulds you into a softer, kinder person. It fills you with hope for humanity at a time when you thought there was no good left in the world. And then, when its job is done, it leaves you. You wave it goodbye with tears in your eyes, the same way you greeted it. Only this time, you’ve been lifted out of the well by Divine power, and feel as light as a bird. A wounded bird, but a bird nonetheless…

 

A few weeks after my diagnosis, I found out that my babaanne first got breast cancer at 30, was cured of it, but it came back 20 years later in the opposite breast. She later got ovarian cancer, and sadly died from that. Her sister and mother died of endometrial cancer. Three of her siblings, still alive and well into their late 70s and 80s, never got cancer. Seeing the genetic pattern, I was sure that I carried one of the germline breast cancer mutations, and my suspicions were confirmed via the PBCP study a few months later. 

 

Despite the immense challenges of the past year, I have now emerged out of active treatment and returned to full time work feeling more determined than ever to advance life-saving cancer research. My genetic diagnosis has provided crucial insight for other members of my family in making informed decisions about preventative measures. As I step into my 28th year, now in remission, the most profound lesson I have carried with me is the importance of living a life rooted in purpose and gratitude, stopping to cherish every small blessing along the way.  

Thank you so much for sharing your story with us Ahsen. We are sure it will help others facing a similar journey, move forward with positivity. Xx