Salina's story

It wasn’t until June 2024 that I finally found the courage to see my doctor. I was relieved to get an appointment quickly. I went along not expecting much at all — after all, I couldn’t feel a lump. The GP I saw was a locum I hadn’t met before, but she was warm, reassuring, and thorough. Although she didn’t find any lumps, she agreed that the skin on my left breast puckered when I raised my arm. She referred me to the local breast clinic and told me they would see me within two weeks — and they did.

I arrived at the clinic feeling slightly nervous, mostly because I didn’t know what to expect. I assumed I’d have a mammogram, but at 45 I hadn’t had one before. The first examination mirrored the one with the GP — no lumps detected in either breast, but the same puckering on the left. Next came the mammogram. It was uncomfortable but straightforward. I waited calmly while they reviewed the images.

When they called me back to take another image of one breast, I still wasn’t concerned. That changed when they said they needed to mammogram the right breast — the one I hadn’t been worried about. I almost told the assistant she was scanning the wrong one. I returned to the waiting room again, and then was asked to go upstairs to speak with a consultant. He showed me the images. First, he pointed to my left breast and said everything looked fine. I felt an immediate wave of relief. Then he showed me the right. It’s a bit of a blur now, but he explained there were calcifications visible and that I would need a biopsy to determine whether it was cancer. He quickly performed an ultrasound to check my lymph nodes. Thankfully, they were clear. The two-week wait for the biopsy felt endless. I was still trying to process the fact that it was the opposite breast causing concern. I told only my husband and a few close friends. Deep down, I remained convinced the biopsy would be normal.

The biopsy appointment came and went, followed by another two-week wait for results. I’m a teacher, and my results appointment was scheduled for the morning before the end of term. I had planned to return to work afterwards and hadn’t brought anyone with me.

The consultant sat with a nurse and told me I had non-invasive breast cancer — DCIS. It was intermediate grade, hormone receptor positive, and would need to be removed using a wire-guided procedure.
I went into shock. I hadn’t expected this news at all.

DCIS is a condition where cancer cells are found in the milk ducts. “In situ” means the cells haven’t spread beyond those ducts, making it non-invasive. But those cells can change, and that risk is real.
When I began researching and sharing my diagnosis, I repeatedly heard DCIS described as “the good cancer” — the “best kind” to have, if you were going to have breast cancer at all. None of that felt true.
Many of us take swift, decisive action once diagnosed. We do what we can to protect our future health. Yet somehow, we can end up feeling like frauds — as though we aren’t “ill enough” to claim the space our diagnosis occupies.

But it’s not just about the diagnosis. It’s about grief. The grief of losing the sense of safety within your own body. My risk was real. My loss was real. I matter. And yes — life does go on.

Most women diagnosed with DCIS are treated with surgery, and some also receive radiotherapy or hormone therapy. For me, hormone treatment followed. I started my 5 year course of tamoxifen shortly after surgery. Despite many conversations with my oncologist, nothing truly prepared me for its effects. I was already perimenopausal; tamoxifen propelled me fully into menopause.

The hardest part wasn’t just the symptoms — it was accepting this new version of life. I hadn’t chosen it. I hadn’t prepared for it. Counselling, and acupuncture followed, along with venlafaxine to help manage severe night sweats and overwhelming anxiety.

Thankfully, I was surrounded by support. My friends both near and far were amazing in so many ways. 
Some of my friends had experienced breast cancer themselves, and I could speak openly with them about my feelings and symptoms. My family rallied around me. I have four aunts on my mum’s side and several female cousins — one of whom had also been through breast cancer. I felt held in love and gratitude.

Now, I’m in a place of acceptance. I can’t change what happened, and I know how fortunate I am. I was never someone who took life for granted, but now I hold it differently. I grab it with both hands and embrace all it has to offer.