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You know things are bad when flowers arrive. After the diagnosis is confirmed bunches of flowers arrive at the door. More than when my babies

And so begins two days of testing. They call it staging, in other words, how bad is it? Or, when will you die? First is

“I’m starting the chemotherapy now” says the nurse, interrupting me, my eyes closed, headphones deeply clamped to my ears, head freezing from a cold cap

Weaning has been hard. Very hard. On both of us. Things are easing, but this has been the hardest part so far. Tonight for the

My baby’s hands snake over my breasts like a lover’s, stroking and caressing. We dance together in this, our ritual, begun minutes after he was

“Your hair is beautiful Mummy” says Mr 6, as I strap him into the car in the evening light. “When the sun shines through it,

“I think you’ve got a breast cancer” said the radiologist, after she spread the sample she’d taken from my breast and lymph nodes on slides.

Washing in the shower, I feel a lump on my armpit. “Curious” I think, “That’s a lymph node”. I’ve never felt one there before. I

“Boobs…” said my five year old, leaning contentedly on my chest “are just pillows of milk.” I smiled, what a beautiful innocent thought. My breasts,