Monday 16th September we were told the surgery I needed was a bilateral lumpectomy (basically removing both tumours from both breasts but at this stage not a mastectomy) – in this cancer game you learn to take the small victories as they come.

We were told the operation would be in 3-4 weeks, so we went home on the Monday and started to process the news and organise what needed to be done, including telling people.

I was busy working at my laptop on Wednesday 18th, preparing my team meeting, when the phone rang. It was the hospital ‘We have a date for your operation Mrs Blackwood, it’s next Tuesday 24th September’ – Holy shit, another smack in the face from Tyson Fury – I wish he’d bugger off. The date was exactly 8 days after we’d received the diagnosis.

Obviously, it’s fantastic that the NHS reacted so quickly and booked me in but to be honest the speed of it floored Dave and I even more than the news itself really. Was this just efficiency or was this more serious than either of us had really contemplated? Sometimes you just can’t stop your mind from working overtime.

I needed to let work know, tell the kids, Dave needed to book the 24th off work and we needed to sort the logistics for the day of the operation itself. I also had work that needed to be done.

We decided to tell the boys on Wednesday night. Since the news I had felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach pretty much constantly (and generally speaking I’m not an anxious person) and I attributed this to having to tell Max and Joe. We all know as parents that we’re probably messing our kids up one way or another, even if we’re trying our best not to, but I don’t think any parent ever wants to deliver news that is going to upset their equilibrium and that is difficult for them to understand.

I asked them to sit down as I needed to talk to them. They both say at their regular places at the table and I said, ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news boys’ to which Joe piped up ‘Is it something we’ve done?’ (bloody hilarious that they immediately think they’re in trouble) we laughed and said, ‘actually boys this time it’s not!’. Max then said, ‘Is it Grandad?’ (my Dad has been ill and was still in hospital at the time and I probably hadn’t realised Max had been worrying about him). ‘No, it’s not Grandad’ I answered, more relief from them. ‘I have Breast Cancer’ I said. I told them it wasn’t going to kill me (I know there are no guarantees, but I was prepared to make a guarantee for my boys’ peace of mind) and that I needed to have an operation to remove it and treat it.

Joe immediately burst into tears (he feels in the moment and wears his heart on his sleeve – just like me) which made me cry and then Max cry. We had a group hug which made us all feel better and then we talked a little bit more and I told them I would answer any questions they had. I felt relief when I’d been straight with them, whether we liked it or not, we were all in this together and would experience it together.

Pre-op was late Friday afternoon, a pretty simple process but enlightening as well. The lovely nurse who looked after me spent more time chatting to me and putting me at ease than she had an obligation to and I really appreciated it. The more time I spend with nurses the more I think they should be paid double what they are. She told me that afternoon ‘as far as cancers go, you’ve got one of the best’ (I’ll take that, another small victory) and by this she was referring to the amount of money spent on research and how successful treatments were these days. I agree with her, I would prefer this than brain cancer or bowel cancer.

It’s amazing how, when facing something bleak, you find the ability to seek out the positives and crack on.