Nicola Rutherford
During chemotherapy, I lost my hair, including my eyebrows and eyelashes.
BBC Scotland journalist Nicola Rutherford talks about her experience of breast cancer treatment
I have breast cancer. It never gets easier to say that, or write about it. I still can’t believe it happened to me.
Last week I completed six months of chemotherapy, just days before Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, announced she had also completed cancer treatment.
During my 11 chemotherapy treatments, I lost my hair, had regular nosebleeds, and nearly overcame my fear of needles.
But life has continued as normal: I’ve been able to work reduced hours, take vacations with my family, and even see Taylor Swift’s “Eras” tour.
It is unclear what type of cancer Katherine had or the details of the medical treatment she received. All cancer patients receive treatment tailored to their illness.
All I can do is tell you how chemotherapy affected me.
Nicola Rutherford
The day after my chemotherapy treatment I went to Wembley with my teenage daughter.
Eight months ago, I was an ordinary married mother of two juggling a rewarding full-time job as a journalist with the normal duties of raising a child.
I started eating home-cooked meals, enjoying a few glasses of red wine on the weekends, and going for runs two or three times a week.
Healthy, fit, happy. Plays by the rules.
Then in early March, just before my 45th birthday, I found a lump in my right breast.
A few days later, after a mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy, doctors warned me that they highly suspected I had cancer.
One after the other, concerned-looking nurses and doctors told me not to worry until I had an official diagnosis.
That night, alone in my hotel room in Glasgow, I felt devastated. My mind was racing. I thought about loved ones I’d lost to cancer, I mentally wrote letters to my children and husband, and made plans for my funeral.
Nicola Rutherford
A few days after receiving my official diagnosis, I ran 10 kilometers with my sister.
The next few weeks were a constant stream of scans, tests and worries – and some really dark moments of despair.
You know that panicked feeling when you wake up after a horrible dream and your heart pounds in your chest? I always felt that way, and there was no relief in realizing it was just a nightmare.
I didn’t know whether I would live or die.
So when my oncologist used the words “curative intent” in a meeting to discuss treatment, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest.
That meant he had a good chance of curing me if he could shrink the cancer in my breast and lymph nodes with chemotherapy before surgically removing it, and then use radiation therapy to stop it coming back.
Around that time, before my treatment began, Prince Charles announced his cancer diagnosis. It was such a shock that I had to avoid the news for a few days.
Nicola Rutherford
I underwent two rounds of chemotherapy with cooling caps, but I still lost my hair.
I received my chemotherapy through a cannula in the back of my hand, along with about six other patients, on a ward at my local hospital in Dumfries.
You’re seated in a big purple chair, hooked up to an IV drip, given a never-ending supply of drinks and biscuits, and even given a foot massage.
It wasn’t painful but it wasn’t pleasant, the cooling cap used to protect my hair chilled me to the bone and the medicine made me sleepy.
By the end of treatment, going to the chemo clinic felt like going to see a friend: a caring, down-to-earth friend who loved sticking needles in my veins.
They remember your kids’ names, your job, your sense of humour, how you drink your tea – the things that really matter when you’re at your lowest.
Nicola Rutherford
Our greyhound takes me for a walk every day.
Having been assured by doctors before undergoing chemotherapy that the treatment “shouldn’t be terrible”, I remember initially comparing the side effects of my first treatment to the terrible hangover I once experienced in Benidorm.
But if that continues for days on end, and you forget the memories of having nights out with friends to make up for it, it quickly becomes boring.
I felt nauseous, sick, had headaches, and couldn’t sleep at night despite being extremely tired because of the steroids I had to take.
The breast cancer nurses had encouraged me to contact them or the National Cancer Helpline if I had any problems, but my mind was confused. My side effects were bad, but were they really that bad? Were my headaches bad enough to bother the nurses? I’d only felt sick once, so did the nurses need to know? Shouldn’t I just be patient and wait for the medicine to work?
Over the next few days, as the sickness subsided but the fatigue did not, I fell into a spiral of despair: I worried about my own death, my family, my children, I worried about my next round of chemotherapy.
Nicola Rutherford
A woolly hat and sunglasses were needed for a summer vacation to the East Coast.
My anti-nausea medication was changed and the nausea and headaches seemed to subside after the second treatment. I contacted my local Macmillan Cancer Information and Support Centre for help with my depression.
But there was little I could do about the fatigue.
I try to go for a walk every day because fresh air always makes me feel good, but what had been a 30-minute run just a few weeks earlier now tires me out.
Afternoon naps became the norm, I spent a lot of time sprawled out on the couch, and watched more episodes of the Australian version of Married at First Sight than I’d like to admit.
But by doing a little each day — ironing clothes, grocery shopping, meeting friends for coffee — I was well enough to go back to work by day seven of the 14-day cycle. It was the distraction I needed.
Then my hair started falling out. Although my hair had always been pretty short, it was still painful to find clumps of it in the shower, on my pillow, in my hat.
I shaved it off, but it started growing back at the end of July when I was switched to new, more manageable, lower-dose chemotherapy drugs.
I’ve decided to embrace the GI Jane look, but to be honest, I often forget about it – at least until I see myself in the mirror or feel the cool air on my scalp.
On top of that, my sense of taste has changed, I get nosebleeds every morning (hopefully that will go away soon), my fingernails have become brittle, my eyes water even with the slightest bit of wind, and my skin looks like it has aged about 20 years.
But I know I’m lucky. These are minor annoyances. I didn’t get to sit back and share my daughter’s excitement at finally seeing Taylor Swift live at Wembley Stadium, or my son’s delight at tumbling down giant sand dunes on a family trip.
The chemotherapy is working and the cancer has shrunk, but like Prince Charles, I still have a long way to go and many more treatments to come.
Nicola Rutherford
Another photo of us enjoying the Scottish summer
Katherine released a touching family video to announce the end of chemotherapy. This time, I knew I didn’t have to avoid the news. I watched the film, read the analysis, and resonated with her words.
It makes you truly appreciate the little things in life.
But I also began to feel grateful for the family and friends who went out of their way to help me – driving me to the hospital, stopping by for tea, stocking my fridge with food, and texting me to check in on how I was.
Now I want to make plans: go back to work full time, book some vacations, and make the most of this second chance.
If you or someone you know is affected by cancer, support is available from the BBC Action Line.
