Cancer. It was one of those words which was thrown around daily. I saw advertisements on TV and read about it in magazines, but it all seemed to go in one ear and out of the other. Don’t get me wrong, I was very aware of cancer, I just didn't ever imagine I would be diagnosed with it. Ever. Especially at 30 years old.

I’m going to be very honest here because I want something good to come from my experience of living with cancer. I hope that other women might stumble upon this story and, who knows, be comforted by it? Learn a little from it? Whatever the outcome, I had some rough times and some amazing times, all because of cancer.

I guess I should start by saying this; I have always been fascinated with the power of the mind, the (scientifically proven) power the mind has over the body. 

My story begins in December 2014 when I was doing my grocery shopping. I suddenly had this weird urge to get a mammogram. I mean, it happened like it would in a cartoon. I was picking up broccoli and something very clear and assertive in my head said: “Get a mammogram.”

I stopped my trolley. I stood in the middle of the shop holding my broccoli, wondering where on earth that thought had come from. Did my body know something I didn't know? When I got home, I jumped online to see how much a mammogram would cost. The answer, of course, was too much to spend based on a strange message in my head. There were other things I needed to spend money on. It was almost Christmas. Besides, I had just turned 30. No one gets breast cancer at 30! 

“I was picking up broccoli and something very clear and assertive in my head said: “Get a mammogram.” 

Cut to January 2015, I went along for my annual smear test. (I told you, I’m not missing anything out!) The procedure is never fun. Ask any female. It’s intrusive and uncomfortable, but absolutely necessary. We were all done and I was on the way out of the door when I had a flash back of the broccoli moment. I asked the nurse there and then if I could have a mammogram on the NHS because I was concerned about breast cancer.

The first thing she asked me was if I had found a lump. At this point the answer was no, I hadn’t. But I explained that I had a funny feeling and also wasn't entirely sure what to look for. I asked if she would check quickly before I left. She said “Nurses don’t do that. You have to find a lump first and then we check for you.” She gestured to an old laminated poster on the wall with an illustration of a pastel pink woman with a hand on her breast. I’m sure there were instructions dotted around that image, but the only thing going through my head at that point was how ridiculous the situation was. My body was trying to tell me something and I needed to listen.

I went home and researched correct techniques for breast examination. I won't mess about here, it’s a chore. There are many reasons why women don't detect breast cancer sooner and I believe the primary reason is this, it takes time. There are all kinds of lumpy bits in the breast tissue and we aren't doctors or biologists. We don't have a clue what we’re feeling for! It takes practice to even get to a point where you start to recognise your boobs. More importantly, it’s scary. If you never manage to find the time, you'll never find a lump- and if you never find a lump, you’ll never have cancer, right? If only.

The first time I self-examined I lay down on the bed, following a diagram I had found online. I put one arm above my head and with the other hand attempted to slowly examine, with my index and middle finger, inch by inch, the tissue of my boob! It was odd. A bit of an anti-climax if I’m honest. I half expected to feel something immediately. I didn’t. There was nothing more I could do, so I tried to put it to the back of my mind.

Opening night of Miss Saigon at the Prince Edward Theatre, London

By May 2015, I was in the final week of rehearsals for Miss Saigon. I was playing Ellen, a role I had had my eye on for almost a year. I was in the West End cast and we were almost ready to open. Everything was great! Oh wait - that broccoli breast cancer thing… A few days before opening night I tried a different technique in the shower. It sounds pretty obvious now I realise, but it was a revelation then. That was it. Right arm up over my head. Left hand examining… F*!k, a lump. All I could think was how weird it would be if this was malignant. 

I called my doctor and told them I thought I’d found a lump. They made an emergency appointment for me the next day and after a very brief examination they sent me along to see a specialist. I opened in Miss Saigon a few days before my first appointment at London’s Charing Cross Hospital so I was exhausted from all the rehearsals and the nerves of opening a new show. I’d also just had an emotional weekend, but I will come to that later.

I had a 9am appointment on a Monday morning. I rolled out of bed, threw my warm comfy clothes on, left my empty, stark flat in Fulham and onto the 211 bus… I was early. I sat there on my own surrounded by piles of pamphlets and brochures about how to cope with hair loss and hormone treatments.

Finally I was seen. I was shown into a tiny sterile room to see the surgeon. He was quite friendly in his vocal tone but something about it all unnerved me. The words he used seemed over used and insincere. He examined me and I was sent back into the waiting room. By this time a few more ladies had arrived with partners and other female friends and relatives. I scanned the glass table in the centre of the tired waiting room for a magazine that looked like it might have been printed at least within the last 5 months before admitting defeat and pulling out my phone. No messages. 

My name was called.

You may not be surprised to hear that what came next was indeed a mammogram, followed by an ultrasound. I went back into the waiting room. I felt more human now after chatting with the nurses, but I had missed breakfast and I was starting to get hungry and impatient.

The surgeon invited me back into his room. He was a little concerned and wanted to carry out a biopsy of the growth in question. I was sent straight into a tiny room with a lot of equipment and asked to remove my top and bra and lie on the bed. As I did so, I chatted to the two female nurses. I don't remember many people in this story so far, but I do remember the way these two ladies made me feel. They must see hundreds of women on that bed and they supported me in every way they could. The only reason you are on this bed in the first place is because you have gone through, what feels like, a very fast yet unquestionably extensive series of examinations and tests. These nurses know the chances of you leaving that room without a cancer diagnosis is minimal.

I lay on my left side. One nurse asked me what I did for a job. I told her about Miss Saigon. I remember her being impressed and saying she'd love to come and watch. The other nurse explained that there would be quite an uncomfortable sensation as the local anaesthetic was injected into the area. It seemed clear to me at this point that one lady was there to carry out the procedure, and the other was there to support me.

As the procedure continued, the first nurse held my hand and asked if I had a boyfriend, I told them we had broken up two days prior. I had moved all of my things out of his place over the weekend. Yeah, you could say the timing could have been better. 

My walk to the theatre after the first day of tests.

I was facing the wall which made all of this feel surreal. I was having a conversation about opening in a musical, breaking up with my boyfriend, moving into an empty flat, the whole time never once making eye contact with these two lovely women while I was having a procedure to see if I had cancer. While we were waiting for the anaesthetic to do its thing, they explained what the biopsy would feel like.

All I can say is I see where the term “feels a bit like a stapler” comes from, in that it sounds and feels like an industrial hydraulic staple gun piercing the skin and extracting tissue with it. Bang! That kind of pain is tricky to deal with. It was at that point I could just sense the ladies behind me communicating silently to each other so as not to worry me or upset me anymore. I felt their helplessness in the way they assured me that everything would be OK. Then there it went again, the second staple gun. Bang! 

I guess it was the pain, along with the “I might have cancer” thought, mixed with, well, everything else that just tipped me over the edge. Being brave is useful sometimes but now I just wanted my Mum. I started to cry. Yep. Balled my eyes out. Why was I there alone?

 The bus journey home was uncomfortable. I remember they had attached a massive dressing to the area which looked and felt like a big sanitary towel! I had errands to run before I headed to the theatre and I remember texting our wonderful costume supervisor Jess ahead of time to let her know that my costume might have to be looked at to make sure this unsightly pad wasn’t seen from the audience. 

The show went well. I was happy that I’d listened to that little voice in my head and was closer to finding out what was going on. I felt strangely content and in control at that point and everyone at the theatre was positive and so upbeat. “It’s great that they’re checking this out.” “I’m certain it’s nothing, Siobhan. You’re too young for anything like that.” “You’re going to be absolutely fine.”.. It continued during most of my breaks side of stage and in the dressing room. People seemed to be smiling more and being generally more chatty. 

Cut to Thursday evening. 10:30pm. The show had finished and I was in my dressing room ready to head home when Katy (Bryant- our incredible company manager) came in to ask how I was feeling. I have to mention at this point that Katy Bryant won ‘company manager of the year’ for a reason. She was absolutely incredible throughout this whole ordeal. She asked if I’d like her to come with me in the morning to get my results. It was an early appointment so I assured her I would be fine on my own. I didn’t want anyone else to have to deal with such an early wake up call!

So there I was again… 8:30am. Alone. Staring at the same “How to deal with your Cancer diagnosis” pamphlets stacked in front of me. The room wasn’t as interesting to me that day. I scanned the area in a daze. I was more absent minded and I can see clearly now, that was the beginning of a somewhat nonchalant attitude I seemed to adopt by accident, quite effortlessly for the duration of my treatment. Was it denial? A surprising sort of new found wisdom? A deep sense of knowing? I think, in hindsight it was a concoction of them all. 

A nurse from last week appeared in a doorway. I remembered her face but I don’t think we spoke. She called my name. 

Okie dokie. The moment of truth. 

“Did you bring anyone with you, Siobhan?”

I explained that I’d told my friends that I was more than capable and would be absolutely fine no matter what the outcome. -- She stared at me. For a nano second too long. Terrible poker face. After a moment she ushered me into the tiny sterile room. Pale blue and white walls, adorned with examination bed, boxes of latex gloves, white curtain, small desk… you know the scene. She looked to the surgeon who was sitting at that desk with his back to me. He was typing something on the computer. I sat down on the blue plastic seat that was pointed out to me and felt impatience and irritation brewing.

The nurse lowered herself down slowly into her own plastic chair never taking her eyes off me. Again, that poker face.

“Ok, Siobhan [I’d never heard that particular pronunciation before. I didn’t offer an alternative] 

“How are you feeling?.. Did you bring anyone with you?” I smiled a closed smile and shook my head. Still no. I wasn’t being rude - not intentionally. I just wanted the news.

I had to, at this point assure them both, again that I was perfectly capable of handling whatever news thay had for me and to please just tell me what the diagnosis was. Yeah, I found it hard sitting around waiting. He pushed his chair out slightly from under the desk with a dull scraping sound that echoed around what felt like, the entire hospital and looked at me blankly. He pursed his lips. These poker faces...

“OK, so [I might be mis-quoting here but this was the jist]... Siobhan, I’m afraid the tumor is malignant.”

At which point everything in my world sort of slowed down. 

I looked to the nurse. I looked back to the surgeon. It was almost as if in their script they had Pause for tears as the suggested writers direction. I felt patronised. I needed to know what would happen next. I didn’t want them to feel sorry for me or witness my breakdown. I’d do that later. Bursting into tears now would be so predictable. It would be me giving in to the shock and horror of it and I needed to get all the facts first. It wouldn’t help anyone now to cry. “I bet everyone cries now... I won’t” I thought. But I asked the nurse to pass me the box of tissues - “...Just in case.”

I think my abrupt response and lack of emotion threw him. “Ok. Yes, of course. So here’s what we’re going to do…” He started telling me about the lumpectomy they would schedule for me within the following weeks and went on to describe the chances of other treatments such as radiotherapy, chemotherapy and hormone treatments. The necessity of which could only be determined after the tumor was removed and they could see the type and extent of the cancer growth from examining the lymph nodes etc. 

“Now you might not recall everything that we speak about now so you can go away in a moment with the nurse and she will give you some information to take home to your ...partner? [Nope. There’s no one at home. I live alone.. Never mind] Sure enough I don’t remember any details of what was said or in fact what I did for the next two hours. I do remember being led into another room by a friendly nurse which was a lot more comfortable than the last. I have no idea what we spoke about and I also have no idea who the nurse was or how long we spoke for. I remember wiping away inconvenient tears that sneaked out of my eyes caused by this overriding feeling that my life had just changed forever. I was on a runaway train hurtling towards someone else’s life and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. My future looked like hospitals, operations, radiotherapy and chemotherapy. Oh, and ten years of hormone treatment- which would, among other things, essentially switch off my ovaries and put me through the menopause. 

Didn’t feel so cocky now did I. But that was the thing. I was right. That was exactly the news I had expected… Doesn’t mean it actually had to become my reality though did it. It was one thing revelling in the brilliance of my intuition and the intelligence of the ‘subtle body’ and my connection to it- but it was a very different matter being faced with the reality of breast cancer. Fuck my life.

A whole spectrum of emotions coloured my day. When I left the hospital I sat on the bus half wanting to sob like a baby and half wanting to tell every single person I saw that I had just been diagnosed with cancer. Because I was so confused. I didn’t know how I was supposed to process this information. But I wasn’t crying. Why wasn’t I crying? What’s the matter with me? I was numb.

Alone. I text one of my friends who’d offered to come with me.

“Hey… So I have Cancer :-(

All good though. Could you meet me later in town?”

( “All good though”???? )

Very soon after that I remember I felt a weird sense of being so grateful and lucky. I mean, up until this point I hadn’t had anything bad happen to me and so it actually sort of made sense that I would be faced with something like this. I had a very real sense of peace about it. Like I deserved something horrible to balance out the years of joy in my life that had preceded this. It was almost as if I was shrugging it off with a real understanding of the bigger picture. If that was the case, I don’t know where it came from. Perhaps the most plausible reason would be delusion or denial. Perhaps.

I got to the theatre early. Katy, our wonderful company manager met me in my dressing room. She knocked and walked in with an expectant “See! I told you” look. She paused a moment, reading my face. I tried to tell her that I had cancer but I couldn’t finish the sentence. She already had her arms around me. That was when I really cried. My legs were giving way as she supported me and she continued to support me in every way that she possibly could for the months that followed. The whole Miss Saigon company was incredible throughout. There are many advantages to being part of a theatre company and one of the main ones is that you gain a family for the duration of the contract and if you’re really lucky, you keep a few of those people close when it all comes to an end. 

I performed in the show that night and both shows the following day. I remember waking up on that Saturday morning and as the reality dawned on me, calmly overriding any feelings of sadness or defeat. In actual fact, I vividly remember traveling to the theatre with a really intense feeling of strength, power and optimism. This was not going to consume me. I felt courage and so much support from friends which gave me a sort of emotional armour to face the days ahead.

My parents were coming down from Staffordshire to see me in the show that evening and the most morbid thing about all of this is that I didn’t tell them my news until the show was over because I wasn’t sure if that would be the last show they’d see me in. 

I went for a drink with them after the show and when the time was right explained my diagnosis to them. My Dad went silent as he began to process his daughter's news. My Mum immediately said she’d come down to London to stay with me and that we’d face it all together. Both of these wonderful people instantly snapped into ‘action’ mode.  

I took time off. I went back up to Lichfield with them that Sunday and prepared for the lumpectomy that was looming.

The following weeks were tough. I was fiercely independent and wanted to be in my home in London, alone. I had also chosen to undertake a renovation too which at times had me sleeping on a blow up mattress with no floorboards, heat or running water! My parents wanted me at their home to look after me. I felt like I needed to carry on working, yet everyone in my life - including the doctors- advised me to stop. To rest. To take time to let it all sink in and to deal with it in my own way. Especially after the operation. It was challenging for so many reasons but most significantly letting go was the hardest thing to do. Letting other people help. Allowing people to care for me. It felt strange. I felt lazy! 

I then flew straight into a period of time where I had started taking hormones. These hormones made my body feel like it was going through the menopause. It wasn’t fun. 

I was having heart palpitations, panic attacks, hot sweats, mood swings, depression, complete irrational thinking and an inability to think clearly- amongst other things! I spent one week with a heart monitor strapped to my chest. Day and night negotiating long, thick, grey, springy, rubber coated wires around my torso to keep track of my heart beats. Just establishing whether the fluttering and shortness of breath was anything to worry about or if it was in fact a “normal” side effect that I would have to get used to.

I once lay on my bed whilst having what turned out to be one of these irregular heartbeat episodes staring at my mobile phone trying to work out if I should call emergency services or not. I didn’t want to bother them but the tightness in my chest and my racing heartbeat was… Let’s say, a concern!

I think maybe it was the combination of these side effects, along with recovery from the lumpectomy in addition to living with my parents and also of course just having been diagnosed with cancer that made me feel a little bit like an emotional wreckage in a washing machine! The side effects of these drugs are nothing short of horrendous and frankly for me, it was this aspect of my treatment that scarred me the most. 

I had to come off the medication. Not only because my quality of life was so significantly disturbed but also because in the end, it actually only decreased my chances of cancer recurrence by 2%. Not worth the pain.

That said, a lot of positive, life changing things came out of it. I found meditation and sound healing (which I now teach in person and online), I uncovered a deeper understanding of what made me happy- and what I finally came to realise was the life I was living before just didn’t make me happy. It wasn’t necessarily what I was doing. It was the way I was doing it. My life was packed with wonderful things but I didn’t take time to notice. I had been blindsided with this life changing disease and all for the better. I started noticing beauty in the most obscure places. I started really deeply listening to people and taking real time to understand their stories. I was able to see who my real friends were and have in this process, subsequently nurtured friendships with people I used to have a close bond with before ‘life got in the way’ and equally let other more stressful relationships go. Releasing my grip on these things simultaneously lifted huge weight off my shoulders too. The funny thing is, I realised quite quickly the importance of self care not only for specific physical healing but emotional healing and the way that impacts our bodies on a cellular level. If we can quieten our minds a little bit we can start to receive messages from our bodies telling us exactly where our imbalances are and usually what - or who - is causing them. The most liberating thing one can ever do is act on those recurring feelings, investigate through deep listening and meditation and make positive changes. There is a form of mindful meditation called ‘Metta’ or ‘Loving Kindness’ which focuses on…. Yep, Love and kindness. I urge anyone reading this to have a quick search on Youtube and find a Loving Kindness meditation. Try it every day for 2 weeks then, if you benefit from the practice please tell everyone you know how it affected your life and state of mind. Because I have no doubt that it will impact your life in profoundly positive ways.

When you’re coming from a place of loving self care the sort of relationships that you suspect are more toxic than beneficial surely start to fall away. The job you do because it pays well or seems like a good career move rather than filling up your heart feels more taxing, perhaps less enjoyable and not energising. The less aligned these things are with your true self, the less likely they are to stick around. It’s fascinating watching this happen and I’m sure it will start to happen more and more. Things that don’t make you happy will start to fall away or disappear. There might be people in your life that you find difficult to communicate with. Watch how much easier your relationship becomes when you regularly practice Loving Kindness with them in mind. Ultimately the great things you experience in your day to day life start to feel greater because suddenly you’re aware and in tune with what ‘makes you tick’ or what ‘lights you up’. You start paying attention to how you feel in every given moment. Whether it’s good or bad. Every realisation takes you one step closer to happiness and more importantly, one step closer to being awake. Being present. You’re less likely to run the rat race and more likely to stop and smell the roses. One step closer to your authentic self and therefore living a joyous life full of gratitude and love. This realisation started for me when I read Rebecca Campbell’s book ‘Light is the new black’. 

During that summer of 2015 I stayed in a beautiful house in Montpellier, South of France with my Mum and Dad to recuperate and get my head straight. It started to become clearer. The fog was lifting. 

I decided to speak openly and honestly to whomever wanted to know about my experiences because I needed to share my story. I wanted people with breast cancer to feel like there was at least one person speaking openly about their experience and also, perhaps more importantly at that time, I needed to do it for my own personal growth. I needed to be vulnerable and bare all as in many ways this was a rebirth. Part of me did die and I’m very okay with that as I see now another part of me was born and continues to grow and evolve. When I moved out to LA I stepped straight into all kinds of different modalities of meditation. I studied Transcendental Meditation, Kundalini Yoga and Meditation, Metta, Yoga Nidra, Mindfulness, Sound Healing and Tantric meditation. It seemed that the obvious next step was to take the exhilarating leap into meditation teacher training! Here I am almost 5 years on with qualifications, an online community and hundreds of recorded classes online! I feel very passionately about meditation and helping others heal themselves the way I did and continue to do with a daily meditation practice- especially sound meditation. It’s the reason why I started and continue to run live classes for my SALUS Community. My Meditation Website is www.SALUSmeditation.com. The company is still very new so please do sign up for our newsletters to learn about the Membership program I run. It includes weekly live online classes along with access to more than 30 recorded meditations that I update each week. There is a contact form on there too in case you’d like to contact me directly.

Thank you so much for reading. 

With love,

Siobhan x