The beginning

Maybe I should go back to the beginning. Back to before the diagnosis. Back to when life was relatively good.
It was Christmas 2004 and E. came as she usually did. She seemed to me a bit low, maybe a bit overweight, not her usual self. I wondered if it was to do with the boy friend, as he hadn't come. Maybe she would rather be with him for the holidays. I thought if she wanted to talk, she would.
I should have tackled it. She went back to London and off to the GP to have the symptom checked. He immediately sent her to see a hospital consultant who ordered a biopsy. Oh well, I thought, it's probably just cysts at her age. We have a family history of cysts. Shall I come, I asked. No, let's see what the results are. I didn't worry too much. But they asked her to come in again for the results. I went then. She'll be worried, even though it's nothing.
I arrived 22 February 2005 and we went straight to the hospital. Wait. The nurse called us in to see the breast surgeon. "I'm afraid it's cancer", she said. We were stunned. One usually fears the worst and it turns out all right. Why wasn't it happening that way?
She talked about doing the chemotherapy first and then surgery. It would have to be a mastectomy. Then radiation. "Let's get on with it" E. said.
We went home and cried. I told her "It will be all right but I don't want you to have to go through this. It should be me not you" "No" she said, "I would feel worse if it was you."