Something happened today.
It was nothing major. It was nothing that had not happened before. But it is something that always makes me terribly uncomfortable, that makes me want to run home and hide under a blanket for a couple of hours.
As a result of my cancer and the surgery, my body is no longer producing the hormones that are essential to women under the normal age of the menopause. Because I was so young when my cancer was caught, and because it was diagnosed at such an early stage, I was prescribed hormone replacement therapy (HRT). Most women who have had endometrial cancer will not be given HRT, as oestrogen can increase the risk of recurrence in many hormone-driven cancers. In my case though, the benefits of taking HRT would far outweigh the risks, so I was offered to start treatment back in February. Since the start of the pandemic, that has meant monthly calls to the GP, who renews my prescription over the phone, and trips to the pharmacy to collect it. I will need to keep that up until I am 51, the average age where a woman reaches menopause naturally in the UK. That is a mere 23 years of treatment.
I am terrible at renewing prescriptions, so I have dozens of alarms on my phone. I miss them, I snooze them, I end up asking friends to remind me to re-order my prescription. It is not time-consuming – usually a 5-minute phone call to the GP and a 3-minute visit to the pharmacy do the trick. Sometimes though, it gets exhausting.
When I rang the GP last week, asking to renew my prescription, the receptionist asked me what medication I wanted to re-order. I gave her the name, and her immediate reply was ‘Oh, if it is for contraception, you will need to speak to a nurse.’ No, it is not a contraceptive – my body took care of that all on its own, thank you very much. ‘It’s not. It’s HRT, hormone replacement therapy.’ A pause. ‘Ok, I’ll speak to the doctor about this.’
It used to be a trigger. The reminder that I no longer need contraception used to drive me to tears. Now, I just close my eyes for a couple of seconds and breathe deeply.
I nipped out at lunch today to go and collect it from the pharmacy I have been going to since my diagnosis. I pushed the door and waited my turn. A few people in front of me, a chatty new pharmacist, it took longer than usual. Since I am not one to make small talk with strangers, I expected that once my turn came, it would be over much more quickly.
I gave my name, my date of birth. And the eyebrows of the pharmacist shot up above his mask. ‘Is it hormone replacement therapy you’re here to collect? Sorry, what was your date of birth?’ I gave it to him again. ‘That’s really young to be on HRT – who have you spoken to about it? Is it your GP or…’
I had just popped out to get my prescription on my lunch break. I was not ready to give anyone my life story.
I get that he was genuinely surprised. After all, it cannot be often that a 28-year-old woman comes into his pharmacy asking for HRT. But the way he said it, it felt like my right to get HRT was being questioned. I felt the need to justify myself, and so I did, feeling terribly uncomfortable whilst uttering the words. ‘Yeah. I had cancer, I had surgery, and I’m now on HRT’, I said it as quietly as I could, mindful of the people who had come into the pharmacy behind me. ‘But did you speak to your GP only, or did a gynaecologist…’ He was not being as careful as me, his voice was strong and loud. ‘Yeah, I went to a specialist menopause clinic.’
I was annoyed, I was ashamed. I am open about having had cancer, but it is my story to share. I write about it on this blog, I tell my friends about it, I have opened up to more people than I ever thought I would, and it is my choice, I do it in my own time, when I feel like it. At 13.20 today, out on my 30-minute lunch break, I was not ready to discuss it. And I was not ready for the people in line behind me to get front row seats to my life story. But I was forced to do it, because of his questions, because of how insistent he was, because I did not have the energy to stand up for myself.
He went to the back to fetch my prescription. From there, he shouted: ‘You are not also taking the patches, are you? Because sometimes they can interact and…’
‘No.’ Just let me pick up my prescription and go, please. I did not say that, but I wanted to run out of the pharmacy and back to the safety of my flat.
‘Ok, so here it is. What dosage are you on, oh, it’s two pumps a day, isn’t it. Oh yeah, I can see there it used to be one, and now it’s two, the prescription was updated… Oh, do you pay for your prescriptions, or do you have an exemption?’
I was about to say I was exempt, when he interrupted me again: ‘Oh, of course, if you had cancer you must have a medical exemption certificate. Let me check, yes, we have it on our system, valid until 2025!’
And once again for the people in the back?
I am a private person. When I decide to open up, it has to be on my terms. When I muster up the courage to tell people I have cancer, it has to be my choice. When I resolve to explain what treatment has done to my body, I want to be in a safe environment, not in a pharmacy, in front of strangers. Even the 6-feet rule does not prevent anyone from hearing what is said loud and clear by an over-enthusiastic pharmacist.
I could not have run out of there any faster. I signed my name at the bottom of the form, ticking the ‘medical exemption certificate box’, took my prescription and made it out within seconds. Was I rude? Maybe.
Mostly, I was shaken. Within ten minutes, I had felt judged, exposed and patronised. I do not need my health, my private life to be discussed in front of strangers when I am picking up a prescription. The people behind me could have been anyone. They could have been my neighbours. They could have been clients, they could have been colleagues. I felt naked, which is pretty incredible considering I was wearing two jumpers, one on top of the other. I felt like I had no control. I started shaking.
I know hearing about my case might surprise some people. They might have questions, they might have opinions. They might want to discuss it at length But it is my life, and I will share it according to my rules. Maybe tomorrow I will pop by the pharmacy again and give that man the link to my blog. If he has any questions, there is a time and place for them.
It is my cancer, and I have earned the right to control my story.