Or how it is still taboo to speak about endometrial cancer, when almost half of the world population has, or has had, a womb at some point in their lives.
After my cancer diagnosis, I only shared the news with a few people I trusted. I did not post anything on social media for over three months, I avoided any mention of my health or anything that could suggest something was wrong. And then, one day, more than a month after surgery, I decided to take the plunge. It was late in January 2020, I had just registered for the Shine Night Walk, a charity walk through London that was supposed to take place this September. I had set up a fundraising page to collect donations for Cancer Research, and I decided that I would share my story on it – it felt like a safe place.
For the first time that night, I posted on social media about my cancer – sharing the link to my fundraising page and a long text about my own personal battle with cancer. I wrote in English, and I wrote in French too, fighting against myself to find the right words.
It was a very private post. I wrote that I had had womb cancer, and that I had been lucky enough to only have needed surgery to get rid of it (fingers crossed). There was no mention of a hysterectomy, no mention of my reproductive organs, no mention of how it would affect my hormones or my body going forward.
I received a lot of support. So many messages started pouring in, so many well-wishers and concerned friends. When people messaged me separately, sharing their concern and checking up on me, I gave them more details about what had happened, but only if they asked.
It was very early in my grieving process. I had not really come to terms with what had happened yet, so I was not able to put it into words like I can today (not that I claim to have fully come to terms with it, not yet, not quite). However, I now realise that was only part of the reason why I did not give more details at the time.
There are some cancers that are widely understood. The ones that are often represented in mainstream media. There are visible cancers, there are the scary ones, there are the ones you cannot hide. And then there are the ones like mine, that people cannot see. The ones where you have no obvious physical proof that you have cancer – at least not at first glance. And then there are also the cancers that make people uncomfortable, because they feel they should stay private.
When I first shared the link to this blog, I received a message from a friend, who had only learnt about my cancer right there and then. That person was shocked and supportive. We spoke, and they asked why I had decided to share such private details about my body with the world, and whether I had considered that talking about my womb might make some people uncomfortable. The person who asked that question was a man.
The question was not meant in a rude way at all, he was not trying to be malicious. It was simple curiosity, and I answered it as honestly as I could. It did not come out of the blue, it was one of many questions he asked, because he was a bit taken aback by my decision to share details about something that is usually kept quiet. He wanted to understand why. It did not feel great to be questioned like that, but I understand where he was coming from.
There is an element of shame attached to talking about your health, about how you are not doing as well as people were expecting. Speaking out about parts of your body that are diseased, parts of you that you do not show to the world. Cancer comes with its own element of shame. It should not, but it does.
It is definitely exacerbated by the fact that there are some cancers you talk about openly, and there are some you do not hear about much. Had you ever heard about endometrial cancer before? Did you know it is the fourth most common cancer in women in the UK? I did not.
There is a particular stigma attached to cancers which affect your reproductive organs, because we do not talk about them much in public. Because the cancer was in my womb, some people may feel like I should maybe not talk about it as openly as I have, maybe the details should be kept private.
Would describing what happened to my womb and my ovaries really bother people that much? Should I maybe hide those details? Should I not post on Facebook about my hysterectomy, with the view of sparing anyone who might feel uncomfortable reading about my reproductive organs?
It is not just because of cancer. It is because I am discussing female organs, female issues that a lot of people normally avoid talking about. Take menopause for example. It is something perfectly natural that happens to so many of us. But people keep it quiet. Women themselves do not discuss it amongst themselves, they censure themselves out of habit. The effects of the hormonal changes to your body, to your mind, they are almost taboo. There should be no shame in talking about a natural process happening to a person’s body. But there is.
So many women have hysterectomies these days, not all due to cancer. And yet, I did not know anyone who had had one – or so I thought. When I started sharing my story, people started coming to me, telling me about how they, their friends, their sisters, their mothers had gone through something similar. But it had been kept private, hidden from view.
I realised that I had censured myself when I posted, back in January, about the ‘surgery’, with no further details. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I had refused to share the details with a wider audience. I had been afraid of offering a detailed description of what happened to an intimate part of myself. I was ashamed. And I am now ashamed of having been ashamed.
Who was going to see my posts, who would read my blog? Friends, family, colleagues, old acquaintances. People of all genders, people roughly around my age, for the most part. Out of those people, how many would feel uncomfortable? How many would stop reading because the words ‘womb’, ‘ovaries’ and ‘periods’ bothered them?
Would I have felt the need to censure myself if I had had a different type of cancer, one that did not affect my reproductive organs, like a brain tumour, leukaemia, pancreatic cancer? I know people who have had those cancers, and they talk about them openly, and do not worry about offending anyone. So why should I?
When I started this blog, it was with the purpose of sharing my story, of unveiling what had happened and not holding back the truth. I am going to talk about my ovaries, I am going to post about the loss of my fertility, about being a woman without a womb. I am going to tackle issues that women have been refraining from mentioning out loud for generations.
Men, women, non-binary people might read this, and might feel different levels of discomfort, for innumerable reasons. Family, friends, strangers, people who are related to me, people who know me and people who do not. They do not have to carry on reading, but I hope they do.
Cancer can affect pretty much every organ in your body. It does not discriminate, and we should not either. Let us discuss every form of cancer, let us discuss how it affects our bodies, whoever we are. Let us get rid of the stigma that some cancers are more shameful than others, just because they affect a part of us that has been deemed private for centuries.