World Cancer Day

Today was World Cancer Day. A day to celebrate those who won, remember those we lost, support those who are still fighting and give hope to those who will fight in the future. A day to raise awareness and stop being afraid.

It was a long day. I woke up in pain from the physical repercussions of my low oestrogen levels. I had my first counselling session. I cried hot, burning tears. I had flash-back. I said words I had never said out loud. I took another step towards recovery.

On this day, we all have a part to play. Whether it is taking care of your own body, paying attention to the signs, raising awareness, remembering a friend, making a donation towards cancer research, saying a kind word to a loved one fighting cancer, driving someone to an appointment or listening to someone’s story – it all matters.

And on this day, I am grateful to everyone who has been part of my cancer journey, however big or small your contribution was. Thank you. It all matters.

Family – The Burden of Genetics (I)

When I think about family, I usually think of people. A moving, imperfect circle, individuals all coming together, fighting, loving, arguing, hugging. People hanging out at big events, related by a multitude of ties, some unbreakable, some so thin they disappear over the years.

I always saw my family as this group of people, some with whom I had great relations, some I barely ever spoke to. I had never defined family based on whether we shared any blood, any DNA. Whether someone had married into the family or was on the same branch of the family tree never mattered to me.

Until one day, when it became all that mattered.

I was told early on, the day after my diagnosis, that there were two potential causes for my cancer. One was that it was random. Faulty hormones, bad karma, a variety of factors that could contribute to my developing womb cancer at a ridiculously young age. The other explanation would be genetics. There could be, running in my family, a genetic condition that had until then remained undetected, and my cancer could be one of the many manifestations of this genetic mutation. The overwhelming majority of womb cancers are random, and happen in individuals who have no family history of cancer. But a small percentage are due to various genetic conditions, and these cancers tend to appear much earlier. Because I was completely out of the usual age range for womb cancer, I was a candidate for genetic testing. It would not change the treatment plan, or the outcome of this particular cancer. But it had the potential to change everything else.

I was referred to a genetics specialist on the very day of my diagnosis. At the time, I did not realise how much that weighed on my shoulders. I was told it would take months for me to get an appointment, and that it would only be the start of my journey into genetics – if I decided I wanted to get tested, after discussing it with the specialist. I agreed to speaking to the geneticist without even thinking about it. Since it was going to take months, it was better to get started early.

Pretty soon, I received a bunch of forms to fill in about my family, about where each branch of my family came from, our ethnic background. I then had to fill in separate forms about each of my first and second-degree relatives. Names, dates of birth and medical history of my parents, brothers, grand-parents, aunts and uncles. Date and cause of death, where applicable. Any medical history that could be relevant: cancers, unexplained medical conditions, etc.

It was an incredible, uncomfortable amount of work. I had to ask each of my parents to quiz members of their respective family. My mum’s family was straightforward. No cancer in the immediate family, and no trace of it for generations. It is actually quite unsettling to realise that I am the first in four generations to get cancer. That seems terribly unfair.

We hit a hurdle as soon as I started filling out the information about my dad’s side of the family. We know very little about his father, and his life after he left his family when my dad was just a toddler. My dad has always refused to look into it, to get in touch, to renew the ties before his father died, back in the early 90s. He could have had cancer, and we might not have known about it.

My dad also had to ask his elderly siblings, two of which are currently battling their own advanced cancers, about any genetic testing they might have undergone. It must have been terribly taxing. I have rarely been so grateful to have someone to delegate some of this work to.

We filled in the forms, using all the sections allocated and then more – the form only allowed for three siblings for each generation, and my parents both come from much larger families. I had to add a few extra pages of names and data, before sealing the envelope and sending it off to Oxford.

As I was doing this work, I also started looking more in depth into what a genetic condition could mean. I did the very thing that the nurse had asked me not to do during our first appointment, and I went on an endless search for answers on the Internet.

I read pages and pages of information about potential genetic conditions, thinking and overthinking anything I knew about my family. My aunt is battling breast cancer – there are several genetic mutations that can cause both breast and gynaecological cancers in some families. My uncle is fighting pancreatic cancer – although there are many factors that could have contributed to his specific cancer, it is also one of the cancers associated with Lynch syndrome, which causes a predisposition to a wide range of cancers, including womb and colon cancer.

Because of these cancers on my dad’s side of the family, and the unknown threat of his own father’s family history, I had somehow convinced myself that the likelihood of a family genetic condition was pretty high. Doctors had told me that my cancer was more likely to be random. But they had also told me before that the chances of me having cancer at my age were almost non-existent. When you are one in a million, how can you then trust that your cancer will follow the most common path?

A genetic condition like Lynch syndrome would have meant that, even if I beat this womb cancer, I was at a much higher risk of developing other cancers in the near future, if it had not started already. My life would be very different. I was scared. I was terrified. For months, I analysed every single thing happening in my body, convinced that it was the sign of another cancer growing somewhere else in my body. More than once, I asked myself if it really was worth undergoing treatment, if I knew cancer was going to be a very real threat in the future. If it was only a matter of time. I will be honest. There were days where the possibility of being riddled with genetics conditions made me think of giving up altogether.

The one happy thought I had was that, if I did have a genetic condition, I would never pass it on to any children. It is bleak, when your one ray of hope is that your hysterectomy means you will never pass on faulty genes.

By agreeing to speak to a geneticist, I had agreed to open the door to an ocean of possibilities, each scarier than the next. I agreed on the basis that it is better to know in advance what you are about to face. I have said it before, I hate surprises. Undergoing genetic testing is pretty much as close to finding out about your future as is possible in this day and age.

In early December, as I was coming to terms with the delay in my operation, I received a letter from the genetics clinic, telling me I had an appointment scheduled for Friday, 14th February 2020. Well. I was not going to have a hot date on Valentine’s Day anyway, so I might as well have an appointment with a geneticist.

It felt so distant, so far in the future that I pushed it to the back of my mind for a while. I focused on the task at hand for the next couple of weeks: getting the surgery done. Everything else could take a backseat. But the moment I saw my brothers again when they came to visit at Christmas, a new threat jumped into my mind.

If a genetic condition was to be discovered, it would not only affect me. It would affect them. It would affect my parents. They would have to get tested. I would be the one triggering a series of reactions I had not foreseen. Was I ready for this? Were they?

All of a sudden, the threat of genetics became unbearable, and the guilt, the guilt I felt at the idea of being the one throwing my family into disarray was undescribable. I could not do that to them. My existence was putting theirs in danger. My medical history could unravel their lives.

Spoiler alert – it did not. But the feelings were there, for months. And they deserve a blog post of their own.

Family – Breaking Traditions, Crushing Expectations

This marks the start of a new series of posts. After spending time with my family over Christmas, a full twelve months since last seeing them, I suddenly had a clearer idea of what my diagnosis meant to them and how, in some ways, it affected them as much as it did me.

I am the middle child. The only girl in between two brothers. One close to my age, one a lot younger.

I only really know my mother’s side of the family. Amongst my cousins on my that side, I am ranked fourth out of nine. The first girl after three boys, amongst a group of six cousins all born within five years of each other. Three boys, three girls close together and then, years later, another three boys.

I never knew the pressures of being the eldest, of paving the way for the ones that would come after me. I never had the attention that comes with being the youngest child, the baby of the family.

What I have had to live with though, were the hopes and dreams of parents and grandparents who had different visions for the future of their boys and girls.

It is very prevalent in my family, more so than it probably should be. There is a sense of tradition, passed down from generation to generation. Boys and girls are not the same, and they should be raised differently. It is the relationship we have with our grandparents, the goals they have set for us since the beginning. Boys are pushed and encouraged to follow their dreams, get a good job, be successful. Girls are praised for having good grades, being quiet and amiable, and they are constantly asked about their relationships, and when they will have children.

Oh, I am sure I exaggerate. There were times when my parents and grandparents were proud of me for achievements of my own. When I finished school, then uni. When I won prizes for best poem and best calligraphy at the tender age of nine. When I found a job and became financially independent. When I started knitting, and proved to my nan that her lessons twenty years prior had not been in vain.

But there was always a sense that I was not following the path that they had wished for me. The fact that every time I went to visit my grandparents, they asked if I had a boyfriend, how serious it was. Whether I wanted children. When I was going to have them. When I moved to the UK, my family were more scared than encouraging. ‘But are you really going to raise your children in another country?’

My family laugh when they hear my brother’s tales of joining this or that political demonstration in Paris. They shake their head when he mentions his political engagement, but still they debate with him and take him seriously. When I told my nan about taking a feminist writing class, she told me to be careful, and not become ‘one of those feminists who scare men away’. After all, political engagement and strong feminists beliefs were not, in her mind, synonymous with a happy, fulfilled life. It is dangerous. I never told her about the many demonstrations and women’s marches I took part in.

My nan used to be a feminist. She used to be out on the street, marching for women’s rights and choice to own their bodies. But as she started having a family, raising her own (many) sons and daughters, she fell back into age-old patterns that imprison women in a role I did not wish for myself. My mum often tells me how differently she and her sisters were treated from her brothers. She does not see that she has repeated the same pattern.

For years, I pretended to go along with it. Shook my head when they asked me when I was finally going to get married and have children. Laughed when my nan kept mentioning how her sisters were already great-grandmothers. How my cousin had had a child – how it would be my turn next. I ignored my mum when she told me that she would love to be a grandmother, when she said she was not getting any younger.

It was always expected that, once my rebel years were over, I would settle down, marry and have children. I still have trinkets that were given to me to ‘pass on to my children’. By refusing to conform to the family pattern, in their eyes, I was only delaying the inevitable. It would happen, and they would finally be proud of the woman I had become.

When my mum and my nan, in turn, learnt of my diagnosis, in addition to the pain, they had to face the disappointment of hopes they had clung onto for years. My mum mentioned how she would never see her only daughter pregnant. My nan sent me a teary, extremely violent email, about how unfair it was that my ability to have a family was being ripped away from me. How sad she was that my life was being torn apart, even if I would be physically fine. How she could not even begin to imagine how it felt, for me never being able to experience the biggest joy of being a woman. In her eyes, I had lost everything I should have lived for. That realisation hurts.

I am more at peace with my future than they are. They had built a world of hopes on something that I had not signed up for. But today, these disappointed dreams and expectations weigh on me. I hear it when my nan barely knows what to say to me anymore. Her whole idea of me as a person, as a woman, has shifted. She does not know me anymore, as the life she had built for me in her head has come crumbling down. What do you talk about with someone you cannot understand, someone who you had imagined a whole life for, and who no longer meets your expectations?

Every time I speak to her, I feel the weight of her disappointment, of her shame. She has voiced this disappointment every time she has written me an email or given me a call, telling me how tough it must be for me, how sad I must be. How she wished we could have traded places, so I could live a proper woman’s life. But the disappointed dreams are not mine, no matter how many times she tries to convince me of it. They are hers.

I will never be able to give her what she thought would be my future. I was the eldest granddaughter. I know she wanted to see me pregnant, because she had told me so. I know she wished to see me happy in the only way she could imagine a woman ever being happy. I know she worries about what my life will look like now that I am no longer able to repeat the old family tradition of having children.

It is taxing, feeling like you have disappointed someone you care so much about, someone whose dreams you crushed without having any say in it. I feel responsible, even though I never wanted these things for myself.

I will never achieve the ideal life of a woman, as defined by the matriarchs of my family. I will break tradition. I will go against their expectations. But I will be the woman I decide to be, my own idea of a woman, and I will grow from their experiences, even if I do not claim them for myself.

Talking About Cancer – Making Light of It

Today marks exactly one year since the day my operation was first scheduled. It is also six days until my next check-up at the hospital, for the dreaded one-year mark (or as close as we could get without having me go for a check-up at Christmas).

At the moment, it is impossible for me to spend any length of time during the day not thinking about cancer. It permeates everything, it colours every feeling, every decision I make. It makes me cry, it makes me sick with worry, it makes me crumble to the floor in the shower until the water goes cold, it makes me forget how to breathe in the middle of my morning walk, and fall over in the park.

Because cancer is all-consuming, it is almost impossible to push it to the back of your mind, and not think about it at all. You need to find other ways to cope. Ways to tame cancer, to make it less of a threat, make it into a subject you can discuss, something that can make you laugh as well as cry.

I have found that making light of cancer helps. Making jokes, bringing it up in an unexpected way and observing people’s reactions can be priceless. When you make fun of it, for a few seconds, it no longer is the big C, or the other C-word. It is cancer, and it is something you can bring up without fear, something you have earned the right to laugh about.

I have always loved dry humour. Saying something unexpected, sometimes a bit dark but that will bring a laugh upon someone’s lips – or a shocked gasp, depending on who my audience is.

Just this week, even though I am battling one of the darkest weeks I have had all year, I made two of my ‘cancer jokes’, and it felt amazing. They were awkward, they were uncomfortable. They were not necessarily funny – I definitely will not be quitting my day job to start a career as a comedian – but they did make me feel more in control. For a few precious seconds, it felt like cancer was mine to beat, mine to laugh at. If I can laugh about it, surely it cannot hurt me anymore.

I was on the phone with a friend at the weekend, and we were talking about how I have been having a lot of mood swings and have been feeling very tearful lately – even more so than usual. My friend was asking whether I thought it might be hormone-related, or could it be an issue with my antidepressants maybe? In a deadpan, slow voice, I interrupted her and said ‘God, I hope I’m not pregnant’. A couple of seconds of silence, and an awkward laugh followed. Sorry to have made you uncomfortable – personally, I think that has been the highlight of my week so far.

The other joke I made was during a group video call, with a lot more people than I am usually comfortable with. I had not spoken to some of them since the summer of 2019, before it all happened, but they all knew, either because they had been told by other people or they saw something on social media, or read this blog. We were talking about how long it had been since we last saw each other, and I said ‘well, it’s been a while. Last time we spoke, I still had a uterus’. Some faces looked shocked. There were a couple of laughs, a few shaking heads and one amused ‘Can’t argue with that’.

I have been using humour to cope for months now. Earlier this year, I uploaded a selfie on social media, showcasing my brand new short hair and using a caption that would have made my mum cringe: ‘Getting rid of my hair like I got rid of that cancer – #snipsnip’. I felt so powerful in that moment. Cancer was nothing more than a punchline. Snip snip, my hair. Snip snip, cancer.

I understand these comments might make people uncomfortable. Not everyone is happy to have a laugh about something so serious. But for me, it is a way of getting over it, of proving that cancer is not as threatening as it looks, of feeling like I have the upper hand for once.

I think it is also important to show people that I can laugh about it. If I can make jokes, if I can make light of a terrible situation, maybe people will start feeling comfortable around me and my issues. Maybe they can make their own jokes, and I will laugh at them – no puns though, nothing make me cringe more than a bad pun.

I have earned the right to make those jokes, and to laugh when you make one. Not everyone with cancer will see it that way, and for some people cancer will always stay off-limits. For me, making light of cancer is proof that it has not taken over my sense of humour. I can still be hysterical.

Well. Not etymologically.

Talking About Cancer – Who to Tell

Talking about cancer is scary. It is scary for the patients, but also for their families and friends. Who to tell, how to break the news, what to say, how much of the truth to share. What tone to take, whether making light of cancer is acceptable, how to ask someone with cancer how they are doing. When to speak up, and when to listen. Those are all questions I do not necessarily have answers to, but I will write a series of posts on here about my experience of talking about cancer at various moments of my own journey. And I will start at the beginning, the first question – who to tell.

There are so many different stages to a cancer diagnosis, and what worked for me at a certain point of my journey no longer applied a couple of months later. Sometimes talking will be harder, sometimes it will come naturally. Sometimes I will initiate it, sometimes I will be happy for someone else to bring it up. What worked for me will not necessarily work for someone else, and I am not pretending that the choices I make are the right ones. But they were right for me at the time.

Between the moment I was diagnosed and when the surgery was deemed a success, I tried to keep the news restricted to a close circle. A number of friends, people at work on a need-to-know basis. My immediate family. I deliberately kept it quiet, for reasons that I do not fully understand even today. Did I feel like it made it less real? Did I feel like I was stronger, if some people still saw me as a healthy individual, with no threat looming over my head? Did it simply make me feel better, to be able to have cancer-free conversations with people who did not know? Was I denying the truth, was I protecting other people? Was I protecting myself from being looked upon with pity, with sympathy? Was I avoiding other people’s stories, and personal struggles with cancer? In case you are wondering, the answer to all of the above is ‘yes’. But I know there are many more reasons, which I hope to one day understand.

I told people I felt safe with. People with whom I felt like I could be vulnerable, which does not come easy to me. My mum, because despite the fact we are not close by any means, she remains my mum. She may not know much about my life, but she remains the person who knew me best for years. My friends, some of whom I have known for over ten years, some of whom I met only a couple of years ago. People I know will have my back, no matter what, but people who are also strong enough to take the news. I told people who, whether I had known them for a long time or not, knew the current me. People I was still close with – I have older friends who I did not tell because we had not been in touch for a few months or years, and I did not want them to think of me only as Lauriane, the cancer patient. But I was also careful to only tell people who I thought would not resent me for forcing these news on them, for making them a part of something they had not asked for, and did not deserve. There is a real fear about it being too much. About the fact that when you tell someone, your cancer becomes part of their lives. I worried about how the news might affect some of them emotionally, personally. It is a burden that I would not wish on anyone, but I also could not keep it to myself entirely.

I told people who asked about why I suddenly looked so sad all the time. People who commented on the fact I had not worn make-up for days, people who noticed something was wrong, and cared enough to ask questions. They probably were not expecting the answer I gave them, but I could not lie to them. I told people who were genuinely interested in hearing about me.

At work, I told my manager, and my closest friends. And then I extended it to people in my team, people who would be affected, one way or another, by my numerous appointments and absence following surgery. I was careful, very careful about who I spoke to. At work especially, I did not want to look vulnerable.

It was hard to navigate situations where some people knew, and some did not. It made things awkward, both for me and for them. I remember an evening, four days after my initial diagnosis. It was one of my friends’ birthday, and his girlfriend had organised a surprise party at a nearby pub. They knew, along with another couple of friends there, but I was not close with the rest of the friends they had invited. I debated for a while whether I should go or not. I did not feel like going, but I had wondered if maybe it would help me banish cancer from my mind, think about something else for a while (spoiler alert – it did not). I decided to go, and it was one of the most awkward experiences of my life. Pretending everything was fine, in front of people who knew and others who did not. Having secret conversations in a corner of the bar. Being asked how I was doing in a carefree way, and lying, with tears in my eyes, in front of people who were watching me carefully.

This continued over the next few months, until the operation and until the final staging. I was choosing who to tell and who to lie to. I told people that they were free to discuss my situation with other people, but still kept a list of who knew and who did not. I kept that list for months, adding names to it, making my diagnosis more real with each new entry.

It felt very much like every single conversation I had with someone who knew had to be about cancer. I struggled to talk to them about anything else, because cancer was pretty much the only thing on my mind. When I spoke to people who were not in the know, it felt refreshing. I finally allowed myself to talk about something else, and I did not feel guilty. Yes, I was hiding a part of my life, but it made sense. I was keeping things separate. There were people I could talk about cancer with, and people with whom I had to push cancer at the back of my mind, and talk about something else.

After treatment, as the months went by and my new reality set in, that I had been a cancer patient but was now in remission, I started being more open about it. It was no longer such an immediate threat, so I felt like I could talk about it more openly. It did not hurt as much, I no longer cried every time I told someone new. I started mentioning ‘the health issues I had last year’, or ‘when I was on sick leave for a while’. To some people, I told the whole truth. To others, I just said I had been unwell. There was no pressure anymore.

It finally felt like I could have normal conversations with people who knew about my cancer. Yes, they knew, and I could slip something in here and there, but we could also discuss other things as well. We could discuss them, which made me feel great. It was no longer all about me. I was no longer as selfish, only able to talk about myself and my own problems.

When I decided to start writing this blog, and posting about it on social media, it was a very conscious decision. It took a while for me to go from ‘writing for myself’ to ‘writing so other people can read it’. I only did it once I felt ready for people to know.

But in a way, a blog is safe. Only people who really, genuinely want to know about me and my struggles will click on the links, will subscribe to know when a new post comes out. It does not feel like I am pushing my story onto others, like it would if I was simply lying this all out on social media. I know the people who will read this are interested, and it helps me be honest. It makes me feel I am talking to people who want to know, rather than forcing them to listen to me.

In real life, I struggle with what to say to people I have just met. In a way, Covid has helped, as I have not met as many new people this year as I usually would. I will sometimes mention a hospital appointment, the fact that I was not able to go home last Christmas. I have not told people directly for months now. Will I ever be able to?

I worry about future relationships. About meeting someone and having to disclose this information. When do I do it? When do I reveal the truth? It is not something I can hide, as it will affect me my whole life. When do I tell them I cannot have children, when do I tell them I am still living in limbo for the next four years, whilst I am still in remission?

I know there are people who I will need to tell in the future. People who will be affected by my experience. Will I come out and tell them directly? Will I just add them on social media and let them discover the truth for themselves? Will I bring it up in the middle of a conversation, or will I sit them down to talk about it? Will I let it slip by accident, or will it be deliberate?

I guess only time will tell.

The Language of Trauma

I was a very late bloomer when it came to talking. If you believe my mum, I did not start speaking until I was almost three. I apparently had too many other things to do, like climbing fences to jump into pools and running away on supermarket car parks (both of which happened on several separate occasions). Clearly, words were not my priority back then.

French is my first language, and for almost nine years, it was the only language I could speak. In my second-to-last year of primary school, I was given the option to start learning a foreign language. It was the first time they were going to offer to teach languages to our year – up until then, only pupils in their last year of primary school had been allowed to learn a language. I was very excited – my older brother, who is two years older than me but was only a year ahead in school, would be starting at the same time. I have always been very competitive, and I loved the idea that there would be one thing in which we would both be at the same level. We did not have much choice, our school only offered English and German. My brother picked English. Because I was a very contrary child, and I had heard that German was much harder to learn, I chose German. Twenty years later, I still cannot resist a challenge.

I loved German lessons that first year. Because so few of us had chosen German (English was the overwhelmingly popular choice), we were all together, last-year pupils and younger ones like me. I was having lessons with some of my brother’s friends, and I felt like I had finally reached his level. To be honest, I had even surpassed him – German was harder, so I had basically won. I loved German, but my parents were pushing me to switch to English, as they believe it would be much more useful.

At the end of that first year, I made the choice to quit German and start English instead. That would mean that I would be behind the other pupils when school started again in September – they already had one year of English under their belt, and I did not.

I do not know if I had a gift for languages back then or if it was my competitive spirit shining again, but after a few months, my level of English matched the ones of my friends. By the end of the year, I had won the English language challenge set by the school, and was given my very first French/English dictionary as a prize. I put it on a bookshelf at home, and did not pick it up again for years.

In secondary school France, you usually study only one foreign language for the first two years, and then start a second foreign language in your third year. The secondary school I went to offered to study two foreign languages (English and German) from your first year – it was part of a short-lived attempt at getting more French people to study German. My brother had only studied English (with the aim of picking up Spanish in his third year), so I obviously decided I would outdo him and join the double-language course.

For years, my German and English were pretty much on par with each other. When we had to declare a ‘main’ foreign language, I chose English, encouraged by my parents. I liked English classes, but it was not until my first year of the equivalent of sixth form that I truly fell in love with it. I had an amazing teacher that year, who was in his very first year of teaching English. He had a passion for the language, and for making us read and write, instead of asking us to learn grammar and lists upon lists of words. I started reading in English, first books and then way too many Harry Potter fanfictions.

That year, I decided that, despite having chosen a science-laden course in sixth form, I wanted to pursue arts and literature at uni, and more specifically English (by that time, my German had become much weaker). After graduating, I chose a language course and, one thing leading to another, I ended up with a master’s degree in translation, with a very marked preference for English.

Two days after my course ended, I moved to the UK and started my new job within a week. Since then, my English has improved a lot (at least I would like to think so), and has replaced French as the language I am most comfortable in.

I do not consider myself bilingual. I think you can only be truly bilingual if you grow up surrounded by two languages, and learn to use them at the same time, so you have similar relationships with both languages. I grew up learning French and for year, English was a language that only applied to specific contexts, like classes, work and dissertations.

I started dreaming in English halfway through uni, but it was always in dreams with an English background. I would dream of something happening in the UK, or in English class, etc. It was not until a couple of years after I moved to the UK that English became the language that I think in. When I talk to myself (and trust me, that happens a lot), it is now usually in English. I swear in English, I cry in English, I work in English. I read almost exclusively in English, I watch TV in English. I cannot remember the last time I read the news in a language that was not English.

As the years went by, I started struggling more and more with French. Phrases, specific words, I keep forgetting them. They sound foreign to me. My phrasing is ridiculous – I use English sentence construction and just use French words instead of thinking of the actual French phrasing. I speak proper French in two contexts: when I speak to my parents, and when I work with French clients (although I still have to double check what I write to make sure I have not used any English).

I am lucky enough that most of my friends from back home are fluent in English, and do not mind me using a mix of French and English when talking and writing to them. To be honest, I switch between the two depending on what comes naturally at the time. I will often start a sentence in French, and finish in English. I will use English words in the middle of a French sentence, and will react in English to their French messages.

I sometimes struggle to identify the language I am reading in, or confirm whether I just used French and English. Honestly, it is not great when part of my job is identifying source languages in documents my clients send. I will confidently start working on scheduling a French to English translation, only to have the translator ask me to confirm what I need, since the source text is already in English. Sorry, my bad.

My English is not perfect, but it has become the language of my daily life.

What I never imagined that there would be things I would only ever be able express in English.

I have been asked about my decision to write this blog in English. Was it a conscious decision, was it done in order to increase readership, to give it a better chance of becoming viral? Absolutely not.

English has clearly become the only language in which I can think of my experience, and the only language where I can express my feelings.

There is a reasonable explanation for it. After all, I got my diagnosis in the UK, all my consultations were conducted in English, all my phone calls and appointments were in English. The words the doctors used, I only knew them in English at first. Everything was explained to me in English. Everything made sense – as much as a cancer diagnosis at 27 can make sense – in English.

I never had any issues understanding what the doctors were saying in English. My issue was communicating the same in French.

I struggled speaking to my parents about it, struggled to explain what was happening. The details, but also the bigger picture. I had to look up words in the dictionary, I had to read medical articles in French in order to find the French way of saying what was happening to me. It was not easy. They tell you you should avoid googling your condition too much, that it is only going to add to your anxiety. But I had no choice. I had to do it, in order to be able to tell my family about it.

As a result, I know everything there is to know about womb cancer in both languages. It does not mean I feel comfortable talking about it in French.

A few months ago, a friend made me realise that, even though I spoke to them in a mix of French and English most of the time, I automatically switched to English only whenever I spoke about cancer.

In my head, it is very clear – cancer happened in English. The language of my trauma is English. Is that a way to detach myself from it?

I am very much of the opinion that I have two very different personalities. French Lauriane is self-conscious. She can be moody, tough and sarcastic. She had to tell people ‘that’s just my face’ when they ask her if she is mad. She is pessimistic, she does not play well with others. English Lauriane is more confident. She is more resilient, she has been through a lot, but she is also more open. She is bubbly. She is invested. She says please and thank you. She will smile and give you a hug if you need one. French Lauriane would run away.

It is quite common amongst people who speak several languages. For me, I believe it is also related that there was a clear cut between my life in France, as a child, as a teen, as a student. The moment I moved to the UK, the moment English became my main language was when I became a proper adult.

Because I have these two identities and they are very separate in my mind, I feel like cancer only affected a part of me. It struck English Lauriane, but she can take it. She is positive, she can get through a lot. She has learnt to deal with it. The French part of me was always here, in the background, but separate. Detached. It was not her language, it did not feel as real. A part of me is safe from it, protected by the language barrier.

Whenever I think about cancer, I think in English. I have flashbacks in English. I have panic attacks in English.

I did not realise how obvious that was for a long time. I was speaking about my mental health struggles with a friend, who mentioned finding a French-speaking therapist in the UK. And immediately, my reaction was to say no. If I ever was to share my burden with someone, to find a way to deal with it, it would be in English. The part of me that is broken is the part that speaks English.

But that is also the part of me that feels strong enough to get over it. The only part of me that can express feelings. I have never said ‘I love you’ in French. I have never said ‘I am scared’ in French. I have never said ‘But what if I die?’ in French. Do I feel comfortable doing it in English? Absolutely not. But I have.

Would I technically be able to speak about it in French? Do I have the words for it? They do not come naturally. French might be my first language, but my fingers do not fly across the keyboard as fast when I write in French. I feel free writing in English. There may be mistakes, there may be typos, but it is the language in which I can talk about fear, about depression, about anxiety. Feelings are stronger in English, and they are bubbling inside me, waiting to be put on paper.

There is a story I like to tell. It is about the operation, but it is a fun one.

For weeks before the operation, I joked with friends about not knowing what language I would speak when I came to, when I woke up from the general anaesthesia. You know, these stories about people who have been in horrible accidents, who wake up and have forgotten their first language entirely, or suddenly speak Chinese despite never having studied it? I laughed and told my friends my mum might need to call them to understand what I was saying, if I ended up only able to speak English. Or maybe, I would only speak French, and the doctors and nurses would try and explain things and I would blink in confusion and have to request an interpreter (good thing I have contacts in the business!).

I do not remember much from the first few minutes after I woke up, but I remember my mum looking at me and questions which I answered with confidence, only to see a puzzled look on her face. Apparently, I woke up speaking English, and it took more than half an hour for me to start speaking French. I understood what my mum was saying perfectly, but the words coming out of my mouth were in English and I could not articulate them in French.

Is it a coping mechanism, a barrier that I have built in my mind, which I will ultimately need to take down in order to make peace with what happened? Was it a safe place for me to store my experience, whilst protecting a part of me from the truth? Will I ever be able to express myself in French?

English is the language of my experience, it is the language of my cancer, the language of my trauma. But it is also the language of my hopes and dreams.

Single, Self-Sufficient and Still in Need of Support

‘Do you have a partner?’ That is the very first question I was asked after being given my diagnosis. I said no. ‘Do you have any family around?’ I shook my head: ‘They are in France.’ ‘Do you live on your own? Do you have any close friends here?’

I have always been fiercely independent. I do not trust people easily. I used to think I did not need anyone, ever. I moved to the UK right after finishing uni in Paris, saying goodbye to friends and family I would only see a couple times a year from there on. I liked the challenge, the idea of not relying on anyone but myself. I was building a life for myself, with very little help from anyone else. I was financially, emotionally and physically self-sufficient, and that made me strong.

I am a people person. The coaster on my desk reads ‘I like otters, it’s people who annoy me’ – it is accurate, but also not. I am independent but I love having people around. I am very close to my friends, I am fiercely loyal to them, I enjoy meeting new people and building new relationships. Even during lockdown, I found ways of staying in touch with people – messaging friends at all hours of the day and night (they stopped replying to every single text after a while – how rude).

I get on with my family, most of the time. I see them a couple of times a year, we have a great time, then I go back to my life. We are not in constant contact, they do not know every single facet of my life, and that works for me.

I have been single, casually dating most of my adult life. I do not feel the need to constantly be in a relationship. I have always struggled to let people in, trust them enough to let them be a permanent part of my life. I do not like change, I am terrible at compromise, and that does not make it easy to build a life with someone.

Did I feel lonely? Sometimes, but I think most people have similar feelings from time to time. Would I support my friends through anything? Absolutely. You can call me at any hour of the day and night, and I will jump in a taxi/on a train/on a plane if you need me. Because I was so keen on being self-sufficient, on being independent, because I tend to keep my feelings and my problems to myself, I had never considered a situation in which the roles would be reversed. Would I be able to reach out, if anything was to happen? Would people be there for me like I would for them? Would I even want to ask for support?

I will admit the thought of doing this on my own crossed my mind. In the first few seconds, in the first few minutes after I understood what was happening inside my body, I considered not telling anyone. I thought it would be best. I thought I would protect people by not telling them. But I decided to reach out, and I am grateful every day that I did.

I reached out to my mum. I do not speak to her often, maybe a couple text messages every week or so (mostly talking about cats), one video call a month, two or three quick trips back home a year. But I called her straightaway on that day. And she offered to tell everyone in the family, to break the news herself as I was not strong enough to do it.

I reached out to two different groups of friends whilst still in the hospital. I texted some of my best friends here in the UK, people who knew I had a doctor’s appointment that morning. And then, I messaged some of my friends from home, people who have been by my side for over ten years now. The support started pouring in.

Obviously, I needed to tell work. I asked one of my friends from work to speak to my manager, and tell her that I had had some bad news at the appointment. I walked home. I cried all the way up the hill (and what a hill it is). I went into my room. I think my housemates were in, at least some of them. I did not see them. Did they hear me cry that day? Maybe.

I called my manager, and I gave her the news, lying on my bed, clutching my phone with one hand and the appointment letter in the other. I cried throughout, I said I would come into work later that day.

Once that was done, that was it. All areas of my life had been covered. Work, friends, family (not necessarily in that order). Someone from each of my social bubbles knew about it. It made it real, it also made it easier. Once you start telling people, it is no longer your burden only.

As the hours and days passed, I started telling more people. Every time, I told myself that I was only doing it for a practical reason. I told my housemates, because I was going to be home more often, because they might walk into me crying in the living room. I messaged more friends from the UK, because they were people I was going to see face to face in the next few weeks, and they would realise something was wrong. I told my team at work, convincing myself I was only doing it so they could understand why I disappeared every other day for a few hours, and why I would be off for six weeks later in the year.

But what I was really doing was showing people, for the first time in my life, that I needed emotional support.

Every time I told someone, I felt guilty. I felt guilty of bringing people into this situation, of making them part of something they had not asked for. It felt like I was involving them in something terrible, just to ease my own pain. Like I was forcing my issues on them, like I was asking too much of them, in a selfish and undeserving way.

Because of those feelings, I decided that I would not tell any of my other friends unless they reached out and asked how I was doing. I have always been terrible at lying, so I would not have been able to hide the truth. I would not share the news on social media, I would not do one big announcement, I would not shout it from the rooftops.

The support was overwhelming. I do not think I will ever be able to thank people for the kindness and understanding they showed me. Be it the friends who hugged me on the day of the diagnosis (one of the few times I allowed people to hug me), who drove me to my appointments, sat with me in the waiting room and asked the questions I could not think of, the friends who kept asking how I was doing, the ones who drove across the country just to spend an evening with me, the ones who sent cards and origami otters, the ones who told people I could not face, the ones who came to spend New Year’s Eve with me, crossing the Channel just to be there after the surgery, the ones who held me when I cried, the ones who were angry on my behalf when the surgery got cancelled the first time around, the ones who called the nurse for me when I could not even hold the phone, the ones who drove me home after the surgery, the ones who felt uncomfortable and pushed through it, because I needed them.

My parents who, barely speaking English, dropped everything to be with me for the surgery – my dad who, on my scheduled operation day, waited with me in the hospital for eight hours before the surgery was called off due to a lack of available beds, and was angrier and quieter than I have ever seen him when they told us to go home (and that includes that evening in 2002 when the far-right got into the second round of the French presidential elections). My mum, who came two weeks later for the rescheduled surgery, and listened to me babbling in English when I woke up from general anaesthesia, unable to speak a word of French. My brothers, who came to spend Christmas with me and agreed to watch Home Alone and Home Alone 2 back to back, snuggled up on the sofa.

My colleagues, who cried when I gave them the news, and my team, who bore with me when I kept bursting into tears at random times during the day and could barely get any work done. People who gave me advice, who told me they would be there for me if I needed them.

People who are still here for me today as I am struggling with depression, PTSD and anxiety, and for whom I have vowed to battle through it all, and come out stronger on the other side.

I am still independent. I am still tough, I am still strong. I now live on my own, and I love it. I still have my walls up with most of the world, even close friends, but I now understand the value of support. And you can be independent, you can be self-sufficient and still need a helping hand from time to time.