The Royal We and Cancer

So, the Princess of Wales Kate Middleton has recently announced her cancer diagnosis to the masses. How utterly distasteful that the reason she had to do this is because, ‘we’ (the public) and ‘they’ (the media) have hounded, questioned, and continually broadcast about her recent absence.

We have dissected and ridiculed the photographs she published online to stop the gossip about her going AWOL, which in turn of course, created more ridicule and gossip over said photoshopped images.

And yet if Angela in Barnsley sticks a heavily filtered profile photo of herself on Facebook making herself look 20 years younger than she actually is, we’ll all comment: “Looking gorgeous hun!” Or Steve from Preston photoshops himself with Kate Moss on a deserted beach and bungs it on Instagram with the caption ‘Enjoying me holibobs with Kate’, we’ll just LOL, or comment “in your dreams mate.”

Yes, I know Angela and Steve aren’t royalty. And yes, I know being part of the monarchy comes with a price and certain restrictions and expectations, but every human being, whoever you are, deserves some privacy and respect.

Social media may have given us an entitled free reign to share our unwanted opinions and observations but that doesn’t mean we have to do it. Much the same as ‘Freedom of the Press.’

And in my book, if such news involves – love, birth, death or illness – then take your unkind, malicious, judgemental, prying comments elsewhere and thank whichever god you pray to that it isn’t you with cancer.

I can relate. I was diagnosed a month ago with type 3 breast and lymph cancer and will start chemotherapy next week.  And announcing this particular ugly bombshell to your family and friends is tough and upsetting and leaves you feeling crushed beyond words. It not only changes your life but those around you.

From the moment the word ‘tumour’ is uttered during your consultation the impact is suffocating and forces you to enter a dimension you will never, ever fully return from. Because even though treatment is highly successful these days there is always that doubt. And not only will such treatment ravage your body and your mind, it can also take years to recover from whilst ‘it’ (cancer) will be suspended over you like an evil menacing shadow for the rest of your life.

And whether you are rich or poor, a secretary or a CEO, a TV star or a checkout girl in Asda, cancer is indiscriminate, and it is not at all fussy who it targets and when.

I was told by my doctor that one in eight women will get breast cancer and 90 to 95% are ‘random’ with no known cause and may be a result of environmental issues, diet, stress, smoking, alcohol or drug abuse, or because it sits there, waiting, like a ticking time bomb until something triggers it such as an accident, shock, or trauma.

The remaining 5 to 10% can be genetic. If you have the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene then basically your future was mapped out at birth.

If Kate Middleton or I or anyone else wants to keep their recent cancer diagnosis to themselves for whatever period of time we dictate, while we process the fact we are ill and the crippling knock-on effect this will have on our life and those around us, then give us all that personal right.

From my experience anyone in this position needs time and space to absorb the news. To cry, to rant, to feel utter despair, sadness, anger, worry, and self-pity.

It’s a complete spectrum of emotions that attacks at any given moment.  I shout at my shadow and cry in the car and I continue to ask: “Why me?”  I don’t fall into the ‘unhealthy at risk’ category. On paper I shouldn’t be one of the eight. I tick all the ‘good girl’ boxes.  And I imagine Kate with the added advantage of a privileged lifestyle feels much the same.  As do probably thousands of other women and men around the globe who have been hit with the shitty cancer stick.

However, the fact that I don’t have The Sun posting videos of me out shopping at a farm shop (or local supermarket in my world) or I don’t have the world’s keyboard warriors checking out whether I had my wedding ring on in a family photo I posted to get the world’s media off my back, means at this point, I count myself as the luckier one.

Because I was able to choose when to put my big girl pants on and tell those around me. I’ll also be able to go through my treatment in relative privacy. I can look like Golem’s sister without the fear of having my bald head or dodgy pencilled in eyebrows plastered all over the nine o’clock news or Facebook for the world to mock, pity or judge me.

Unless I choose to share my journey.  Because that is totally my choice.

I can disappear from social engagements without much fuss and I can be a blubbering wreck on family or friend’s shoulders in the local café without every intrusive wanna-be-glory hunter pointing their iphone camera at me so they can flog it to the tabloids.

Kate on the other hand can’t. And to go through this awful treatment, to feel lousy and look lousy, is bad enough without having to act it all out on centre-stage with a stoic, brave, and polite face. When probably all she wants to yell quite frankly is “Fuck off!”

So be kind. Be thoughtful. You never know what someone is going through.