When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at 44, my world tilted on its axis. Male breast cancer is rare, and nothing prepares you for hearing the word ‘cancer’ with your name attached to it. I’d found a lump, gone to my GP the next day, and that decision saved my life. But even though the clinical side of my journey moved quickly and smoothly, the emotional side was something I hadn’t anticipated. Looking back, the help I received for my mental health was as important as the surgery that removed the tumour.
The two weeks between discovering my lump and receiving the biopsy results were some of the strangest days of my life. It was summer, the kids were off school, and I felt like I was wandering around my house in a fog. Everyone I told began behaving oddly. People I hadn’t heard from in years were suddenly ringing me up, saying bizarre things like, “My aunt died from breast cancer,” as if that was remotely helpful. No one meant any harm, but the awkwardness and fear in their voices made everything feel heavier.
The night before my diagnosis, I reached a breaking point. I remember sitting on the sofa feeling overwhelmed, then stepping outside just to feel the sun on my face. I walked with no destination in mind until I ended up in a pub garden, staring at a sliver of sunlight shining between two houses. And I thought: “I need to speak to somebody.”
That was the moment I called Samaritans. That conversation didn’t change my diagnosis, but it changed how I felt about it. The volunteer let me talk, cry, ramble, breathe. She helped me frame what I was facing in a way that made it possible to function: “Tomorrow you’ll learn which direction this journey will take. Right now you’re just standing at a fork in the road.”
It was so simple, so grounding. When you’re trapped inside your own spiralling thoughts, that kind of compassionate perspective is invaluable.
What also made a huge difference was that my GP actually asked about my mental health. Not as an afterthought, but as a real question – “How are you coping?” – it sounds small, but it meant I didn’t feel like I had to hide the emotional fallout behind a brave face. I was also assigned a Macmillan Nurse early on, and she checked not just my surgical recovery, but my wellbeing.
She asked about sleep, fear, the randomness of bad thoughts. She treated my mental state as something worthy of care, not a distraction from the ‘real’ medical issues.
But I also know my experience is unusual. Too many patients never get asked how they’re feeling emotionally. Doctors run through the same checklist every appointment: “Shortness of breath? Any ulcers? Pain?”, but mental health rarely makes the list.
And yet cancer isn’t just a physical illness. For many of us, it’s the worst thing we’ve ever faced. It evokes thoughts about mortality, uncertainty, identity, and family – things most people have never had to confront before. Ignoring that side of cancer doesn’t make it go away. It just leaves people to suffer silently.
That’s why it’s vital that cancer patients are asked about their emotional health too. In my experience, that simple act of being asked, really asked, about your emotional state can make the difference between coping and crumbling. It costs nothing. It changes everything.
I’m so glad Samaritans has always been there for me when I’ve been in crisis. The problems don’t vanish, but talking helps me see them more clearly.
Talking about how I feel has become part of how I look after myself, just like going for scans or taking medication. And I know there are thousands of people out there facing cancer alone, isolated, frightened, unsure where to turn.
That’s why cancer treatment should support the whole person, not just the tumour. This is why I’m supporting the Daily Express’s Cancer Care campaign. And if the NHS introduces the changes this campaign calls for, countless people will feel less alone at the moment they need support most.
This story originally appeared on Express.co.uk
