S T Y L I S T . c o . u k 7 7

t was in the

bathtub that

I made the

decision not

to let cancer

kill me. I was six weeks

into a gruelling round of

chemotherapy and had taken

a bath to soothe the aching in

my limbs. I remember trying

to pull myself out of the tub

and realising my legs were

too weak. I sat in that bath,

watched the water flow away,

and felt like I was draining

away with it. But gradually,

as the bathwater spiralled

“I’ve Had

Cancer

Nine

Times”

Emma Hannigan, 42, is fighting a long-running war

with cancer. She tells Stylist her emotional story

Emma strugglEd

to makE doctors

bEliEvE shE was ill

C o n f r o n t i n g C a n c e r

I

7 8 S T Y L I S T . c o . u k

painful. I knew that something

was wrong but I spent the

next five months in and out

of hospital trying to get

answers. Eventually, I sought

a second opinion from a skin

specialist at The Blackrock

Clinic in Dublin. I told him

about my medical history

with the BRCA1 gene and

explained my surgery. When

I told him about the two lumps in

my neck, he did a visible double

take: I was admitted immediately.

i n t r e at m e n t

Within a week, I had been

diagnosed with dermatomyositis

[an auto-immune disease that

causes inflammation of the

muscles and the skin] and cancer

in my neck, shoulder and under

my arm (the pre-cancerous cells

in my breast had spread to the

lymph nodes). It was hard not

to be angry, livid even – this

was what I had gone through

hours of painful surgery to avoid.

But I was determined not to

let it eat me up. Instead, I got

lumps and was told the cancer

had returned for the third time.

And so began the relentless

cycle of diagnosis and treatment

– over the following two years

I was diagnosed with cancer five

more times, and each case was

treated with either intravenous

chemotherapy, chemotherapy

tablets or radiation.

Each time I have found lumps,

I’ve called my oncologist, he has

organised scans and we have met

at his office for the results. It has

almost become a routine. That’s

not to say it isn’t terrifying. Each

time I sit in his waiting room,

I imagine the cancer has spread

to every one of my organs. I can

the walls; paintings and

drawings by the children

who’d visited or been

treated at the hospital,

and I remember seeing

a page of tiny handprints

signed by a little girl called

Amy. On it, she had

written, “Please help me

to die, I’m suffering.”

I thought I was going to

be sick. That would finish me – if

one of my kids was going through

this instead of me. Any time I’ve

felt low over the past 10 years,

I think about those little handprints,

and remember that I’m OK.

Of course, life has changed.

I may not always have as much

energy as I used to, but my friends

and my children are understanding

about that. Otherwise, things are

great. I started writing from my

hospital bed out of boredom and

have been lucky enough to turn

that into a career. I’ve had eight

novels published now. I see that as

the silver lining behind all this pain.

Last year, I was diagnosed

with cancer for the ninth time,

and am currently undergoing

chemotherapy. I am also on

a long-term chemotherapy drug

that helps to protect my organs

from the spread of cancer. Until

I’m told that there is nothing more

that can be done and the cancer

has spread to a place they can’t

attack, I will always believe

I am going to be fine. I have

never wanted to give up – every

year I add to my life, every

Christmas I see feels like success.

My goal is to keep on fighting; to

see Sacha and Kim get married,

have children and do what they

want in life. I know the cancer

may return and spread. But my

doctors and I believe I can remain

one step ahead for many years to

come. For me, the illness is shifting

from a deadly disease to a chronic

one. The grass is not greener on

the other side. Everyone’s got

problems – you can roll over and

die, or you can decide to stamp

all over them. I am fighting a

raging battle with cancer and

I will never be complacent. If I give

up now, cancer will have won.

That’s not an option. It does

not deserve to win. I do.

The Heart Of Winter by Emma

Hannigan (Headline Review,

£13.99) is out now

almost feel it travelling like ink

around my body.

i n n e r s t r e n g t h

I am a positive person, but I’ve

had dark moments. Just before

Christmas last year I was

diagnosed with a large tumour

at the base of my skull, and had

to undergo 50 sessions of

radiotherapy, back-to-back.

Because of the location of the

tumour, I had to be strapped

down onto a table so I didn’t

move. The mask was so tight it

left deep marks on my face, and

the table was as hard as marble.

It was a claustrophobic and

painful experience. Having to go

into hospital and do that every

day is one of the hardest things

I’ve ever experienced.

But there are moments that

put things into perspective. The

night before I had my double

mastectomy, I couldn’t sleep.

So I went wandering around the

halls of the hospital. Eventually,

I happened upon the children’s

wards. There was artwork all over

a solicitor to help me draw

up a letter demanding that the

hospital would never tell another

patient that pre-cancerous cells

weren’t a danger. That was

enough for me.

I was given steroids for the

dermatomyositis and underwent

six months of chemotherapy and

surgery to remove tumours from

under my arms, which left me

exhausted. I also lost my hair.

But eventually, the cancer cleared

up and everything was great

for a couple of months. Then,

I discovered more lumps in my

neck. I will never forget that feeling

of dread. I knew that the cancer

was back. Soon after that, doctors

confirmed my suspicions. I was

reeling. I hadn’t even considered

getting cancer more than once.

But I still had my husband and

children (Sacha, 14, and Kim, 13)

to think about. I simply didn’t have

time to have cancer.

However, about a month after

my next round of chemotherapy

had finished and I’d been given the

all clear, I discovered yet more

down the plughole, I became

incensed. I wasn’t going to

let that happen to me. I was not

going to go down the plughole

with this cancer. So I used all my

energy to haul myself out of there,

looked in the mirror and said,

“That’s it, enough; you’re not

going to let this thing beat you.”

When I received my first

cancer diagnosis in 2007, I felt

overwhelming relief. I’d been in

and out of hospital for six months,

trying to convince specialists that

something wasn’t right. Having

someone finally look me in the eye

and say, “Yes, you’re sick,” felt,

strangely, like justification.

Two years earlier, at the age

of 33, I’d tested positive for the

faulty BRCA1 gene – a genetic

mutation that raises your

likelihood of developing breast

cancer to 60-90% and ovarian

cancer to 40%. The gene

mutation had only recently been

discovered, so the National Centre

for Medical Genetics in Dublin was

looking for volunteers to be tested.

My mum – who had three siblings

and an aunt who had all had

cancer – put herself forward

and tested positive for the gene,

meaning my likelihood of having

inherited it was 50%. I tested

positive soon after that.

At that point, I wasn’t scared.

It was an easy decision to have

surgery to reduce the risk. I felt like

a ticking time bomb. There was

no way I was going to sit around

waiting for this cancer to hit. I have

a husband and two children.

I had a double mastectomy,

oophorectomy [full removal of the

ovaries] and breast reconstruction

surgery over 12 months. It was

tough, but I reassured myself that

it was just one year of hospital

visits, with a little pain thrown in

and after that I could get on with

my life. The doctors had found

pre-cancerous cells in my left

breast when they were doing the

mastectomy, but were adamant it

was nothing to be concerned

about. So what happened four

months later was a huge shock.

One day, I found two lumps

in my neck, about the size of

peas. Around the same time,

I developed a red, itchy rash all

over my face, arms and upper

torso. The muscles in my arms

and legs also started to seize

up and became unbearably

“EvEryonE’s got problEms. you

can roll ovEr and diE or stamp

all ovEr thEm. i’m fighting

a raging battlE with cancEr”

Emma has rEfusEd to

givE in to cancEr

C o n f r o n t i n g C a n c e r

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