Farrah Millar, 38, from Midland, WA, shares her story:
I gazed adoringly at my gorgeous baby girl as I breastfed her.
Lehnae was six months old and looked so content, her tiny eyes squeezed shut.
It had taken me and my partner, Brad, four years and three rounds of IVF to fall pregnant, so every moment with her was precious.
And we’d just discovered I had another precious little life growing inside of me! It seemed too good to be true that I’d fallen pregnant again so quickly.
I was worried about the prospect of having two kids under two, but I was so busy I didn’t have much time to think about it.
Lehnae finished her feed and as I unlatched her from my breast, I winced.
A small lump in my left boob felt sore.
“Mastitis again,” I said, making a mental note to mention it to my midwife.
But it slipped my mind at each appointment.
At around the same time, my dad had a heart attack, so I was worrying about him, too.
Finally, at my 38-week appointment, I remembered to mention it.
Instead of brushing it off like I had, the midwife frowned and sent me off for an ultrasound.
“We’ll need a biopsy, too,” a doctor told me afterwards.
I felt like they were making a big fuss over nothing. My breasts had always been lumpy, especially now while I was breastfeeding. And there was no history of cancer in my family.
I had the biopsy and four days later, went in for my planned C-section.
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Our son, Rhylan, came out with a mop of brown hair. I stuck him on my breasts and he fed with gusto.
Next morning, I’d just come out of the hospital shower when I found my obstetrician standing in my room flanked by two nurses. They all had looks of concern etched on their face.
It hit me like a steam train.
“Oh my God, I’ve got cancer,” I blurted.
I sat down on my bed, my newborn lying asleep in his little crib beside me. The nurses sat down on either side of me and held my hands as the doctor confirmed it.
I started crying hysterically, trying to process everything.
I’d given birth just 15 hours earlier, my C-section scar was still throbbing, and now I was being told I had breast cancer.
My mind raced from one negative thought to another.
Would I lose my breasts? Was I going to die? Would my daughter also get breast cancer?
Just then my mum walked in holding Lehnae. Her huge grin dropped when she saw us.
Brad arrived soon after and he tried to be strong, but I knew he was just as scared as I was.
Over the next couple of weeks I had lots of tests and was told the cancer was stage 3. That meant it was advanced and aggressive.
I was going to need chemo, surgery and radiation – the works.
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One of the hardest things was being told I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed Rhylan once chemo started. He was three weeks old when my treatment began.
My moods went up and down like a yo-yo. I was told I had a 72 per cent chance of beating it but I swung between confidence and fear.
Brad did his best but I found I craved the care and support of other women, so I started a Facebook group, FarrahsArmy, so I could share my journey.
Within days, people were sending me messages of support. Complete strangers were there for me on my darkest days and they helped so much.
Thankfully, Rhylan was an easy baby. He remained happy as I dragged him along to all my hospital appointments.
“It’s like he knows,” I said to Brad one day. “He’s looking after me.”
Chemo was hard. Sometimes I was too tired to even blow my own nose, let alone hold a baby. I even lost the skin on my fingertips.
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When I started to lose my hair, I shaved it all off with my bikini trimmer! I looked like a bald baby eagle.
Some days all I wanted to do was lay down and die, but then I’d think about my kids and feel guilty.
I tried to find pleasure in the day-to-day things I could do with them, like stroking their faces to get them to sleep. Just watching Rhylan sleepily drinking from his bottle gave me unbridled joy. I also imagined what kind of a man he’d be grow up to be.
Let me be here to find out, I prayed.
I finished my last round of chemo recently and will soon have a double mastectomy. I have no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes and my skin has the tell-tale grey tinge of a cancer patient.
Although my relationship with Brad has ended and I’ve faced further health complications, I’m feeling better each day.
I want my story to serve as a wake-up call to all women. When other mums clock my bandana and give me pitying looks at the playground, I want to run up to them and say, “Check your breasts! Go for a pap smear!”
And to those who also have cancer, surround yourself with other strong women and let’s beat it together.
