48 days later, I didn’t have cancer – but my grieving had begun

Emma shares her story of grief after cancer treatment, including the heartbreak of knowing biological children were no longer a part of her future.

I was 35 when I was diagnosed with cervical cancer in February 2020.

48 days later, I had a radical hysterectomy and, 8 days after that, I was told I didn’t have cancer anymore.

I barely had time to process the diagnosis, let alone that I was now in remission. I am grateful (and lucky) that this process was so quick, especially at a time when the UK was going into its first lockdown in response to Covid-19. However, the process of coming to terms with everything and navigating the feelings left behind has taken me a lot longer. 

The grief no one warned me about after cancer

I was already in therapy when I was diagnosed, having had a tumultuous 18 months in which a relationship ended, I’d moved back in with my parents and covered a lot of miles whilst my job situation worked itself out. I eventually decided to move back to Bristol, where I’d spent post-university life cementing friendships, and I felt this was where I could be most myself.

Therapy was meant to be an opportunity to make sense of the loss that had gone before, a relationship I thought would endure, as well as the creation of a family. Instead, it became the space in which, bit by bit, I started to feel the reality of the situation I was in. No womb, no prospect of biological children and a life totally turned upside down.

My feelings were big, and they were raw during 2020 and 2021. I recall very clearly one day kneeling on my bedroom floor, tearful and morose – thinking, I am just indescribably sad. I cried a lot during therapy sessions and wondered how life could ever be the same again. I began to experience how one loss can trigger previous experiences of it that haven’t been fully dealt with yet.

The loss of Christmas 2020, as a time I could see my family, was particularly challenging. I felt isolated and alone. I had Christmas lunch with one of my closest friends, her husband, and their child, but I was full of conflicting feelings. I was pleased I didn’t have to spend Christmas day totally alone, but bereft at seeing and bearing witness to someone else’s family Christmas. I also couldn’t voice this to anyone – especially not my friend, because how ungrateful would that have seemed?

“My feelings were big, and they were raw during 2020 and 2021. I recall very clearly one day kneeling on my bedroom floor, tearful and morose – thinking, I am just indescribably sad.”

Coming to terms with loss

One of the aspects of feeling grief post cancer (and not being able to have children) that is quite difficult is that people with children don’t really know how to respond. I find that most people I care about and would go to if I were struggling with something have children. In general, when someone is feeling something perceived as a negative emotion, others want to make them feel better.  So sometimes you get the “at least” responses… at least you can do what you like with your money, at least you can lie in when you want, at least they could treat the cancer.  Sure, and at least you’ve got a line of succession after you.

Whilst it is of course possible for people to empathise without being in the same situation, I find I don’t really want to speak to my friends with children about how I’m feeling. I’m aware this might be unhelpful. If I were to share how I feel about my experiences, maybe it would give others an insight into the reality of it. However, my edges can still feel too tender at times to risk it.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve been coming to terms with the loss of a life and an identity I assumed I would have. The thing about grief is that it will often show up when you’re not expecting it. I’ve had to navigate periods of feeling suddenly off kilter, blue, and wanting to retreat. It has often occurred during periods of stress or when there are loss-related triggers. I was ambushed by feelings of grief in summer 2024 when I led on ending several partnerships in my working life (which involved lots of goodbyes) and had a short break with my partner and his children, which I hadn’t thought through the impact it would have on me fully.

How I’m learning to cope

When feelings of grief and loss appear, I often resist them – even before I’m consciously aware that I’m doing it. I feel lonely and isolated, which often leads me to withdraw a bit from others (which doesn’t do anything for the feelings of loneliness and isolation). I am, however, getting more familiar with the feelings now – if I can allow myself to feel, it passes quicker than if I’d resisted.

I also consider the reality. Of course I’m going to feel sad at times, of course I’m still coming to terms with it all, and of course I’ll be navigating it for the rest of my life.

What’s also true is that each time the feelings appear, I get a little better at recognising what’s happening. I soften rather than harden myself to it. I try to articulate it to others. I know the feelings won’t last forever, and I let them flow through me. Walking outdoors has become particularly helpful for this. I think moving my body reminds me that things never stay the same for very long, which is comforting.