Kris Hallenga saved my life – I found my breast lump after seeing her documentary

It was in October 2014 when I sat down and watched Kris Hallenga’s powerful documentary Kris: Dying to Live. The fact she was brave, frank and funny of course shone through, but the thing that really hit home was how young she had been when she was diagnosed – just 23.

I was 26 at that time, I had a carefree life working as a personal trainer, living with university flatmates and planning a dream trip to Australia with my boyfriend George. Cancer wasn’t in my family nor was it remotely on my radar. Like most young people, I felt invincible.

But after hearing about Kris’s story, I did start checking my breasts. And it was just two days later when, while showering, I felt a small lump roughly the size of a broad bean in my right breast, towards the armpit. It didn’t hurt, and I could pinch it with my fingers, but it didn’t move.

I didn’t immediately panic or jump to the conclusion it was cancer, but I kept an eye on it and mentioned it to George.

When it was still there two weeks later I booked an appointment at the GP. I remember being so apologetic, assuming I was wasting their time and that it was nothing.

“You’re so young, it’s unlikely to be cancer,” reassured the doctor, who suggested I go and enjoy my month travelling. Which I did. But the lump didn’t disappear. In fact with my constant worrying at it as I applied sunscreen each day it felt like it had increased in size if anything.

I went back to the local surgery and saw a different GP. They also tried to suggest that breast lumps were normal, especially at my age. But I remembered how Kris has been told the same thing. I insisted that while breast lumps might be normal, they weren’t normal for me. This was another thing Kris had said, that we know our bodies better than anyone, and needed to be our own advocates if we felt something was amiss.

The GP agreed to refer me to a breast clinic at St George’s Hospital, they did an ultrasound, agreed it looked suspicious and took a biopsy. The next two weeks were slightly tense as I carried on as normally as I could. I still knew that statistically, in your 20s, the chances of having breast cancer are slim. But when the hospital rang and told me to bring someone with me to learn my results I did feel a dread in my stomach. George was away for work so I took my mum.

When they sat us down and said “it’s not the worst news but it’s not the best either”, I just went very quiet. This wasn’t the all-clear I was still expecting.

I didn’t cry, but sat there quite shocked as they said that the lump had “cancerous tendencies” and they didn’t know how it would behave and that it was safest to get it out. Leaving it in, they said, would be a “liability”.  They booked me in for a lumpectomy in two weeks time. I knew it was serious or they wouldn’t be acting so quickly. I didn’t cry funnily enough, I felt incredibly grateful I had insisted on being referred to a breast clinic. I knew others, people like Kris, had not been this lucky.

During surgery they removed the lump, which had turned out to be larger than they thought, as well as surrounding tissue. They were confident any cancerous cells had gone, and no further treatment was necessary. I emailed CoppaFeel after this saying how, thanks to Kris sharing her story, I’d known to check my body and had known to not be fobbed off by someone because of my age.

Kris wrote back saying well done, she was never the kind of person to say “Oh poor you” and offer pity. She was just so genuinely pleased I had taken action and could get on and live my life. She shared my cautionary tale on the CoppaFeel Facebook group, the charity was in its infancy then, and we ended up becoming good pen pals.

Until CoppaFeel, breast cancer was really seen as an older person’s disease, there were pink ribbons to wear and cake sales. Kris, however, went to festivals to spread awareness, she covered people in glitter and encouraged us all to ‘coppa feel’ of our boobs. She wasn’t coy about discussing nipples or “glittering a turd” which became the name of her book.

Inspired by her, I put signs up in my gym changing rooms showing people how to check their boobs, and I dressed up as a giant boob many times. Yes it made people laugh, but there was an important message behind it.

Less than two years after my lumpectomy I discovered that around my scar –  which was about the length of my index finger and in a curved shape – there was another lump.

I hoped it was just scar tissue, but I wasn’t taking any chances and sure enough a biopsy confirmed that it was indeed another cancerous lump. It’s likely that a tiny cell had been left the first time, which had developed. This lump was removed along with further tissue. Once again, I counted my blessings that at 28 I was still here. And because it was caught so early I didn’t need chemotherapy and hadn’t needed to freeze my eggs (which women are advised to do as chemotherapy affects fertility).

George and I are now the proud parents of Alfie, three-and-a-half, Barney, two, and we are expecting our third baby this month.

Throughout the pregnancies the doctors kept a close eye on my health and thank God everything is fine. The only thing I’ve noticed is that my right breast has fewer milk ducts because of the surgery, so the babies preferred my other boob. But I realise this is a tiny price to pay.

Alfie noticed my boob had a “sore patch” the other day, and I explained that it was because I had needed to have a bad thing that doctors needed to take away. It made me well up and quietly thank Kris yet again, because if I had left it there perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to have Alfie, and perhaps I wouldn’t have been standing here today.

Unlike Kris, I had someone paving the way for me and I owe everything to that fact.

The news of Kris’s passing is of course devastating. But she was such an upbeat, positive person I know she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to feel sad. She hadn’t “lost a battle,” she wasn’t “in a fight” and her death wasn’t “tragic”.  Her life was lived to the full, and she wanted us to do the same.

My message to other women is similar to Kris’: check yourself, know what is normal for you, and don’t allow yourself to be dismissed by doctors if you’re worried. This advice saved my life – it might save yours.

As told to Susanna Galton