I recently read a post on the Breast Cancer Site by a lady who said that when she was diagnosed with cancer, she was worried about how her husband would take it. (Quite understandable.) She said that she was a slim, blonde, independent woman and she was concerned that the treatment would alter her looks and make her more dependent. (This happens to all of us – male or female – when we have cancer treatment.)

I had the same concerns: would my husband still be attracted to me, when I only had one boob? Would he find my appearance too freakish; after all, I had a hard time adjusting to the new me, so how could I expect anything less from him? I didn’t lose all my hair but it got very thin. The drugs messed my metabolism up even more than it already was and the weight stacked on faster than I could handle. I’d hoped that the one blessing from the process would be that I would at least get ‘thin and interesting’ looking. I was sadly disappointed. Towards the end of the chemotherapy treatments my husband was giving me anti-nausea injections and helping me to the loo. Not what you’d call the height of romance. So, reading this lady’s post I could empathise with her and her fears.

Then she said that during the time she underwent chemotherapy, and was losing her hair, her husband was trawling dating sites, looking for a younger woman. They are now divorced. (The mongrel!)

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard of this sort of thing. When I was undergoing radiotherapy, I met a lady whose husband had left her because he thought she was now ugly. (She still looked gorgeous, to me.) I met another lady whose partner had abandoned her because he was scared he could catch cancer from her! True story.

It’s so disappointing to realise just how many jerks are out there, seemingly normal and well-adjusted, seemingly happily married and a great dad/partner/wife… And then something unpleasant happens, something challenging, something not pretty and – boom! – it’s time to run.

True love conquers all things. True love lasts. Real men and women hang in there for the long haul. The Old Boy told me that he’d rather have me alive and well with one boob, than dead and buried with two. I’m sure he was just as distressed as me, in the early days, but we found ways to laugh about it and life went on. He stuck by me through every doctor’s appointment, every blood test, every chemo dose, every attack of diarrhoea (eeewww!) and every attack of self-consciousness.

20 years later, we’re facing round two together. You see, when we got married, we promised we would love each other for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live, and we meant it. It’s been 41 years and it’s working well, so far.

Every now and then, I’m reminded of just how blessed I am to have the fella I have. Thanks, mate!