Cancer taught me the hard truth about speaking up for myself

This First Person column is from Jennifer Fotheringham, who heard a radio program that spurred her to book a mammogram that she believes saved her life. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

Nobody forgets the moment they learn they have cancer.

For me, it was early December as I drove from Montreal to Ottawa. Clear road, caffeine in hand, sing-along tunes blaring, the day couldn't get any better.

It didn't.

A call from my doctor's office interrupted my music, so I hit the button on the steering wheel to answer. The nurse got straight to the point: "So, Jennifer, I am just following up about your upcoming appointment at the cancer clinic." This was the first I'd heard of it. 

It wasn't the first time I'd wondered if the health-care system was listening to women like me.

The word cancer has gripped me from the time I was a Little. I remember visiting my great-grandmother and stopping short of kissing her cheek, which was covered in a yellow goo encased in crust.

Later, the Littles listened as the Bigs gossiped.

It's cancer, they whispered.

What's cancer, I asked.

Shhh.

After Great-Grammy died, cancer took shape in my developing mind as a murderous villain that eats you from within until you get lemon-meringue-face and die. From the Bigs, there was no reassurance forthcoming that cancer was something people could survive or manage or live with.

There really isn't a good time or place to receive cancer news but hurtling down a highway at 120 km/h is perhaps the worst.

Or perhaps it was meant to be. After all, it came almost exactly a year after another noteworthy car experience that had brought me to this point.