At the time of writing, women in the UK are routinely invited for free NHS breast screening at some point during the three years after their 50th birthday, and then every three years until they reach the age of 71.
Breast screening uses a test called a mammogram, which takes two quick X-rays of each breast, one from above and one from the side. The aim is to detect breast cancer early, when treatment has the greatest chance of being successful. It’s fair to say that having one’s boobs squashed in a cold sandwich toaster crossed with a medieval vice press is not exactly anyone’s idea of fun, but these tests occasionally identify something that needs a closer look. Overall, the NHS Breast Screening Programme currently finds cancer in around 9 out of every 1,000 women who are screened.
I was called for my routine breast screening on 7th May 2026. Less than a week later, a letter arrived inviting me back for a follow-up appointment the following week. The letter explained that around 4 out of every 100 women (about 4%) are called back for further tests, but that many of those women won’t have cancer.
I check my breasts (fairly) regularly in the shower, but of course, after receiving that letter, I became much more thorough and spent rather longer studying myself in the mirror. I couldn’t identify anything that seemed out of the ordinary. With hindsight, I’m not sure most of us really know what we’re looking for beyond something being “different”. What actually counts as a lump? Is it the size and consistency of a pea, a grape, or something else entirely?
Not really knowing what to expect, I drove myself to the hospital for the appointment. The first step was an injection of contrast dye, which gave me the odd sensation of momentarily tasting metal at the back of my throat, quickly followed by the rather alarming feeling of a hot flush beginning “down there”. A further mammogram was then taken.
After a short wait, I was shown into another room for an ultrasound examination. By this point, I already had a nagging feeling that things weren’t looking quite as reassuring as I’d hoped. The wonderfully kind nurse kept asking whether I’d like a cup of tea, a coffee, or a cold drink.
At the time, I thought she was simply being exceptionally thoughtful.
Looking back now, I realise she probably already knew what was coming next.
The consultant radiologist asked for my permission to perform a biopsy under local anaesthetic and insert a tiny titanium marker clip into my right breast. It wasn’t too awful, although it did feel a little like being stapled three times in quick succession! A dressing was applied, and I was asked to wait again before they carried out a third mammogram.
By now, I knew something wasn’t right, so I asked the technician if I could ask a couple of questions. Of course, she wasn’t in a position to discuss my results, but she said she’d see whether the consultant could spare a few minutes to speak with me.
I was actually genuinely surprised when she did. I asked her what she’d seen and she showed me a digital image which was unmistakably a cross-section of a breast, with a small white area near the top centre, a bit like a poached quail’s egg.
I asked, “D’you think it is cancer?”
She paused for a moment before quietly replying, “Yes”.
She then added, “Your next appointment will be with a breast surgeon. You’ll receive a letter very soon.”
As I drove myself home, I reflected on how you never really know what is around the corner. Just a couple of hours earlier, I’d left the house expecting nothing more than a routine follow-up appointment.
Then I had one of those strange thoughts that only seem to bubble to the surface when life has suddenly been turned upside down. I remember thinking how ironic it would be if, on the way home, a truck jumped a red light and T-boned my car. After everything that had just happened, that somehow seemed almost absurdly possible.
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