I was told to wear a black bra to cure my cancer

In January 2015, I had just finished a workout at home when I felt an itch in my right breast.

I scratched it and touched something hard that felt like a lump.

Checking to see what I could feel, I grabbed a tight, hard ball. There was nothing like it in my left breast and I knew something was wrong.

I called the GP the next morning and she said she would see me right away. After examination by her, I was referred to a breast clinic. The GP reassured me that given my health, family history and age (I was 30) it was probably OK.

But I got a call for a mammogram, a biopsy, and some other tests just days later. Given my doctor’s reassurance and the research I had done, I really wasn’t all that concerned.

A week later I was called back for my results. I had slept like a baby the night before. My husband later told me he hadn’t slept at all.

I went in and was told I had breast cancer. Stage three, grade three breast cancer.

When the surgeon said the words, I had to ask him to repeat it. It didn’t collapse. He told me again and reassured me that they had a treatment plan.

I am a very practical person and went straight into this mode. I just thought, ‘Okay, what should I do?’

It turns out that if you’re diagnosed with breast cancer, you basically have to do your PhD overnight. All the jargon, the terms, the options – it’s overwhelming. Not sure if I recorded everything.

I was essentially told that I would have to write off the following year to go through treatment; that they would start aggressive chemo to shrink the tumor and that after 10 days I would lose all my hair; that I would get it every three weeks.

I was also told that I would feel bad for the first two weeks after the chemo, and by the third week I would feel a little better. The surgeon said to me, ‘In those weeks, do whatever you wanted and haven’t done—enjoy it.’

Those words freaked me out because it sounded like there was a real possibility that these would be my last weeks. I was 30 – with a four-year-old son and everything was blurry at that point.

My main thought was how I was going to tell my mother that her daughter might die. I just couldn’t get past that thought.

I was never given a prognosis as such – I was told by the surgeon that their goal was to heal.

After hearing the news, I called my sister and told her. I couldn’t stop crying and asked how I was going to tell Mom, so my sister said she would come with me and we would tell my parents together.

My sister told my other four siblings and so my whole family was with my mother within 45 minutes.

I am South Asian and we are very community oriented – and in everything you do you need to consider the wider impact on family, friends and neighbours.

While it was wonderful that they were there to support me, it almost felt like I had a death sentence – we were all in the same room and they hugged me one by one, all crying.

Although my family was so supportive, people in the South Asian community only talk about certain things. And breast cancer in particular is very taboo.

But I wanted to talk about it – and it’s so unfair not to give someone the space to say what they want. I wanted to talk about finances and what would happen to my son if something happened to me. They would then say: ‘Just stop it, everything will be fine!’

Culturally, we weren’t raised to have those conversations — and we certainly weren’t raised to talk about our breasts.

It was about four weeks between telling my family and my chemo – they had to determine if it had progressed to stage 4. Fortunately, it had only gone into my lymph nodes, but nowhere else. It was phase 3.

The chemo was strong; it made me unconscious. I lost my hair, I had to move in with my parents so they could take care of me because I was so sick I couldn’t even hold a glass of water or go to the toilet myself.

Pieces of my hair started to come loose on my pillow and the couch as I stood up. I avoided showering for days because I was so scared. Then, on day 12, I took a shower and within seconds of putting water on my head, all my hair had fallen out and was on the floor of the cubicle. I just remember screaming and yelling to the top of my lungs.

That moment was a clear point where I looked like a cancer patient and I realized I wasn’t in charge of what was happening.

I saw myself without her that day, and that was the last time. Then I covered all the mirrors in the house, because I couldn’t see myself. I wouldn’t let anyone see me without something on my head, not even my husband. I really struggled to deal with it.

In the South Asian community, everyone feels like they need to gather, but not in a way that always helps. During my treatment, family friends with whom I am not in a relationship asked to come and express their condolences.

But during this time I was so hot with the chemo, so I wore shorts and tank tops. Because of my family’s faith, when people came, I had to be covered. I had to put on a scarf and sit there with an appreciative look.

That takes a lot of energy when you feel so unwell.

I did it a few times and then I said I couldn’t do this anymore. I don’t want to dress up and sit in front of them, even though I respected their intentions.

But I felt like there were a lot of expectations about how I should behave. At one point we were on the phone with other people in the community and I had to laugh. A relative – I won’t say who – said to me, ‘Don’t laugh, you should have cancer.’

It’s almost like showing that you’re sick and being visible to the community. Of course there’s no right or wrong way to look or act when you have cancer, but that’s how it felt.

There were several incidents that made no sense.

One day while my father was on the phone, I heard one of his friends say that it was “my lack of faith” that got me where I am today and that I needed prayers, not chemo.

My father ended the conversation abruptly and told me to continue with my treatment plan, of course. His advice was that faith would give me the strength to carry on, and that the two could sit side by side.

My sister had to tell me to wear a black bra because the cancer would go away.

Someone else in the community told me their mother had ovarian cancer and she was not getting any treatment, she just prayed and it went away.

I was also told that it was a sign from God that I had to wear a headscarf permanently. I made it clear that I was wearing this to hide my baldness, not for religious reasons.

After the chemo, I was given a choice between a mastectomy and a lumpectomy, where they simply remove the tumor and keep the rest of the breast. My first reaction was to go for the mastectomy but I wasn’t sure so I asked for my brother’s advice.

I told my boyfriend I talked to him and she didn’t believe I talked to my brother about a ‘boob job’. Let’s be clear, it’s not a boob job, this is breast cancer surgery. Still, she said she couldn’t mention her breasts in front of her brother in any context.

In the end I decided to go for the lumpectomy.

It saddens me that as a community we look out for each other and mean well – but the older generation still harbors stigmas around cancer, and breast cancer in particular. That thought process is passed down from generation to generation and you still have younger people who say all they need to do is wear a black bra to ward off cancer.

These communities stay within the communities, so they believe what they hear. And it prevents women from getting the support they need because they have nowhere to go

That’s why I decided to create my support group ‘Cancer Chaii & Chat’ to help South Asian women living through cancer get the help and sisterhood they need.

My experience has made me realize the importance of spreading breast cancer awareness and opening conversations within the community.

Being diagnosed with breast cancer at such a young age is hard enough, but coming from the South Asian community, which has a real stigma and taboo on it, makes this journey more difficult.

After my lumpectomy, I received radiation therapy five days a week for a month, which made me sick — but also had lasting consequences, such as nerve damage, bone pain and a broken rib cage. My treatment ended in October 2015.

Last year I was officially discharged after receiving ovarian suppression injections for three years and then a hysterectomy in December 2020, which forced me into menopause at age 35.

Cancer and life after cancer is difficult – and people are not open about it, or seek support when they need it. I hope my story and work in the community can change that.

Iyna supports Cancer Research UK’s Race for Life – sign up here

MORE : Girls Aloud stars Cheryl, Kimberley Walsh, Nadine Coyle and Nicola Roberts reunite for Sarah Harding cancer charity race after star’s death at age 39

MORE: Adele Roberts releases health update while undergoing colon cancer treatment: ‘My body isn’t mine, but I’m turning a corner’

MORE : Dame Deborah James raises ‘two fingers’ for terminal colon cancer as she gets ripped off for opera