Katrina Gwynne-Jones

Hello – It’s been a while since my last post, and much has unfolded during that time. I want to share a piece of my journey with you – it is not a plea for pity or recognition, but rather a reflection of my experiences that have shaped who I am today. They are neither extraordinary nor tragic, yet they are an important part of my journey. I invite you to step into this story, not just as an observer, but as someone who might find familiarity in the words that follow.

October 2023 –

The sea greets my skin,
Beneath the steady shower,
Time stands still—then shifts.

During a self-discovery trip abroad, I was reconnecting with who I am, so the idea of a ‘shift’ felt like a strange dynamic but it’s the best way I can describe where I was on this journey. As I began testing my strength and figuring out what I want from life, I noticed the shift happening gradually within me. Then, when I first felt the lump in my breast in the shower, the shift changed again—but this time, to a whole new dimension. When I returned home, my focus shifted once more. I threw myself into setting up my own business and diving into my studies, pushing it to the back of my mind. Then, as the Christmas season approached, something changed. My little one enveloped me in her loving hug, but this time, it brought pain in my breasts, followed shortly by unbearable discomfort in my shoulder. It was then I knew it was time to consult my GP. She referred me to the Breast Unit at the hospital, but her words still resonate: ‘Usually, you don’t feel pain with cancer.’

25th of January 2024 –

First steps through the door,
Sterile walls hum with still strength,
Silent stories shared.

My first breast assessment at the hospital. It was a day I had never imagined would come. I walked into the breast unit for the first time, unfamiliar with everything—the sterile walls, the machines, the quiet hum of nervous energy. There was a sense of weight in the air, but it wasn’t just mine. The room was filled with a quiet strength, a mixture of vulnerability and resilience, each person carrying their own story. I had a mammogram followed by a biopsy. It was surreal. I found myself reading the room, feeling the unspoken stories, the shared experience of life in all its unpredictable forms. This wasn’t just about me. It was about being human, being in a moment of uncertainty, and yet finding connection in the most unexpected places.

12th February 2024 –

“You’ve got cancer,” said,
Time slowed, yet raced through my veins,
Pieces fall in place.

And then, came the words. ‘You’ve got cancer.’ It wasn’t surprising, yet those three simple words still shook me to my core. The confirmation that I was ER+ and PR+ came quickly, but before we could decide on a treatment plan, there was a longer wait (not too long) for the results of the HER2 test. And then, it was confirmed: I was positive for that too. In that moment, everything felt both distant and immediate—like time slowed down, yet it was rushing by all at once. The reality was setting in, piece by piece, but there was still more to know, more to face.

This was my treatment plan going forward:

3 x EC (Epirubicin and Cyclophosphamide)

4 x Docetaxel (Did not completed)

Then, an updated treatment plan was outlined going forward.

Therapeutic Mammoplasty Surgery

Pertuzumab (ended when Docetaxel was not completed) & Trastuzumab (every 3 weeks) with Heart Rest Scan every three months

Radiotherapy (x13)

Tamoxifen (Daily for 5 – 10 years)

Neratinib (This was decided as Docetaxel was not completed, but only maybe after when Trastuzumab finish.)

26th March 2024 –

The MRI scans posed a unique challenge, but I approached the experience with a constructive mindset. Given my cochlear implants, I understood that the magnets in my head required careful consideration, especially since the areas being scanned were located near that region. Instead of the hospital where I was diagnosed and treated, I needed to visit the facility where my implants were installed. This gave me the chance to work with the Audiologist Consultant, who helped adjust my head wrap beforehand, ensuring a smoother scanning process.

I can’t even begin to describe the scan itself, nor would I wish that experience on anyone. It was absolutely horrendous. Before entering the machine, I was repeatedly told not to lift my head, as the magnet could pull. I had to lie facing down while undergoing the machine. Once inside, communication with the staff was impossible. I couldn’t ask how much longer I had left, except for a small button in my hand, which I could press to stop at any time. It felt like being completely isolated in that small, unyielding space. Once the scan started, the experience was beyond imaginable. I could actually feel the magnet pulling, and at one point, I stopped because I didn’t know how far it could go before it would be ripped out. I was then told that if the implant flipped, I’d need another surgery to fix it—just what I needed on top of everything else. Back into the machine I went, trying to stay calm, breathing deeply throughout the ordeal. But after both sessions, my head became swollen and agonisingly painful for nearly two weeks. I literally begged my MDT not to put me through it again.

In all honesty, I had no idea how this would all unravel, testing my strength in ways I never anticipated. I have been taking each hour as it comes, one step at a time.

[MRI Results – 26th March 2024 – Cancer lesion was 25 x 17 x 19 mm and the satellite lesion was 6mm. Then another scan on 20th May 2024 – 23 x 14 x 16 mm and the satellite lesion has also reduced to 4 mm.]

My treatments are still ongoing, and while I haven’t shared my experiences on the treatment yet—since they vary so much from person to person—perhaps one day I will. For now, though, it doesn’t feel necessary. However, here’s a picture from when my hair began to fall out. With the support of my family, we all took turns cutting and shaving my head. It was as much their journey as it was mine.

Silent words spoke loud,
A fairy’s touch, firm support,
Strength in love and sound.

From a Deaf perspective, communication is at the heart of everything. It’s essential for connecting with others, understanding, and feeling heard. I honestly didn’t know how I was going to get through this ordeal, but little did I know, I had a little fairy watching over me. I am incredibly grateful for the exceptional support I received from my Breast Cancer Nurse (BCN). Her unwavering dedication and advocacy ensured that my communication needs were fully met—whether it was through emails instead of voice calls or arranging for an interpreter in specific situations. Her efforts were not only invaluable to my treatment but essential to my well-being and recovery.

There have been moments, though, where it felt as though my very soul had been shattered. From having my human rights as a Deaf person violated, particularly in terms of access to sign language, to feeling excluded from the mother’s group at my daughter’s school, I’ve faced struggles that no one should ever have to endure. The isolation and frustration were overwhelming at times, but I am far from alone in this journey. The resilience I have today comes from the unwavering support of my family and friends, especially my BCN, my husband, and my children, whose love and strength have kept me going every step of the way.

The things that have been lifesaving for me are: following podcasts, exercises, tending to my garden, hiking with my partner, car journeys with my family, and so much more.

• My favorite exercises are Reformer and mat Pilates, which I absolutely love. I’m incredibly grateful to my daughter, who went above and beyond by securing a 6-week free gym membership at her workplace for me. Her thoughtful gesture has been such a huge help in getting my strength back, and I’m so thankful for her support in my journey to recovery.

27th November 2024 –

Gone but never lost,
Vacuum hums where he once lay,
Love lingers in stillness.

The passing of Frodo, my dog {my shadow} has hit me like a gut-wrenching wave. He was my saviour in every sense. I truly believe he hung on, not just for me but for the entire family. And when he left, I wholeheartedly believe he took our pain with him. He lived to an incredible age, just a month shy of 16. He was the gentlest, kindest, cleverest and most humble dog, bringing light to everything he touched. He filled every corner of our lives with love and nudging.

I miss him deeply—especially when he would always come and watch me while I vacuumed, never moving from his spot. I’d hoover around him, and now there’s no fur left to gather. The house feels so empty without him; his huge, lovable presence is sorely missed. It feels wrong to be at home without him. He taught us so much about love, and I will be forever grateful for that. I will hold him in my heart, where he will never be far apart.

2025

Live fearlessly bright,
Chase dreams beneath starry skies,
Magic in each step.

Here’s my Manifesto (I know, it sounds a bit cliché, but it’s something I wholeheartedly believe in!)

I want to embrace life fully and live fearlessly. I want to wander the world, soaking in everything. I want to dance under the twinkling stars.

I want to celebrate everything. I want to plunge myself in my dreams, and make them real with every step. I want to chase what makes me feel alive, and enjoy every adventure.

I want to find my inner fire and unearth the magic in even the most ordinary days. Each moment is a chance to create, feel, and live with purpose.