Saving my twin sis!
Friday 5th September 2008
My reflection in the mirror made me giggle. Thanks to the smart, black uniform, I looked much older than 19.
'Good morning, PC Seaton,' I said, bursting out laughing.
I'd just started a 12-week police training course at a centre in Ashford, Kent, and was so excited. Wish you were here though, Kirsty.
Kirsty was my identical twin. We were both blonde with green eyes. But while I was sporty and outspoken, Kirsty was the reserved academic.We complemented each other. We were sisters and best friends. But our careers had separated us. Kirsty was studying sociology 90 miles away at the University of Kent, in Canterbury.
Though we went home to Barking, most weekends to see our parents and sister, Elle, 11, we spoke constantly. But, over those following weeks, the training left me exhausted.
'I feel like I'm fighting off a cold,' I moaned to Kirsty as the glands in my neck swelled.
'A throat infection,' the police doctor assured me.
Two weeks, and two courses of antibiotics later, I felt better.
Then I noticed something odd.
'Feel this,' I told Kirsty.
It was Friday, and we were both home for the weekend. I guided her hand to a lump the size of a golf ball behind my left ear.
'A swollen gland,' she shrugged.
'No,' I replied. 'My glands are down.'
She looked puzzled. But my mum, Jacqui, 46, a children's cancer nurse, looked positively alarmed.
Within a few hours, I was sitting in my GP's office.
'It might be thyroid cancer,' he said.
'You're wrong,' I scoffed. I didn't feel ill enough. Cancer indeed!
Back home, I strolled into the house, smirking.
'They think it might be cancer,' I told Kirsty and Dad. 'What a joke!'
'Yeah,' they chuckled along. But I sensed fear beneath the fake laughs. Perhaps I was in shock. But when I walked into the specialist's office at St Barts Hospital, in Central London, two days later, I was still smiling.
Mum, Dad and Kirsty crowded into the room as the doctor took a needle biopsy. He didn't even need to wait for the results.
'I'm pretty sure it's papillary thyroid cancer,' he said.
'I-I see,' I spluttered.
I listened as the doctor explained it was the least serious type.
'Well, that's good,' I said.
My family were all sobbing. Kirsty looked grief-stricken.
'I'll be fine,' I insisted.
I'm not sure she believed me.
Over those following days, as Kirsty arranged to continue her university course from home, she kept crying.
'What am I going to do if I don't have a twin?' she wailed. 'I wish I had cancer, too.'
I knew what she meant. The thought of living without her filled me with dread, as well. Somehow, I stayed positive and, a week later, I went into theatre. Nine hours later, I woke from the anaesthetic. The doctors had removed my thyroid and some infected lymph nodes. It had damaged my voice box and I could barely make a sound. A small price to pay to be cured.
But later, the doctor arrived with my biopsy results.
'Bad news,' he sighed, explaining I had medullary thyroid cancer, a far more severe form of the disease.
'It's unlikely you'll be cured,' he admitted.
Scans had found a tumour the size of an orange in my chest. But as Kirsty began to cry, I felt oddly calm. I wasn't ready to die. I was ready to put up a fight.
'What's the plan?' I asked.
'When you're stronger, we'll operate again,' he said.
But he had one final bombshell…
This form of cancer was likely to be genetic. As we were identical twins, there was a strong chance Kirsty would develop the disease, too. This time, it was my turn to worry.
'But we can help Kirsty,' the doctor said. 'Now we know she's at risk, we'll remove her thyroid as a precaution.'
Kirsty shook her head. 'Let's worry about Jenna,' she said.
Two months on, I returned to have the tumour in my chest removed. But they couldn't get all the bits, and radiotherapy failed to zap them.
I could have let my world crash down around me. But I turned my tragedy into a joke. If Kirsty asked me to put the kettle on, I shook my head.
'I can't,' I'd shrug. 'I've got cancer.'
If she was sitting on the settee…
'Move over. I've got cancer.'
Well, if I didn't laugh, I'd cry.
I had an op to repair my voice box, and the police found me an office job. But in January 2007, a year after I felt the first lump, another appeared in the same spot. Chemo would only keep the cancer at bay.
'How long have I got?' I asked.
'How long is a piece of string?' the doctor said.
Patients had lived 50 years, by managing their cancer with chemo. Thankfully, I didn't lose my hair, and after trying out a couple of types of chemo, they found one that reduced the size of my tumours. I'd bought myself some time.
'Now we need to help you,' I told Kirsty. It was June 2007, and she'd put it off long enough.
'OK,' she agreed.
She'd just finished uni, and started teacher training, so three months later, she was admitted to St Barts for the op. I visited later, with her favourite lemon cake.
'Love you,' I said, hugging her.
Kirsty was going to be OK. And do you know what? So was I. In February of this year, two years after I was diagnosed with cancer, I completed my police training. I was officially PC Seaton.
'I'm so proud,' Kirsty cried.
Seven months on, I've no idea what the future holds. But cancer's taught me to live for the moment. My misfortune has been my twin's saving grace. And for that, I'm truly grateful.
Kirsty says: 'I refuse to consider the prospect of anything happening to Jenna. We've always been two and it'll stay that way. Watching her battle cancer has taught us all to enjoy life and live for the day. I'm so proud of her. She's amazing.