The news of the Princess of Wales, Princess Catherine‘s, cancer diagnosis resonated deeply, even for a seasoned journalist like myself who has reported on countless difficult stories over two decades. A wave of emotion washed over me as the announcement broke, a tear escaping before I went live on air. Here was Princess Cate, a vibrant young woman in the prime of her life, confronting a parent’s ultimate fear. My heart ached for Princess Catherine and her family, their ordeal hitting close to home because, almost exactly a year prior, I had received my own cancer diagnosis.
Just like Princess Cate, I was in my 40s, navigating the hectic world of work-life balance, raising young children while pursuing a demanding career. I was fit, maintained a healthy diet, and was not a heavy drinker. Yet, on Valentine’s Day in 2023, my life took an unforeseen turn with a diagnosis of cholangiocarcinoma, a rare and aggressive form of liver cancer, also known as bile duct cancer. The day I received that phone call marked a profound and irreversible shift in my life’s trajectory.
My journey began with a visit to my general practitioner shortly before Christmas in 2022. I had been experiencing mild heart palpitations and indigestion, symptoms I initially dismissed as stress from a demanding year. I had completed two books, co-hosted the Vanity Fair podcast, Dynasty, and covered the momentous funeral of Queen Elizabeth. Initial blood tests came back normal, leading my GP to suggest potential burnout and advise rest. However, persistent heart palpitations and a nagging feeling that something was amiss prompted me to push for further investigation. My doctor agreed to a cardiology referral to rule out heart issues. A CT scan and electrocardiogram were both normal. During a subsequent scan of my aorta, however, the radiologist detected a suspicious lesion on my liver. An MRI confirmed the presence of a tumor, palm-sized and growing within my liver.
The agonizing two-week wait for the results was a torment. Nausea became a constant companion, food lost its appeal, and my mind raced with a million anxieties. Hearing the word “cancer” confirmed my deepest fears. How could I be so unwell when I felt relatively healthy? Was it treatable? Would chemotherapy be necessary? And the most heart-wrenching question: how would I break this news to my children, Matilda, then 11, and George, just 6? They were so young, and so was I. I made a silent vow to myself: I would be there to watch them grow up. The following day, at The Royal Free Hospital in London, I was introduced to Dr. Dora Pissanou, a leading liver surgeon specializing in cholangiocarcinoma. Despite advice against it, I had already turned to Google, and the information I found was terrifying. For cholangiocarcinoma that hasn’t spread, the five-year survival rate ranges from a sobering 18 to 23%. If the cancer has spread beyond the bile ducts, that figure plummets to a devastating 2 to 3%.
Cholangiocarcinoma is often called “the silent killer” because its initial symptoms are vague and easily mistaken for common ailments like IBS. Other symptoms, such as itching, unexplained weight loss, chest pain, and jaundice, often only appear when the tumor has progressed significantly. While treatments exist for certain gene mutations, surgery remains the only potential cure. Thankfully, in my case, the tumor was operable, and a PET scan confirmed that the cancer had not metastasized.
I vividly recall my surgeon’s unwavering gaze as she told me, “This will be a fight, but you are going to be my champion.” In that moment, we became a team. In the days leading up to the surgery, I channeled my anxiety into practical preparations. I cooked and froze my children’s favorite meals, arranged playdates, and frantically worked to finish the final chapter of my latest book, The New Royals, submitting it to my editor just before hospital admission. The night before surgery, I held my son and daughter a little tighter, promising them I would be home soon. I decided to shield them from the cancer diagnosis for now, fearing it would be too much for them to bear.
