It began on an ordinary Monday morning, with an appointment I had postponed for far too long. The mammogram machine pressed and flattened my breast, a familiar discomfort for many women. The technician's instructions were precise, almost mechanical. After the procedure, I was left alone in a small room, half-dressed, staring at the X-ray images on a screen. The shadows and shapes looked like branches of an oak tree in a stylised painting. I couldn't interpret them, and my mind raced with the question: is there cancer hidden in those images?
When the doctor finally returned, she smiled and said, "Your mammogram is absolutely fine." The relief was immense. But then came the ultrasound. As the gel was applied and the probe moved across my breast, I began talking, partly to ease my own anxiety. I told the radiologist about my family history—how almost every woman in my family had faced breast cancer. She stopped talking and focused on one area, pressing the probe down repeatedly. The silence was deafening. "I think you need a little biopsy," she said. "There is a darker patch there that doesn't disappear as I move the probe."
Two days later, I returned for the biopsy. In France, my adopted home, the process was swift. But I knew that in other European countries, the wait between mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy could stretch for weeks. The procedure itself was quick: a local anaesthetic, a small cut, and a cannula inserted five times into my flesh. Tiny pieces of whitish tissue were placed in glass containers. That was the beginning of a week I will never forget.
The Parallel World of Waiting
For seven days, I entered a kind of limbo. Everything seemed filtered, distant. My body and life were on hold. I postponed a work trip and meetings with friends. I began the process of acceptance, allowing the taboo word—cancer—to become a possibility. I imagined the scenarios: surgery, chemotherapy, the whole ordeal that millions of women endure. I recalled my mother's battle, which she survived, and my auntie, who did not. I thought of my cousin, a bright survivor, and her sister, who lost her stomach to cancer but remains serene.
During that week, the world outside faded. Student protests and riots in French cities, which I would normally cover as a journalist, became distant noise. I floated, detached, bracing for an emergency landing. The morning of the results, I wandered the streets of Lyon for hours, a lost soul, trying to prepare for the worst. The irony was not lost on me: it was Pink October, the global breast cancer awareness month. Pink ribbons and symbols were everywhere, a constant reminder of the disease I feared.
Millions of euros are raised each year for breast cancer research and awareness, yet organised screening participation in France remains below 50%. This is not just a French problem. Across Europe, there are stark inequalities in early detection and care. In some countries, like the Nordic nations, screening rates are high and outcomes are better. In others, particularly in Eastern Europe, access to mammography and timely treatment is far more limited. The European Commission has set targets, but implementation varies widely.
My own experience was privileged: I had access to prompt, high-quality care in Lyon. But I couldn't help thinking of the women in rural Romania or Bulgaria who might wait months for a biopsy, or those in the Balkans where screening programmes are still being built. The recent cuts to cancer funding in Russia, where defence spending now consumes 35% of the budget, are a stark reminder that political priorities shape health outcomes.
On the seventh day, I walked into the clinic, my heart pounding. The doctor looked at me and said, "It's benign." The relief was overwhelming. But the experience left a mark. It made me acutely aware of the inequalities that persist across our continent. While I could afford to wait and had access to excellent care, many women do not. The European Union has a new cancer screening scheme, but its success depends on member states' commitment and funding.
As I left the clinic, I saw a pink ribbon on a shop window. It felt different now. It was no longer just a symbol of awareness, but a reminder of the fragility of life and the urgent need for equitable healthcare across Europe. The week of waiting taught me that early detection saves lives, but only if everyone has access to it. That is the real challenge we face.
