When Kate Byrne, 49, was diagnosed with cancer, she thought the worst had already happened
WORDS: FRANCESCA WOODSTOCK. RACE PHOTO: STUART MARTIN/CANCER RESEARCH UK
Swishing around in a gorgeous silk wedding gown, I looked in the mirror and smiled. It was 2005, and as I took in the flowing skirt and beautiful bodice, I knew it was perfect. ‘This is the one,’ I said to my bridesmaids-to-be as they nodded approvingly.
My fiance Andy Herron, then 30, and I were getting married at a vineyard in South Africa the following year. I pictured us exchanging vows with the sun setting over the mountains, promising to love each other ‘until death do us part’. I couldn’t wait for our future together.
I’d met Andy three years earlier, in August 2002, at a mutual friend’s wedding in Dunstable, where we’d both grown up. Andy was such a loveable character and attracted attention for all the right reasons. Kind, funny and always up for a good time, when he flashed me a cheeky smile and his eyes locked with mine, I was smitten. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said, pouring me a glass of champagne. We spent the night laughing and dancing, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise to any of our friends when we became a couple.
We quickly moved in together, found a flat in Crouch End, north London, and started planning our lives together. We went on holidays, talked about marriage and children, and our families became intertwined. ‘You’re like a son to us,’ my mum Rita and dad Ken said to Andy whenever we visited.
After Andy proposed in May 2004, we dreamt of getting married at a South African winery, and booked it for 17 November 2006.
‘It’s going to be stunning,’ Andy said. My bridesmaids, Tracey, Jo, and my sister Sara, helped me pick out my wedding dress and choose the flowers. Everything was going brilliantly.
SECRET ANXIETY
But in December 2005, as I lay in the bath, I felt a small, hard lump in my right breast. Fear struck me. It was the size of a mint imperial, and although it wasn’t painful, I knew it needed checking. I made an appointment with my GP, but not wanting Andy to worry, I kept my concerns to myself.
Over the following few days, Andy and I spent Christmas with our families. ‘This time next year, we’ll be married,’ he said in a speech after dinner. Raising his glass, Andy looked at me lovingly. ‘To my future wife,’ he said, and I felt like the luckiest woman alive.
But in January 2006, when I was 32, the results of my biopsy came back, and it was bad news. ‘You have grade 4 b
