At the jetty, I had trouble getting up from the deckchair. After having received an infusion in the colour of a strawberry daiquiri, I was back in top form. Three days later I flew alone with my children for a week to Miami, where I had lived in my twenties, then to Nicaragua for three more weeks. I wanted to make the most of my “last summer” when I wasn’t working, together with my three boys, and we did! Our time together was perfect. Almost! My husband was not there because he had to work. And then there were those back pains that were there no matter how hard I tried to get rid of them.

It was indeed our last, absolutely carefree time. The term “last summer” was soon to take on a completely different meaning for me. I often asked myself whether I had a premonition and therefore didn’t listen to my body earlier, or was it because I didn’t want to miss our trip under any circumstances? Did I really think it was just back pain? Or was it because you always assume that it only affects “the others” and you yourself are spared? Did I think that I had already put my personal part of the “misfortune of a lifetime” behind me?

As we all know, you can’t change what has happened. Apart from making yourself promise never to let it happen again, there is little point in giving it much thought. You can use your energy better, especially in the case of cancer.

Back home, after the trip, the pain became unbearable until I finally made an appointment at the hospital through a doctor friend, Dr Matthias Brenner. But it didn’t come to that. On the morning of our eighth wedding anniversary, the darned seventh year was over, there was a loud crack. The sound came from my spine. I had just nursed my baby for the last time. All I remember is excruciating pain and all the paramedics in my bedroom. The emergency doctor had his hands full getting me out of bed. The pain could not be contained, no matter what medication I was given.

What kept me afloat was the eye contact with my nine-month-old son who was sitting in his red cot watching everything. He was very calm and didn’t take his eyes off me for a second and I didn’t take my eyes off him. It was an unreal situation, as if I was both the observer and the protagonist.

At the hospital, various examinations were then on the agenda. Dr Brenner pulled out all the stops.

I assumed that I had broken my vertebra, bad enough.

The biopsy of the lumbar vertebra revealed it to be what the doctors called a “malignant and particularly aggressive” tumour.

I had to go for a CT scan to see where it came from.

“What? What do you mean, where did he come from?” Panic spread through me.

It, the cancer, had already spread thoroughly. Starting from the breast, via the bones and lymph to the liver. To top it off, the breast biopsy revealed that I had two different types of cancer, it had already mutated.

I couldn’t believe it: Wasn’t it said that if you breastfeed, you don’t get breast cancer? Why does my breast want to kill me now? They were always something particularly uncomplicated, I liked them. It symbolised my femininity, I only associated it with beauty. How can that be?

There I was, in a hospital where they knew a lot about orthopaedics but didn’t have much experience with cancer. I was told that I probably wouldn’t live to see Christmas. It was October.

My only thoughts were: “We’ll see about that!” and that I was thinking “what now?”. I had no intention whatsoever of taking on the role of victim.

A priest and a psychologist came to me. I asked them both to leave. They did not miss the opportunity to tell me again that I had something “very bad” and asked if I realised it. I assured them that I would not jump out of the window, especially as this was not physically possible, and that I understood exactly what was going on. I asked them again to leave because I had to make a phone call now and actually had no more time to lose.

I immediately called our friend Prof. Dr. Michael Fuchsjäger, a leading radiologist for breast cancer in Austria. He was great, took me by the hand, caught me in my first shock and prepared me for the next steps.

I suddenly felt I could take action, had an option and knew I was in the best hands. He reassured me and sent me to his colleague Dr Georg Pfarl, the radiologist who performed the biopsy. When he finished and told me the stage of my cancer, he gave me a key phrase that was most important to me: “What you are facing will be a rollercoaster ride. Focus only on the end of the ride! Make sure you get off safely!”

That’s exactly what I’ve been doing ever since.

The first oncologist I met immediately after the biopsy was technically very competent and quite sympathetic, but I was in a state of shock, it was impossible for him to get through to me. However, I felt that he and I were not a long-term match. If I had to enter into a long-lasting relationship with an oncologist, at least the chemistry between us should be right.

So Prof. Dr. Fuchsjäger referred me to a very experienced oncologist who knows a lot about communication, Prof. Dr. Rupert Bartsch. He said the following to me: “There is good news. Three percent of the patients who have the same clinical picture can be completely cured. With the others, we are able to achieve chronification for ten, fifteen years. A lot happens in breast cancer research in such a long period of time.”

I told him, 3 %, that suits me, I’m in.

That moment, almost five years ago, was my big turning point. There was suddenly hope, there was an option for me. Much more, if plan A didn’t work, I was given the option to survive as long as possible, to fall into that group that can be cured because they will find something.

My outlook thus changed from “I probably won’t live to see Christmas” to actual possibilities. My diagnosis hadn’t changed, but my perspective had. My oncologist could just as easily have said that 97% have no chance of long-term survival. I suppose I would have tried anyway, but the motivation behind it would have been completely different.

I made a conscious decision at that moment. I am making the most of the time I have. I will live as long as possible and as well as possible. I decided to do everything for it. I promised myself that I would make the difficult road ahead of me as pleasant and good as possible.