As soon as the new cervical cancer vaccine Gardasil is available on the NHS, I will be there at the front of the queue with my 12-year-old daughter Abigail. I was overjoyed to read last week that the drug is now available privately and that the Government is considering how and when it will be administered through the NHS (see, A life-saving treatment, below). I’m keen for my daughter to have it as soon as possible because I don’t want her to go through the hell that I did.

My ordeal began in 1997 when I was 30; Abigail was 3 and I was pregnant with my son Tom. On reviewing my notes, my doctor noticed that I hadn’t had a smear test since 1992. My local surgery had failed to send out automatic reminders and, like many other women who belonged to my practice, I hadn’t thought to chase them. At the time I had no idea that smear tests screen specifically for cervical cancer. I just thought the smear was a general health check.

Six months after Tom’s birth, in October 1998, I finally had the smear. It was inconclusive. The doctor thought I was still very raw from the birth, so it had to be repeated several times over the next few months.

But in January 1999 I got a call from the doctor to say that there were concerns about the results of my latest test, which had revealed severe abnormalities.

An immediate colposcopy (optical examination of the vagina and neck of the womb) was arranged. I was told that any abnormality revealed by the colposcope would show up white. As the consultant performed the procedure, I watched on a screen. To my horror, I could see that the entire area was white. The look on the consultant’s face confirmed my worst fears.

A week later, after an MRI scan, blood tests and a painful biopsy, the consultant told me that I had stage three cervical cancer. I remember crying and panicking, convinced that I would die at only 31. I was given some leaflets to read about the disease, but I was in too much shock to look at them. Nothing made sense: I was a new mother and I felt so healthy — how could I have cancer? I didn’t know then that cervical cancer is a silent disease. By the time symptoms show, it’s usually to late to treat it.

I’ve often wondered since whether things might have been different if my surgery had sent out reminders and I’d had my smear, as scheduled, in 1996. Perhaps cancerous cells would have been detected then. But if that were the case, would I have gone on to get pregnant with my son Tom? And what if that smear had been negative, which was also possible? Three years later, by the time of the next, it would almost certainly have been too late to save my life. So in some ways I feel lucky that things turned out the way they did. I’m alive and I have Tom. My surgery has since reviewed its procedures and phones every female patient to remind them that their smear test is due.

After being told that I had cervical cancer, there was only one option available to me: a radical hysterectomy, the removal of my womb, Fallopian tubes, part of my vagina and my lymph glands. As I was so young, the surgeon told me that he would save my ovaries to prevent a premature menopause. I was in hospital for two weeks. I remember coming round from the operation to find myself attached to tubes, in pain and unable to move or speak. It was terrifying.

The year that followed was very difficult. Not only did I have two young children to care for, but I also had to recover from the physical and emotional effects of my surgery. I began to suffer anxiety and panic attacks. And then, as I started to heal, my husband, Chris, who’d been my rock throughout my ordeal, struggled to cope.

He has always believed it was his fault that I developed cervical cancer because the virus that causes it — called HPV — is sexually transmitted, although I’ve always insisted that it wasn’t his fault. Many sexually active people carry the HPV virus and it’s not known why some people develop cervical cancer, while others don’t. But our sex life suffered. My consultant insisted that we could have intercourse again nine weeks after surgery, but although I had no physical problems, Chris was afraid that he’d hurt me.

Cancer changed our relationship and Chris admitted that he didn’t love me in the same way any more. It changed me, too. Before, I’d been in my husband’s shadow, quiet and reliant. Afterwards I learnt that I had to be strong and I had new priorities. I trained as a counsellor because I wanted to help other families to deal with cancer and I became involved with the cancer care unit at my local hospital.

Until recently I didn’t tell people that I’d had cervical cancer because I felt ashamed. I believe there is still a stigma attached to the disease because of the way it is transmitted. I worried that people would think that I’d been sleeping around, that the cancer was my fault. But I’ve never been promiscuous; you can count my past boyfriends on one hand.

The new cervical cancer vaccine is a fantastic development. When I was being treated I remember thinking about Abigail and wishing that she was a boy so she would never have to go through what I have been through. Now, she doesn’t have to.

I want her to have the vaccine as soon as possible and I’ve told her why. There should be a national immunisation programme in all schools; 11 or 12 is not too young. Girls start their periods at 11 and some become pregnant at 12. In fact, by secondary school age, it could be too late to administer the vaccine because the girls might already have the virus and, years later, they could get cervical cancer.

I’ve heard people argue that giving the vaccine at a young age will encourage early sexual activity. I think that’s nonsense. It’s been shown that early sex education prevents girls from promiscuity. Knowledge is power: the more girls know, the less likely they are to be manipulated, to succumb to peer pressure or to take risks. Of course, no parent wants to think of their prepubescent child having sex one day. But it’s inevitable that they will, so why not protect them in advance? Teaching your children to practise safe sex isn’t enough. Condoms are not 100 per cent effective in preventing the spread of the HPV virus.

Today, I am healthy. I have to have annual smear tests and I have had a couple of scares, when abnormal cells have been detected. Fortunately, they’ve returned to normal without medical intervention. I’m lucky: 15,000 European women die from cervical cancer every year. One day, thanks to the development of the vaccine, that statistic will be history.

Interviewed by Hilary Freeman


A life-saving treatment

Cervical cancer kills more than 1,000 women in the UK each year and is the second most common cancer among young women after breast cancer.

The first vaccine (Gardasil) to prevent cervical cancer and other diseases caused by the human papillomavirus (HPV) became available in the UK last week.

Gardasil protects women from the types of HPV virus responsible for 75 per cent of cervical cancers, half all vulval and vaginal cancers and 90 per cent of genital warts.

Gardasil works by stimulating the immune system to develop antibodies to HPV. It contains virus-like particles — empty shells consisting of viral proteins but without genetic material, so they cannot cause disease.

Gardasil is licensed for females aged from 9 to 26.

About 15 per cent of women aged 20 to 30 carry the HPV virus. Not everyone who carries the virus will go on to develop cervical cancer; it can take years for the disease to develop after infection. Often the body’s immune system clears the virus and it is not yet known why some women develop cervical cancer while others do not.

Eventually, the vaccine is likely to be given to all girls in their first year of secondary school, with parental consent. Currently, it can be prescribed only privately.

The cervical cancer-screening programme will continue indefinitely, as the vaccine will not prevent the disease in women who have previously been exposed to HPV.