BECKY SAYS

The other day I was trying on a bra when I glimpsed myself in the changing room mirror and I had to do a double take. Was that sassy young woman with the spectacular cleavage really me?

It's four months since I had my healthy breasts removed but, far from fearing my femininity has disappeared, I'm convinced that I'm the luckiest woman on Earth. I may have lost my natural breasts, but thanks to reconstructive surgery I've gone from a 36B to a 36D, which is more in proportion to my 5ft 9in height. Much more importantly, I've probably saved my life.

My breasts were a ticking timebomb. I'd inherited a defective gene which meant I stood an 85 per cent chance of developing breast cancer, compared with the average of 14 per cent. Becoming the youngest woman in Britain to have a preventative double mastectomy may sound horrific, but I felt it was the only way to be free of the curse of breast cancer.

I was 11 when Mum went into hospital to have a double preventative mastectomy - the first woman in Britain to do so. By then I realised that cancer stalked my family. I never met my grandmother because she died when Mum was only 16, and many of my cousins on my mother's side of the family have also lost mothers and grandmothers. Visiting Mum in hospital afterwards, I could see the relief on her face was enormous. At last, she'd escaped this terrible scourge.

Following her lead, I saw her surgery as a positive step. Back home, snuggling up in bed beside her, I saw her scars, but I wasn't horrified. Far from it, because Mum was so at ease. In fact, she has never had reconstructive surgery. In 1993, when Mum had her operation, it wasn't offered as a package to do both procedures, and she didn't consider doing it privately. Although she's had the opportunity since, she's happy without her breasts. Perhaps because of her family history, she was never fond of them or regarded them as essential to her femininity.

The following year, when I was 12, the gene test for BRCA1 was pioneered. This gene normally suppresses breast tumours, but when it's faulty, as in our family, it does the opposite. Mum and many of my adult female relatives took the blood test. Mum explained it would be available for me when I was 18 and mature enough to deal with the consequences. However, as the years passed the fear of cancer receded. At 18, I was too busy studying for A-levels and working first as an extra on TV programmes such as Peak Practice and then as a radio presenter to worry. Naively, I believed I had plenty of time.

And then something terrible happened. In February 2003 my cousin Helen Caudwell, who was 29, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had gone into hospital to prepare for a preventative double mastectomy when doctors discovered a tumour. It had been growing for at least two years.
Although the gene test which she had taken at 21 had been positive, she had postponed preventative surgery. Now it was like being punched in the stomach. Helen dealt with the surgery — she had both breasts removed — and the devastating effects of chemotherapy with incredible courage. But watching her laughing and joking even when her hair had fallen out, I knew I could never be so brave. She has survived and is now being monitored.

By then I had started dating Carl Price, 27, who's the brother of one of my best friends and so familiar with my family history that he's totally unfazed by it. He reassured me he'd love me whatever the outcome. That meant so much. In January 2004 with Mum's blessing I had the blood test. Although I'm following in her footsteps, she has always insisted this is my journey and she has never pushed me. Her love and trust have been incredible.
Four weeks later, in February, Mum and I returned to St Mary's Hospital, Manchester, where the geneticist, Professor Gareth Evans, told me: "I'm afraid it's bad news: you carry the faulty BRCA1 gene." My stomach lurched but, instead of bursting into tears, I started laughing. I had waited for this moment all my life; now I knew the worst.
'Peace of mind'

There were three options: I could have a trial procedure where the ovaries are shut down so they stop producing oestrogen, which feeds tumours. However, there's no proof it works. Secondly, I could be monitored regularly or, like Mum, I could take the third option and have my healthy breasts removed. I knew instantly that I wanted a mastectomy. It would guarantee my peace of mind.
I rang Dad with the news. "Do whatever you think is right," he said. He and Mum had separated when I was five, and I live with Mum and my lovely stepfather, Chris. But I know Dad, a business consultant, adores me and has been terribly worried about me.
Then I rang Carl. "It's you I love, not what's on your chest," he said. I was so touched that I cried.

Just a few weeks later I saw surgeon Andy Baildon at Manchester's Wythenshawe Hospital. I was so relieved when he explained that he build me new breasts at the time as removing my own. Living without breasts suits Mum - but I'm young and want to feel like a woman.

He would bring my chest muscles forward by placing 'expanders' made out of saline bags under them. At regular intervals over the following months, more saline would be added through a valve under my nipple until my breast skin had expanded sufficiently and permanent saline implants could be fitted.
From that moment I started preparing myself. Although I'd been promised implants, my biggest worry was that I'd stop being me. However, as I've never relied on my breasts for sex appeal, I realised that my confidence comes from my personality - and losing my breasts wouldn't dent that. Just knowing that gave me extra confidence. Besides, I knew Carl loved me whatever. He has been a tower of strength.

As breakfast presenter with Peak FM in Chesterfield - a job I've held for four years - I told listeners what was happening. If my friends and family knew, it didn't seem fair to keep others in the dark.

I scheduled surgery for January 2006. I wanted time to adjust and needed tests and counselling to ensure I was prepared. I decided to keep my nipples - although there's a slight risk of cancer developing in them - as it would help me feel that my new breasts were part of me. My surgeon suggested building bigger breasts, a 36D. "You may as well get something nice out of the op," he said.
The past year has been a roller-coaster full of milestone moments. In October, I celebrated my 24th birthday - my last with my natural breasts. In November, Carl took me to Cuba, though by then I was beginning to feel wobbly emotionally. Would the reconstruction go OK? Would I ever wear a bikini again?

As the day loomed, I started getting really nervous, but three days before I went into hospital a hundred of my friends gathered in a local pub for a 'Saying Goodbye to Becky's Boobs party'. I felt enveloped by love, but it hammered home the huge step into the unknown I was taking.

The operation
Finally, on January 25, Mum drove me to Wythenshawe Hospital, and that's when the reality dawned. I'd been given a side room next to the cancer ward. It was full of women, some only in their 30s, who were fighting for their lives. It was chilling.
I was losing my breasts, but I'd been given a choice over my destiny which they'd been denied. Immediately I stopped feeling sorry for myself.

Mum stayed with me all night trying to distract me. I'd never had an operation before, and I admit I was frightened. But Mum was with me and I managed to sleep. At 8am the following morning, Carl appeared at my bedside with a huge bunch of flowers. He'd made the 90-minute journey from his home in Bakewell to wish me luck. I wanted to cry.

The next thing I remember is coming around four hours later to hear Mum's voice. "Yes, she's definitely got some shape," she was saying to Carl. I looked under the sheet and there was this miraculous cleavage. There was no pain at that stage because I was pumped full of painkillers.

Andy had promised me a nice shape, but I hadn't dared expect perfection. My breasts were wrapped in a form of protective clingfilm so I could see everything. I was ecstatic.
I smiled, and poor Mum burst into tears. The pent-up emotion and relief were too much to hold in. I was on cloud nine. Carl was as thrilled as me - simply because I was so happy.
There was a small scar running from above each nipple around my breast in a question mark shape. I was told it would gradually fade - and it has.

At first the excitement numbed the pain. Catheters fed a steady drip of anaesthetic into the breast area, but even so the following day I was horribly uncomfortable. I couldn't move and had to lie on my back. But by Sunday - four days after the operation - my wounds had healed so well I could lift my arms to brush my hair.
On Monday I was allowed home and two weeks later my stitches were removed. My new breasts were so heavy I had to wear a support bra for the first eight weeks - in fact, I still wear one at night. It's because large quantities of saline have been pumped in to help stretch my skin.

Secretly, I had feared that my new breasts would feel alien but, perhaps because I kept my nipples rather than false ones made, they've always felt like part of me. It's a huge relief and I've been assured there will be good sensitivity. I feel incredibly lucky.
One in ten women develops breast cancer, and I've had that fear lifted and been given a bust I'm proud of. Although I never had cancer, the fear of it haunted me. Now, it's gone for ever and I have a new zest for life. I feel so blessed to have been able to change my destiny. How many other people are that lucky? Now I have to make the most of my life.

I adore my job and I'm so lucky to have Carl. Mum and I have always been close, but this has cemented our bond. Of course, I know I may pass this terrible gene on to a daughter if I have one, but that doesn't worry me. Thanks to Mum's example, I have taken control of my life. What greater gift to give a child?

WENDY SAYS

When I saw Becky after the operation, I cried - not because of what she'd suffered, but because this great shadow had been lifted from her life.

I was nine when I watched my mother nurse my dying grandmother. Eight years later, Mum, a teacher, died herself. She was just 45. I was 16 and my sister, Diane, only 12. I became so paranoid about my own breasts that I refused to check them in case I found a lump. When Becky was born in October 1981, the dread deepened. Would she be left motherless? I was convinced there had to be a genetic reason, but doctors dismissed it.

Everything changed, however, when Becky was nine and my worst fears were confirmed. It was 1990 and I had a chance meeting with a cousin, Jennifer Caudwell. She explained that she had suffered two bouts of breast cancer in her early 30s. She had a sister, Barbara Ayre, who died at the age of 38 and their mother, Lilian Holmes, had just developed it at 67.

My blood ran cold. I plotted a family tree showing that nine of the ten females in three generations of my family had contracted breast cancer. Six had died. Often the gene had been passed through a male relative.

When I showed my GP the piece of paper, he was stunned and agreed to check my breasts every three months. But fear haunted me. One day I told my sister - who fortunately does not have the defective gene - "I want to get rid of them right now."
I was only 37, but a death sentence hung over me. Fortunately, the Family History Clinic had just opened at Manchester's Nightingale Centre, looking at genetic links in cancer. I was referred to Tony Howell, professor of preventative oncology. He was incredibly supportive. My new husband Chris - whom I'd married in 1990 - understood totally, too.

I had the operation in April 1993. I was probably the first woman in Britain and many people thought I was mad, but my decision was validated when the first blood test was developed which proved I was a carrier of the defective BRCA1 gene.

I was offered the chance of reconstructive surgery after six months, but I never got around to it. Unlike Becky, I don't even have nipples. It may sound strange, but I like my body. Maybe some men would have found the transition difficult, but Chris has always loved me for myself and has been totally supportive.
The surgery was liberating. As well as running the Hereditary Breast Cancer Helpline, which I launched after my experience, I sing, and play golf and bridge.

Because Becky and I talk so openly, I knew she was in danger, but we both assumed she had plenty of time.
I'm painfully aware that she inherited her faulty gene from me, but Becky was incredibly tough. I like to think my experience helped. Even so, I've been stunned by how mature and level-headed she's been. I've only seen her cry with fear once - a few days before the surgery. I reassured her that she could back out, but she was adamant.

Secretly, I was worried that she'd wake up, see her new body and be overwhelmed with regret. Instead, she was thrilled. And who can blame her? She looks so lovely and is so happy that I'm now considering reconstructive surgery. Mastectomies aren't for everyone, but every woman should be able to make an informed choice.

I could feel guilty that she has had to suffer because of my faulty genes, but I wouldn't have her genetic make-up any other way. She has incredible attributes which far outweigh the problems - she's courageous, compassionate and driven.

I knew from the start she would have the strength of character to deal with this, and she's proved me right every step of the way.