'Days after my cancer diagnosis, my best friend blindsided me in a way I never saw coming.'

As told to Ann DeGrey.

I was breastfeeding my baby one morning when I felt a lump. It was near my nipple, small but rock hard, just like a frozen pea under the skin. At first, I brushed it off. Your body changes so much after having a baby and I assumed it was just another quirk of breastfeeding.

When I showed my partner Jon*, he said, "Maybe it's mastitis?" We sat on the couch that night, both of us glued to our phones, Googling symptoms and convincing ourselves it was nothing serious. But there was a little voice in my head that wouldn't settle. What if it was cancer?

We agreed there was only one thing to do: get it checked.

Jon came along to my appointment. The doctor didn't sound too worried, but she also didn't dismiss it. She sent me for an ultrasound "just to be safe." Then came the biopsy. A few days later, I had the phone call asking me to come in to the surgery to discuss my results: stage 3 breast cancer.

I was horrified. I could hardly make out what the doctor was talking about, but I did make out the most important words: chemotherapy and treatment plans. My brain kept replaying those words over and over, it was a nightmare. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. Why do we always assume, "It won't be me?"

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I made a decision early on: I wanted to keep it private for as long as possible. I just wasn't ready emotionally for a flood of "How are you?" messages or people pitying me. I just wanted to tell people in my own time. So, aside from Jon and my parents, I told no one, except Celia*.

Celia had been my closest friend for over a decade. I really trusted her and, when she popped over one afternoon when I'd told her I wasn't feeling well, I broke the news to her.

She's always been a very emotional person, so when I told her about the diagnosis, the upcoming chemotherapy and told her how frightened I was, she burst into tears. I found this very touching and realised how much she must value our friendship.

Before she left, I made a point of telling her to please keep the news to herself. I told her I didn't want anyone to know right now. I remember she nodded and said, "Sure thing."

Two days later, my phone lit up. First one message, then another. And another.

"Just heard the news. Thinking of you."

"I've heard your sad news. Anything you need, I'm here."

By the tenth message, I was furious. I hadn't told anyone else, which meant Celia had. She hadn't just told one or two close friends, she'd told everyone. Our whole social circle knew!

I had hardly processed the news myself, and now it felt like it was public property. When I phoned Celia, she didn't even look surprised. She just said, "Sorry, but I thought it'd be better if people knew. So they can support you."

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She said it like she'd done me a favour. But it didn't feel like a favour, I really felt like she'd deliberately gone against what I asked her to do; keep my secret.

The news spread faster than I could have imagined. People I hadn't spoken to in months were suddenly messaging me, offering advice I didn't ask for. One woman shared a story about her aunt's fight with cancer and that "she is fine today." That's nice, but I just didn't need to hear from so many people.

Another friend told me she felt awful for me and knows how tough chemo is because her school friend passed away after a cancer battle — I didn't need to hear that either!

I'd wanted time to think, to process, to decide how and when to share my diagnosis. Celia took that from me. And the worst part? She didn't seem to understand why I was upset.

"You're lucky you have so many people who care," she said. She told me, if she had cancer, she'd want all of her friends to know about it. But I'm such a private person. I hardly told anyone when Jon and I were engaged; and that was happy news.

I started pulling back from her after that, and I certainly didn't share updates about my treatment. I stopped replying to her endless check-in texts. When she asked if she could come to an appointment with me, I told her no.

The chemo has been brutal; nausea, exhaustion, days when just standing up felt like climbing a mountain. But as hard as it's been, one thing hurts almost as much as the diagnosis itself: knowing that the one person I trusted most betrayed me.

I don't think Celia is malicious. I don't think she meant harm. But I do think she wanted to be the "helpful friend," the one at the centre of it all. When you're facing something as life-changing as cancer, you cling to the little bits of control you still have.

And for me, one of those was the choice of when, and to whom, I shared the hardest news of my life.

*Names have been changed to protect identities.

Feature Image: Getty. (Stock image for illustrative purposes).