Beverley Craven: how my family is facing cancer "I went to see a genetic counsellor, who said that, without a doubt, our family history was relevant, and that the girls have a 50/50 chance of developing breast cancer," says Craven. Friendly and down-to-earth, in a simple top and trousers, and with a make-up free face, Craven was 41 when she first discovered a "petit pois-shaped lump" in her breast. "Foolishly, I ignored it for several months, thinking it was just a blocked milk duct, because I'd only had a mammogram eight months previously and it had come back all clear," she says, stroking her ageing Staffordshire bull terrier, Buddy. I was lulled into a false sense of security. When I was having a routine smear test I asked the nurse to check it out, and her face just fell. From that moment, everything was a whirlwind. It was pretty shocking. Facing up to her mortality, Craven's first thought was for her children. One of my biggest fears was how they would be able to cope without me. I became fixated on needing to show them how to work the dishwasher, to do their own ironing. I kept thinking: 'Hospital corners, they don't know how to do hospital corners! I had to teach them everything I could in as short a space of time as possible, so they could be independent. I had to pass on all my life experiences, condense and cram everything I had learnt. Over the next six months, Craven's tumour was removed and she underwent a course of radiotherapy. But her daughters remained largely oblivious to her anxieties. "My parents handled it so amazingly well, I was never frightened," Mollie, who was then 13, recalls. I think I only cried once, because it just didn't really hit home. I think you just assume your parents will always be fine. It's only now that I realise how lucky we were. Connie agrees: "I was too young to really understand. It was only when I was older, I was horrified. I thought, 'Jesus, my Mum had cancer."" After a year, Craven was given the all‑clear. Eight years on, the NHS has just told her that, despite her genetic risk, she is no longer eligible for annual MRI scans. I'm absolutely spitting, it's plainly cost-cutting. Her disenchantment with the NHS is enhanced by her sister's experience. First diagnosed in 2008, Kathy had a double mastectomy. The doctors gave her the all-clear, thinking they'd removed the breast and the problem. But she began to feel very ill and tired. She went to the GP more than 20 times, but was told she was too young for the cancer to have metastasised. They gave her antibiotics and steroids, which don't do anything for the immune system. Eventually, it was discovered that before the mastectomy, the cancer had spread to her blood and to her liver. To make matters worse, Kathy was ineligible for a new radiation therapy that could halve the number of her tumours because two months before she started treatment, it had been cut from the Cancer Drugs Fund list of treatments, for cost of funding reasons. "They can still request the treatment for 'exceptional" patients, but Kathy was considered 'non-exceptional," even though she's 43 and has three young children and it would cost less than the chemo they wanted to give her," Craven says, fuming. Family and friends raised the money for private treatment, but then, last month, the NHS changed its mind. So now she's busy paying everyone back. But though the therapy will prolong her life, Kathy's prognosis is still terminal. Recently, she has been preparing little boxes of various sizes for her boys to open each Christmas, with a message appropriate to the age they'll be. She sat doing it at my kitchen table. Craven stares into space. That was a difficult evening. She sighs: "It's weird, but in many ways, Kathy's cancer has given me a boost. I'm devastated, but I have extraordinary strength, because in comparison with what she's going through, everything pales into insignificance. I can withstand any amount of s---, wherever it comes from. Her circumstances have just eclipsed everything. Craven herself has radically altered her lifestyle since cancer: improving her diet, stopping smoking, exercising regularly. She also divorced her husband, musician Colin Campsie. Now he lives with their daughters in the family home, while she rents nearby. "Surviving breast cancer made me realise that persevering in an empty marriage was wasting my second chance at life," she says. Now Craven and Kathy's identical twin sister Clare are agonising about whether they, too, should have mastectomies. I've begged my surgeon to do it twice, but he insists it isn't necessary, my prognosis was really good. So for now I've decided to stick with regular check ups, even if I have to pay privately for scans. But it'll always be at the back of my mind," says Craven. Craven never suggested this option to her daughters, but each mentioned it to her, in passing. I'd never tell them what to do, but they're all very brave and very sensible. Young people are very black-and-white and their attitude is, why would you allow something like that to shorten your life?" she says. "I don't even remember having the conversation with Mum, or with my sisters, because I think our awareness of cancer has always been around us," Connie says. "It sounds depressing, but in a weird way, I'm almost expecting to get it, while it wouldn't have crossed most of my friends" minds." "Of course it's easier to say I'll have a double mastectomy now," Mollie interjects. I might feel completely different when I'm actually facing up to it. But to me, this is about a woman taking control of her future and her health. Knowing that the option is there provides a lot of comfort. Craven is optimistic that her daughters won't have to face such a tough choice. Breast cancer is such a high-profile disease and so much money is poured into research that I'd like to think that, by the time this is relevant to my girls, a cure will have been found that doesn't involve removing your breasts. I'll be really p----- off if it hasn't.