I was sitting in a work meeting when I folded my arms and noticed a pea-shaped lump just above my right nipple. I left the room in a panic. I must have looked concerned as a colleague asked me what was wrong. I told him: “I have just found a strange lump.”

The last thing on my mind was breast cancer; I’d never heard of a man getting it. I thought I’d pulled a muscle, or something like that. When men see the pink ribbon symbol for breast cancer, it’s easy to switch off. Breast cancer is a gender-biased illness. The message I grew up with was that women should check themselves for breast cancer, not men.

I didn’t go to my GP and instead got on with my life. About two-and-a-half months later, I was driving home from a trip to Scotland, and I had my seatbelt across me, which felt painful on the lump. I mentioned it to my mum, who forced me to go to the GP. Looking back, it’s so lucky I went then, as it could have easily killed me.

The GP in London examined the lump and thought it might be gynecomastia – a non-cancerous enlargement of one or both breasts in men due to the growth of breast tissue.

But because I had a family history of breast cancer with my gran and aunt, the doctor decided to refer me to the breast cancer unit at Kingston Hospital.

I got the appointment within a week. If I’d been a woman, I would have been worried during that time, but I didn’t think much of it. It felt quite novel being surrounded by women in this unit, as I was the only man. Then things started moving very quickly.

I went into a room to see a breast cancer specialist and, before she had even felt the lump, she was adamant it was gynecomastia. She sent me for a biopsy downstairs just to be on the safe side.

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While I was lying in the ultrasound, I was cracking jokes as the doctor went to take the biopsy, until suddenly, it was like the air was sucked out of the room.

The atmosphere changed – and there was no more laughing. She said, “I’ll just be one moment,” and left the room. I was behind a curtain. I felt sick with nerves – what was going on?

Everything felt like a blur as she returned to tell me she needed to take a biopsy from the lymph nodes under the arm.

I went back upstairs to see the original consultant, and her tone had changed. “We’ve seen thickening in the lymph node under the arm, and I’m not happy with the lump on the chest.” “Okay, so what does this mean?” I asked.

I don’t think that, at this point, it had hit home that I could have cancer. I was told I needed to have a mammogram, and they would send the biopsy samples off to be tested. They said it could take 12 weeks to get the results back – and they’d call me into the hospital. “It might be worth bringing somebody with you,” the consultant said.

My brain was rushing: “Oh my God, this could be bad,” I thought to myself, as I sat outside Norbiton train station on my way home. I felt completely lost. I didn’t want to call anyone.

The maddest thing was I’d sat on an ant’s nest and I didn’t realise until I was in a cab on the way back from the station that I was covered in ants. I told my partner and my parents about what I’d been told at the hospital. We were all in shock.

But I soon forgot about it. While it was in the back of my mind, I thought, “I’m 36 – and a man.” I didn’t think in a million years I’d have breast cancer.

In less than 24 hours, I got a call from the hospital. I was told I would have to go in for an appointment the next day to get my results. It still hadn’t sunk in that anything was wrong. I went with my parents and my partner – my mum insisted on coming in to see the consultant with me. The door opened, and from one glance, I could tell it was bad news. I nearly walked out.

“The results are back, and I’m sorry to say you have stage 3 breast cancer,” the consultant told me. I was startled, but before she’d even finished her sentence, I said, “But it’s curable, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s going to be tough.” I was given a breast cancer pack, and we walked out of the room. I hid in the toilet, while my mum told my partner. I couldn’t face it. I heard a scream and my partner burst into tears.

The first piece of advice in the pack is to wear a loose-fitting bra. I made a joke on the car journey home: “Let’s go to M&S and get one.” But nobody laughed. I was told I’d have to have chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and surgery, either a mastectomy or a double one – and my cancer had spread to the lymph node too.

I was terrified every time the phone rang. I was inundated with hospital appointments and calls.

I went to meet my oncologist, who said he needed to prepare me for something. The MRI scan showed the lymph nodes in my neck were also swollen, which suggested the cancer had spread – which meant I’d be stage 4, not stage 3. A CT scan I was due would show this.

The doctor told me this would have implications for the treatment plan. Most alarmingly, she said it would involve living with the condition, with treatment to slow it down and improve my quality of life.

I felt like my life was over. There was a week’s wait for the results of the CT scan – and it was the darkest period of my life. I had decided I wasn’t going to tell anybody if it was stage 4. I didn’t want sympathy. I felt so alone. Who could I reach out to? Women who had breast cancer? It didn’t feel right.

I was facing my own mortality. The day before the results were due, I walked for miles. The sun was setting by a pub, and I got a call from an unnamed number, and it was the consultant. I had stage 3 cancer, not stage 4. They’d misdiagnosed it. “Did you know you had a tooth infection?” she asked me, citing this as the reason for the enlarged lymph nodes on my neck.

It sounds insane, but I went over to my neighbour’s house and we celebrated. I failed to see the reality: I had cancer.

Halfway through the chemotherapy, the protocol changed. I had to have it more regularly, as doctors decided it was not only just estrogen-driven, but also genetic. This meant I’d also have to have a double mastectomy.

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I went to see a plastic surgeon who belittled me and said, “Well, it’s not really the same as it is for a woman, is it?”

Men, as it is, are so ashamed to talk about this stuff. But everything from the medication, the literature, and the treatment plan is based on a female pathway, due to a lack of data for men with breast cancer.

Eventually, I didn’t even have a mastectomy. I challenged it after talking to a geneticist. I had a central excision, which is just removing the nipple and a little bit of the skin around it.

After the chemotherapy and the surgery, I was told the cancer had spread a bit more in the lymph nodes – so I would need further surgery to get rid of them all under the arm, as a precaution. By the time I got the first piece of good news, I was numb. The surgery was successful, so I only had the radiotherapy to mop up – and then I was done.

I found readjusting back to life harder than the actual treatment itself. I was lost. I left my job, and I stayed in a monastery in Scotland to help find myself. It’s only in the past few months that I feel I’m on track again, living my life. I wanted a fresh start – I’ve changed my number and deleted my social media. I split up with my partner.

Now, I’ve come out the other side – I’m not defined by disease. I don’t think about cancer every day, but at the same time, I have a duty to raise awareness in men with breast cancer and change the narrative. It’s a big ship to turn – but it has given me a bigger purpose, which I’m grateful for.