There was a time in my late twenties and early thirties when I got quite into “New Age” thinking; getting in touch with the universe, om.

I haven’t totally dismissed it all and at the moment I can certainly say that I must in some way be putting out my needs to the universe and the universe is answering those needs.

When I first met my breast surgeon, Robert Carpenter, two months ago, it was for my diagnosis. On that occasion, before any tests and confirmation that it was indeed cancer, he had already said words like “cosmetic” and “reconstruction”. But he knew I was not ready to take all that in and he knew that I had a whole lot of stuff to get through and cope with before I even started to think about surgery and its implications.

Now that I’m approaching the half-way mark in my chemo treatment, I have been able to start thinking about the next step, which will almost certainly be double mastectomy and, hopefully, reconstruction. This is a big deal. And I do know big deals when I see them. I had a hysterectomy at 44 having tried and failed to have children. Luckily I was ready for it and did not suffer any of the emotional trauma you might expect to be associated with it. I think it gave me closure. No children, move on (happily to my stepchildren and lovely grandchildren).

Having internal organs removed is one thing. Trust me, I’m the expert. I have no spleen, no thyroid and no womb or ovaries. But when I walk into a room, no one would ever know that. The mastectomy is something else again. Anyone who knows me knows I have a well-endowed bust. It is not something you can miss, particularly on my otherwise small frame. Those who have never had a proper bra fitting, take note. I wear a 30 FF. 30, because I have a very small back. FF, because, well you see what I mean.

I have had a love/hate relationship with this part of my anatomy. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, the fashion was all unisex. The flat chest was celebrated. I was born at the wrong time. I missed the voluptuous 1950s and by the 1990s and beyond, when girls started flaunting what they had and cosmetically augmenting what they didn’t, I was no longer young enough to do the same.

But having them removed is not going to be easy. I could not quite get my head round what it would be like. Which is when the universe stepped in and sent someone to help.

Saturday evening. I’d just arrived at the yacht club in Ramsgate for a 60th birthday do and was out in the hallway having taken my coat off. A couple I knew on what I would call a nodding acquaintance basis arrived. He sails in the races we take part in but not even in our class. They are often in the club and attend many of the functions and parties. But we have barely exchanged more than a hello. So I was quite surprised but very touched when he touched my arm and told me how sorry he was to hear my news. He had got my phone number and been intending to phone me, he said. Really? And then I realised why. She has recently been through the same thing, with a single mastectomy last year and recent reconstruction.

What happened next though was amazing. Looking stunning in her party attire and without any awkwardness or embarrassment, she invited me to pop upstairs into the ladies and have a look at her reconstruction. She had been able to see the results of a friend’s reconstruction before deciding to have her own, she said, and she was offering me the same opportunity. Surgery these days is amazing. Although recent, her scars were so neat, and the whole experience was greatly reassuring. Thank you so much! I will not name you but you know who you are. And thank you universe!! At just the time when I was starting to face such a big issue, someone I could not even have imagined turned up with the most amazingly generous gift, reassurance.