Helping my patient into the scanner, I was as reassuring as I could be.
‘This won’t take long,’ I smiled.
I was a mammographer at the Royal Hospital Liverpool, so I helped ladies with their breast concerns every day.
But I was looking forward to a relaxing weekend with my husband Chris, 42, and little boy Reuben, now five.
Only, as I got in the shower on a Sunday night, I noticed something was wrong.
Massaging soapy suds over my body, I winced.
