- Louise Butcher, 52, was just 49 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer
- Embracing her new body after a double mastectomy, Louise ran a marathon topless
- Now Louise is raising awareness of the most common cancer diagnosed in women in Australia
Here Louise tells her story in her own words.
Jumping into the shower one day, on a whim I checked over my boobs for lumps.
It was March 2022 and, having had a mammogram three weeks earlier that came back clear, I didn’t think there was much to worry about.
But I stopped in my tracks as my hand glided over a tiny thickening on the side of my left breast.
‘Best to get it checked out,’ my husband, Paul, then 52, said.
When I saw my doctor a few days later, she wasn’t too concerned.
‘It might not be cancer.’
‘I don’t think it’s anything sinister, but I’ll send you to the breast clinic for a scan,’ she said.
I tried not to worry, focusing on my kids, Oliver, then 11, and Pollyanna, five.
A keen runner, I’d also signed up to a marathon for that October, so the training was a welcome distraction.
During the scan two weeks later, the sonographer noted she could see five areas of concern, so I had a biopsy that same day.
Back at home, Paul tried to stay positive.
‘It might not be cancer,’ he soothed, but I was terrified.
And a few weeks later my worst fears were confirmed when a clinic nurse called. I had lobular breast cancer.
‘It’s formed in the glands that produce milk,’ she explained, adding my type of cancer rarely shows up in mammograms, which is how it’d gone undetected.
‘The cancer is at grade two which means it’s developing at a steady pace,’ she said.
Hanging up, the shock suddenly hit me. I phoned Paul. ‘You need to come home. It’s cancer,’ I said.
When he walked in, Paul wrapped his arms around me. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he assured me.
The next few weeks were a whirr of appointments, scans and tests.
Results revealed that I’d need my left breast removed.
‘The cancer is at grade two which means it’s developing at a steady pace.’
‘Whatever is best,’ I said.
I could have a breast reconstruction, but it would mean a longer wait.
I just wanted the cancer gone so I went ahead with the mastectomy.
‘My boob isn’t very well so it’s going to be taken off,’ I told Pollyanna.
Oliver, who was old enough to understand more, bravely took my diagnosis in his stride.
In June I went into theatre where surgeons removed my left boob and three lymph nodes.
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As I recovered, I adjusted to life with one breast but it was hard.
Still training for the marathon, I wore my usual sports bra but popped a pad into the left side where my boob used to be.
At a post-op appointment, the surgeon explained the cancer had been five centimetres long and was very close to my chest wall.
‘We’re worried it may have spread – you’ll need another CAT scan,’ she said. I felt sick with worry.
After more scans and tests, it was another two weeks of waiting. Paul came with me for the results and I was incredibly nervous.
‘It hasn’t spread,’ the surgeon said.
‘Finally, I can get on with my life.’
It was a relief, but I decided I’d rather both boobs were gone, so I begged the surgeon to remove my right.
As they’d already planned a second op on my left breast wall to check the cancer had totally gone, they agreed to remove the right boob at the same time.
I never thought I’d be so grateful to lose both breasts – that’d breastfeed both my babies and I’d based so much of my femininity around – but it was a relief for me.
A fortnight after the op, another biopsy confirmed they had got rid of all the cancer, but I still had radiotherapy to help zap any remaining cells.
Finally, I can get on with my life, I thought.
Life without breasts felt hard and I struggled to accept my new image.
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‘I’m just glad you’re alive,’ Paul said.
That October, just two months after the surgery, I did the marathon in five hours and five minutes.
Crossing the finishing line, I felt so proud.
Still navigating life without boobs, I tried wearing a fake prosthesis in my bra, but it felt odd. Who am I doing this for? I need to look in the mirror and accept that this is what I look like, I thought.
So I ditched the fakes, and worked on my body positivity which slowly improved.
In April 2023 I ran another marathon but decided to do it topless.
‘I’m just glad you’re alive.’
I’d never run anywhere topless, but I wanted to break the stigma women experience when they lose their boobs to cancer.
Onlookers gave me mixed reactions. Some clapped and others stared or looked away.
Pollyanna ran up to me when I finished, giving me a hug.
Afterwards I shared snaps on social media and spoke to local newspapers, raising awareness.
Then in 2024, I signed up for the London marathon.
Once again, I did it topless, and the crowd erupted in cheers and words of support.
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‘I’m a breast cancer surgeon. What you’re doing is amazing,’ one woman said as she ran past me.
Completing the run in five hours and 36 minutes, I felt incredible.
But what felt even better was how my story had reached people all over the world.
Family and friends shared news articles reaching as far as Africa.
They all had such positive things to say.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ Paul gushed.
Over the years, I’ve managed to raise $22,350 for breast cancer charities and my local hospital.
Last year I wrote a book based on my journey called Going Topless.
The response was amazing.
I cried the whole way through your book. It’s so relatable and empowering, one woman messaged me.
Oliver, now 14, and Pollyanna, nine, are so proud of me too.
Nowadays when I look in the mirror, I accept and love that this is who I am.
Truthfully, I’ve never felt more feminine.
My scars show the battle that I survived.
