Let’s Talk About Intimacy

This article is part of the “Healing in Two Voices” series developed within the e-QuoL project, which brings together survivor voices and professional reflections on life after childhood and adolescent cancer.  In this series, professional contributions do not aim to add explanations or conclusions. They create spaces for reflection — ethical, psychological, and clinical — opened by the testimonies themselves.

1

The first signs and the journey to diagnosis

I’ve always had regular gynaecological check-ups.
One appointment a year, without fail. And all my smear tests had been normal since I was 17.

In early 2022, I caught Covid.
My period came as usual… except it didn’t stop.
The days went by. 10 days… 15 days… 20 days.
At that point, I realised something wasn’t right.

I called my gynaecologist to bring forward my annual appointment, which was scheduled for 8 July.
He agreed to see me the very next day.

During the consultation, he takes a smear test with an HPV test, even though my last smear, a year earlier, was perfectly normal.
At the time, I’m not worried. To me, it’s just a routine check-up.

A month later, I received a message from him.
He informs me that HPV has been detected and wants to see me again soon.

Consultation, examination, biopsy… We’re talking about a minor surgical procedure.

He explained that the results would take about three weeks to a month.
And here’s the thing: I’m not particularly worried.
I know about HPV, I’m well-informed, and above all… I’ve never had an abnormal smear test.

So I set off on holiday feeling relatively calm, with just one thought in mind: to schedule this minor surgery for when I get back…
Without imagining for a single second that what followed would be anything but.

 

The diagnosis and treatment journey

On 15 July 2022, I was on holiday in the mountains, at an altitude of 1,800 metres.
It was our first proper family getaway. I was with my two children and my husband, and we’d been looking forward to this moment so much.

And then, the phone rang.
It was my gynaecologist.

He began by saying: “Hello, Mrs … I’m sorry…”

Right then, I knew straight away that it was serious.
I exchanged a glance with my husband. He understood, too, without a word.

He explained that he wouldn’t be able to perform the minor surgery we’d discussed after all…
Because the biopsy revealed that the cancer had already taken hold: an adenocarcinoma of the cervix.

He tells me he’s sending my file straight away to a specialist centre for prompt treatment.

And when I hang up… I can’t bring myself to say the word “cancer”.
Not in front of my children.

So I make a decision: to make the most of this holiday until the very end.
And to keep it between my husband and me, for the time being.

When we got back, everything happened very quickly and I was taken into care at a specialist centre.
Tests, blood tests, an MRI, another biopsy…

Then I meet the oncologist.

He explains that the first step will be surgery.
Very quickly, he brought up the subject of motherhood. He asked me if, despite having had my tubes tied, I still wanted to have children… Because after the operation, it would no longer be possible.

He drew me a diagram to explain.
He tells me about the risks and possible complications.

I have the operation on 25 August.

Afterwards, there are the days in hospital.
The pain. The exhaustion.
The catheters. The dependence.

And then… there’s this body.
That huge scar.
That feeling of having been ‘cut open’, transformed.

 

Coming home and the aftermath

After six days in hospital, it’s time to go home.
And with it… a flood of questions.

We’re waiting for the results of the final path al analysis of the tumour to find out what happens next.
And in the meantime, your mind goes round in circles.

There are all the everyday questions:
how am I going to manage the children? the house? work?

But above all, there are the ones we don’t always dare to say out loud…

What will become of my body?
Will I recognise myself?
Will I still feel like a woman?

And then… there’s the issue of sex.

I’m told to abstain for 8 to 10 weeks after the operation, to give everything time to heal.

But beyond that period… another question remains unanswered:
will it come back?

The pain is very persistent for a good month.
Getting up, walking, moving around… everything takes effort.

And there’s one small detail that makes a big difference:
that abdominal support belt I asked for at the hospital.
It supports me, it reassures me… it almost becomes an ally in my movements.

A month later, the results come in.

And then… relief.
The tumour has been completely removed.
The margins are clear.

The imaging scans confirm remission.

So on the outside, everyone sees me as a strong woman.
The one who ‘handled it’, who got through it, who is ‘cured’.

But in private… it’s a different story.

There is still pain.
Fragility.
Doubts.

My husband is the only one who sees that reality.

He, too, has a thousand questions…
Especially about our intimacy.

He’s afraid of hurting me.

And I… I wonder if my body will still be able to feel pleasure.

That’s where another stage begins.
Less visible.
But just as important:
that of rebuilding.

Intimacy and rebuilding the relationship

Let’s talk about intimacy.

In our relationship, sex has always been important.
And above all, we’ve always communicated a lot.

So after the operation, quite naturally, we kept talking.
About our fears. About our doubts. About our worries.

And I remember one particularly powerful moment…

We talked about HPV again.
We already knew the answer; we knew how the virus works…
But despite that, a question came up:

“Have you been unfaithful to me?”

And then my husband looked at me and said:

“I’ve been wanting to ask you the same question for several days… but I didn’t dare.”

And at that moment… we both broke down.
In each other’s arms.
Crying.

And we said to each other:
“But what on earth are we doing…”

And above all… we realise something essential:

It’s not a lack of confidence.
It’s fear.
Incomprehension.
The shock of having been hit by something we couldn’t control.

And ultimately, that moment…
it allowed us to open up the dialogue even further.

We talked about everything.
Our insecurities.
Our needs.
Our limits.

And we decided to rekindle our intimacy… in a different way.

Gently.
Without pressure.

At first, there’s no sex in the traditional sense.
Just touch.
Cuddles. Kisses. Tenderness.
Simple gestures… but essential ones.

Then, little by little, I reconnect with my body.
At my own pace.

I rediscover my sensations.
Alone at first.
With my hands, then with suitable objects (dilators, sex toys), with no focus on performance… just to understand:
what feels good, what is sensitive, what is still fragile.

Then, we explore together… without penetration.
Just being there, together, sharing the moment.

And then one day… the time comes to try again.

And once again, everything is done gently.
My husband talks to me, reassures me:

“Tell me if you’re okay… if it hurts… guide me… we can stop at any time.”

And I’m learning to speak up.
To express how I feel.
The discomforts. The limits. The needs.

We make adjustments.
The positions. The pace.
We take our time.

And even today, I sometimes feel a bit of discomfort.
Not really pain anymore, but a bit of sensitivity.

And that’s not a problem.
We adapt.

Because what we’ve built…
isn’t “a return to normal”.

It’s a new kind of intimacy.
More conscious.
More gentle.
More genuine.

From personal experience to support

What I have been through has profoundly transformed me.
Not just in my body… but in the way I inhabit this body.

I’ve realised that sexuality doesn’t disappear.
It transforms. It reinvents itself. It rediscovers itself.

I’ve also realised that pleasure isn’t a luxury.
It’s a resource. An anchor. A way of coming back to life.

And above all… I’ve realised that no one should ever have to go through this alone.

Today, this is the journey I accompany.
The journey of women and men who, like me, sometimes feel lost in their own bodies.
The path of couples who want to reconnect in a different way.

I don’t guide people towards a “return to how things were before”.
I guide people towards a new possibility.

A space where the body becomes an ally once more.
Where pleasure takes its rightful place.
Where a woman can, once again, feel alive… whole… powerful.

Because no… this isn’t the end.

Sometimes, it’s even the start of a much deeper journey of self-discovery.

Christelle, a French CAYACS

2

This account rightly reminds us that the end of treatment does not mark the end of the physical and intimate upheaval associated with cancer.

In oncology, we talk of remission, cure, and physical recovery. Yet intimacy rarely follows the same timeline. The body may be medically ‘cured’ whilst, in the person’s experience, it remains a fragile, transformed, and sometimes alien space.

What emerges here is the complexity of finding oneself again after a gynaecological cancer: scars, physical changes, and sometimes the fear of no longer recognising oneself as a woman, a partner, a desiring or desirable person. Sexuality is then reduced neither to a function nor to a performance; it becomes a space for reclaiming one’s body, emotions and relationships.

This account also highlights the essential role of the couple. After cancer, partners often move forward in a state of silent uncertainty: fear of causing pain, of doing the wrong thing, or of no longer finding each other. Rebuilding intimacy does not rely on a return to the way things were, but on the ability to invent together a new way of being connected.

Communication emerges here as a form of genuine care. Naming fears, boundaries, but also needs and sensations gradually allows one to break free from the silence often imposed by the illness. This act of speaking restores a sense of agency to the individual within a body that has long been subject to medical intervention.

In post-cancer sexology consultations, this same need often arises: relearning one’s body, at one’s own pace. Not returning to a previous state, but exploring a possible new balance, through touch, tenderness, sensory experiences or the use of adapted tools, without any goal of performance or normality.

Finally, this journey reminds us that pleasure should never be relegated to the background in cancer care. It plays a full part in the feeling of being alive, of inhabiting one’s body and reclaiming one’s existence after illness.

Perhaps one of the key challenges of life after cancer is precisely this: enabling everyone to regain ownership of their body, rather than merely being a survivor of their illness.

Our role as healthcare professionals is undoubtedly not to define a standard for sexuality after cancer, but to create spaces where every individual and every couple can rebuild their own way of being in the world, in their bodies and in their intimate relationships.

Dr Baptiste Sauterey – Medical gynaecologist and sexologist – Department of Onco-Rehabilitation – Directorate of Prevention and Patient Partnership – France