‘I’ve never made love to a fatty before,’ said Ger, trying to make me laugh. ‘Your boobs are gorgeous.’ He did make me feel better, and I was determined not to let my hideous shape affect the way I behaved. I believed that these drugs were making me well again and I wanted to live much, much more than I wanted to be thin again. So I still shuffled up the hill to collect the children and tried to ignore the looks from people who didn’t know me. It did hurt when people I knew fairly well would cross the road rather than speak to me, and I kept telling myself that it was because they were embarrassed and did not know what to say to me.
I did get out when I could, and not just to the school gates. I went shopping in my ‘good’ periods, just down to the local supermarket. As I handed the groceries to the cashier one day, who was a girl I knew quite well, she looked up at me in surprise.
‘Jesus, what happened to your face?’ The words were out before she realized how appalling they sounded. She clapped her hands over her mouth and looked stricken.
‘I’m on medication right now,’ was all I could manage.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she called after me. ‘I didn’t mean …’
I got home somehow, and shut the door behind me. Safe once more, I leaned against it and decided never, ever to go into that shop again. I don’t think of myself as a vain person. I look OK, that’s all, and I don’t bother with make-up every time I go out – a slick of lippy normally does the trick for me. But to feel truly ugly, that is a different matter. My face was round, moon-shaped. I thought I looked like a giant chipmunk.
One morning we had a parents’ meeting at the school to discuss our children’s work. I dressed carefully, taking care with my appearance as much as I could, for I always liked the children to be proud of me. The meeting took place in Sarah’s classroom, and while I was waiting I occupied myself with looking at the brightly coloured artwork on the walls. I was the next one to be seen, and Sarah’s teacher looked up at me and then down at her list. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, extending her hand and introducing herself. ‘You must be, ah, Sarah’s aunt?’ My heart stopped.
‘No, actually I’m her mother, but I’m on medication at the minute,’ I managed to blurt out.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she stammered, clearly embarrassed by her mistake. Somehow we both got through the meeting, which was not easy since at that time Sarah was not doing too well at school, and I blamed myself for not being able to give her enough attention at home. As I left the school, tears were rolling down my cheeks. My own child’s teacher doesn’t recognize me, I thought. Will I ever look normal again? I didn’t see one of the other mothers coming towards me and, disorientated, I almost walked into her. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, seeing my distress. I didn’t know her well, but I knew her name was Patricia. It was one of those moments when virtual strangers can be of more help than close friends, and I told her everything.
I went out less and less, and persuaded some of the other mothers to drop off the kids for me so I did not have to face the world. I felt more and more isolated. Of course I had Gerard, and I had the children, but I still felt terribly alone. The days were awfully long, at home by myself. I didn’t have many friends nearby at that stage, as we hadn’t been in the house very long and I was only just starting to meet people through school. I had no close girlfriend to confide in apart from Marian.
‘This won’t go on for ever,’ she kept saying. ‘Just hang on in there.’
‘Oh, look at this will you now,’ I cried one day, after discovering to my horror a thick covering of downy hair on my top lip. I was growing a moustache, and my natural hair colour was dark brown. Any day now Gerard was going to start calling me Hitler.
‘Now don’t you go fretting over that, Bernadette. Just bleach it and no one will notice. Whatever you do, don’t shave it. Leave it be and when all this is over you’ll be back to normal with no harm done.’
I had not told my mother that I had cancer. She was in her seventies and becoming frailer by the day, so I felt that news such as this would crush her. I did not want her to worry – what good would that have done anyone? And it might just finish her off: I could not face losing her on top of everything else. My sister Aquinas had just had a new baby after losing one, so the last thing I wanted was to upset her. I was the baby of the family and had always been a bit spoilt and treated special. I knew that it would shock them all to the core to think that I was in mortal danger – it would have been against the normal order of things for me to have a fatal illness before the others. So I battened down the hatches, kept quiet, and tried my best to get through each day.
‘Bernie,’ said Gerard one evening. ‘Have you remembered what’s coming up at the end of the month?’
‘Oh!’ I gasped. ‘August 21st!’ I had completely forgotten. The end of August was always celebrated in our family. It marked both the anniversary of my father’s death and Richard’s birthday, and we always got together for a family day and a bit of a party. There was no way I could get out of it. Mum in particular always looked forward to the day and would spend days preparing food for all of us. Since my father’s death she had really come out of herself – she had her own freedom at last and was enjoying life to the full. A few days before the party I called my mother to have a chat about the day – of course, my main reason for this was to prepare her a little. I mentioned to her that I was on tablets and looked a bit swollen. But nothing could prepare her for the shock of seeing me in the flesh.
She gave a little scream when she saw me. ‘Bernadette, will you look at your face? What has happened to you? I hardly recognize my own daughter.’
‘I told you, Mum, I’m on some tablets at the minute.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to get you off them, that’s all. You tell your doctor they’re not doing you any good – they’re destroying you.’ And that, as far as she was concerned, was that. She was always very protective of me, being her youngest.
When Aquinas saw me she burst into tears. ‘Sweet Jesus, Bernie, what’s wrong?’ I couldn’t not tell her.
‘It’s cancer,’ I whispered, not wanting Mum or the kids to hear, ‘but the treatment is working. I know I look bad, but it’s for the best. Don’t you worry, I’ll be fine.’ She nodded, aghast, as I explained about the lymphoma and the steroids. I tried to make light of it – I couldn’t see her upset, because even though she is my older sister I wanted to protect her. Thankfully my other sister Deirdre could not make it that day – she is a big softie and I knew she would find it hard to deal with. It was a strange day, most unlike all the other end-of-August parties we had held. Gerard and I were putting a brave face on things, Aquinas kept shooting me pitying glances, and my mother kept telling us all that I looked a fright. Even the kids were jumpy – they picked up the air of unreality and uncertainty. Cancer was back in all our lives once more, and it was to change everything.
When we left, some time later, we drove through the town and passed Aquinas standing talking to a friend. She was crying her eyes out. I felt sorry she was upset, but relieved that at last I had been able to tell her.
And so the days wore on, the weeks turned into months, and I got better at dealing with the pain and facing my reflection in the mirror. On good days I would feel cheered that I had managed to cook a meal, or do some painting after school with the children. On bad days I would wonder if I would ever come out of this intact. I felt like a monster, like a mistake of nature, and I would seethe with anger. One evening some old friends came over. I love them both dearly, but they had no idea how they upset me that night. I watched them sit together on the sofa, him stroking her thigh as if she needed polishing. I was furious. How dare they do that in front on me? I raged inwardly. They looked so perfect, beautiful, whole; and I was hideous, swollen and sore. Get out of here and do it in your own house, I thought. I needed this like a hole in the head. In my raw anger I could not see that they had come to see me in a spirit of kindness and only meant well. It seemed to me that they were the
re to gloat, and to have a good look at me in my wretchedness. That’s how twisted my view of everything had become.
The final few weeks were intolerable. In late October I went back to the oncologist for my monthly appointment. My face was so puffy and swollen I could barely see out of the slits of my eyes. He looked up as I entered the room and a look of sharp surprise crossed his face. He held up his hands as if I was about to shoot him.
‘I’m taking you off them! I’m taking you off them!’ he said.
I was full of gratitude and relief. This man had saved my life. He had treated me, I was better, and now he was saving me from the treatment itself. He told me I could come off them straightaway, and I left his surgery feeling elated. It was over. I was cured of the cancer and I could now go back to a normal life. I stopped taking the steroids that very day.
What a mistake that was.
The next morning I woke up shivering, feverish, by turns boiling hot or freezing cold, rigid with shock. My body was suffused with pain, and I had vomiting bouts. I felt panicked.
‘Do something Ger, I’m frightened,’ I begged.
‘I’ll call the doctor straightaway,’ he said.
‘No. Don’t do that. Ring Marian.’
It was only later that I understood I’d been going through withdrawal symptoms more suited to a heroin addict than an ordinary mother-of-two. Marian’s father had had leukaemia and had been on the same drug as me for some time. She would know what was going on.
‘What do you mean she has just stopped taking it? That’s crazy, you can’t stop a drug like prednisone abruptly. She needs to wean herself off it gradually. Very gradually. Let me talk to her.’
Marian explained that I should go back to the full dose. I felt as if I had been promised a ticket to Heaven and now told that I should go straight back to Hell.
‘No, Marian, please, I can’t stay on those drugs a day longer.’ She must have heard the disappointment in my voice.
‘You have to, Bernadette. Your body will go into shock otherwise – it messes with your adrenal system something horrible. You must give your body a chance to adjust and it can’t do it overnight. You’ve been taking sixteen tablets a day. Go back to sixteen, then in three days take it down to fifteen. Stay on fifteen for three days, then reduce to fourteen, and so on.’ We worked out a schedule, and it took me many weeks to come off them completely. I thanked her so many times, but I suspect Marian will never know how much of a life-saver she was to me.
The joint pain finally receded. The hard muscle weight faded away. I looked like my old self again, and I was thrilled.
‘Let’s have a treat today,’ said Gerard one Saturday shortly after I had finished coming off the drugs. ‘What would you really like to do?’
‘What I really fancy is some new clothes,’ I said, feeling as excited as a little girl.
‘Right then, come on you lot, let’s go,’ said Gerard. We all piled into the car and went into Dublin. What a wonderful day we had, the four of us, wandering around the city, choosing new clothes for me. I revelled in my new body, loving the chance to feel like a real woman again after months of being a freak. Sarah was great, making me try on everything, running around the shops pulling clothes off racks she thought I’d like. It reminded me of the feeling you get when you have just had a baby, or just stopped breastfeeding, and you are starting afresh with a new wardrobe. I still have a khaki suit and blouse from Principles I bought that day – it was so smart, and I felt so good in it.
But the best part was giving away all the clothes I had worn during that terrible time. I felt like I was throwing the year away. I was better, and nothing would stop me now.
Chapter Nine
New Life
Gradually I tried to put the cancer behind me, to banish it to the dark places of my mind. It was a blip, a freak event, I told myself. The treatment had been shattering, but it had worked. I had come through it, I was cured. Wasn’t I here to prove it? I was feeling terrific, going to the gym, eating well (or so I thought), and – most importantly – throwing myself back into the job of being a mother, relishing its humdrum tedium as much as the sudden flashes of pure joy. Sarah was six and Richard was eight, and Ger was working hard. My life settled down and took on a certain familiar routine: housework, preparing meals, walking the children to school and collecting them, tidying up around them, helping them with their work, drying their tears, kissing their bumps and bruises better, sharing their small triumphs and disasters, ferrying them to parties and after-school activities. Richard went to tennis lessons and played football seemingly non-stop; Sarah was passionate about art, drama and tap dancing.
All this and more made up the delightful monotony of domestic life. In any spare moments I’d be at my sewing machine, running up clothes for them and for friends. It was something I enjoyed, and I felt it was so important for me to be in the home, always there for the kids if they needed me. At the weekends we would visit one of my sisters, or my mother, or one of Ger’s family. We were a family who talked and laughed all the time, very sociable, very close. With so many of us there was always a reason to celebrate something – a birthday, a driving test passed, an anniversary. These were very special times: I loved every moment, knowing it was all the more precious to me because I had been so close to losing it all. Not a day went by without my sinking to my knees and thanking God for saving me for my children. They were so young, so vulnerable, so innocent in their trust that I would always be there. I used to slip into their bedrooms while they slept and stand for long moments watching over them, marvelling at their smooth unblemished skin and their sweet childish faces.
Don’t imagine by this that I became some kind of perfect, selfless paragon of motherhood. No, we had our share of arguments and shouting matches, and they would test my patience to the limits. I would yell at them to brush their teeth, tidy their rooms, get in the car. At times they fought like cat and dog – I always seemed to be splitting up rows, and ‘Stop it, the two o’you!’ became a constant refrain. We were a normal family doing normal things. But at the same time I had such a sharp sense of the closeness of loss, the knowledge that we stand on a knife edge between happiness and sorrow. I was determined to surround them with as much love and care as I myself had been surrounded with by my own mother all those years before – a love that had given me such a strong sense of myself and had set such an example of selfless giving.
Meanwhile my oncologist was checking me and checking me. I thought I was cured; he was waiting for the cancer to come back.
What I did not know then was that once you have suffered from cancer you stand a much higher chance of getting it back, no matter how well you have responded to treatment. For the first three years after the lymphoma had disappeared, I checked myself constantly, obsessively, ever-vigilant for a sign that the cancer was returning. My appointments were scheduled for every three months for the first few years, then – the relief – every six months – a clear sign that I was doing well. We couldn’t relax completely, of course, for according to him my lymphoma had been very rare and we had no statistics to go by. However, in between the appointments I would throw myself back into the business of living with the sort of determination and vigour I had seen in my mother all those years ago. There was so much going on in my children’s lives I hardly had a chance to think about myself – indeed, I was reluctant to dwell on my own problems, knowing that the past has a habit of springing up to grab you when you least expect it. While the knowledge of what I had been through was always there, I was stubbornly keeping it at bay.
But I will never forget those regular hospital appointments. As I entered the hospital and walked down the sterile corridor to the familiar waiting room I felt as if I had never left, and all the old feelings would come flooding back. In this waiting room I might meet a woman wearing a wig, or a man whose stick-thin figure and gaunt cheeks spoke volumes. There but for the grace of God, I would think, feeling so sorry for them, but glad it was not me. ‘Hel
lo there,’ I would chirrup to my oncologist, once in the consulting room, my false cheeriness covering my nerves. ‘How are things?’ We would chit-chat about holidays, the kids, or Ger. Then I would take off my clothes and lie down on the bed while he examined me all over, checking and re-checking my groin, back, breasts and underarms for anything sinister. Sometimes I asked him to check my glands if I thought they were swollen; or another part of me where I might have felt something a few days earlier. I would stare at his face, trying to read his mind, imagining that I could decipher my fate from the twist of his mouth or the slight frown on his forehead. I often found myself holding my breath until he said, ‘Get dressed again Bernadette, you’re fine.’
‘Are you sure now, are you quite sure?’ Relief, each time, blessed relief, flooded through me as he smiled his confirmation. And it was then that I would ask my question.
‘Can I have another baby?’
He fixed me with his gaze – kind but unbending. ‘No, Bernadette. No you can’t. As you know, I think your lymphoma may have been activated by the pregnancy hormones. There is quite a bit of evidence suggesting this may be the case. We don’t know for sure, but you simply cannot risk it. You’d be mad to give up everything you have now, everything you have survived for. Put it out of your mind – you already have two lovely children – a boy and a girl – and that is more than most people have. Go home and live your life.’
The Choice Page 5
