A Life in the Day

by Hunter Davies

  ‘When I am gone, I am sure you will meet a young nubile woman’ – she paused – ‘and Flora will be furious . . .’

  This was not like her, to make such a suggestive remark. I was being flippant about not cooking, but she had been cynical. And I also couldn’t understand why she had dragged Flora into it, as opposed to the other two. But I said nothing. And we finished supper in silence.

  I came with her to see the oncologist, which in the past I had not always done, as she was usually insistent she wanted to go alone.

  He was tall and handsome and fleshy and looked like Glenn Hoddle. He was rather facetious, which doctors rarely are. Bored, irritated, stressed, not interested, overworked, all of those are normal, but you don’t usually come across facetious medics.

  He said the blood tests and all the other tests showed nothing, except some hot spots. He did not know what that meant, or where they were coming from, whether it was a new primary or a secondary from the breast.

  I asked if it was unusual for there to be a twenty-five-year gap after a double mastectomy before a secondary appears.

  ‘After twenty-five years, most mastectomy patients are dead.’

  Cheerful, bloody bastard.

  His considered opinion was – do nothing. His advice was to go away, get on with life, and see what happens. Double bastard.

  But I took it as good news. I was enormously relieved that there was not going to be any new treatment. Margaret was less sanguine. It was what she had always believed and expected. It was still there. It would come back. It would get her in the end.

  But we did get on with our lovely life for the next five years, having wonderful times in Lakeland and the West Indies. And then in 2007 it did come back.

  Once again there were mysterious pains in her back and ribs that did not clear up. One of the GPs looked at her old wounds, the breast scars where the mastectomy had taken place, decided there was some eruption, a discharge or infection or something had happened, and booked her into the Royal Free to see a dermatologist. Dermatologist? Even I could see that was stupid. A dermatologist was not going to stop her internal pains.

  But, as ever, she accepted the wisdom of the medics. She patiently waited for a dermatology appointment which, when it came, was for four weeks ahead.

  By which time she was in total agony. The main area of pain seemed to be in her back. She had, when younger, had a slipped disc, so we thought it might be something to do with that.

  There is a joke that if you are over sixty and you meet someone over sixty, you just have to say, ‘How’s the back?’ And they won’t stop talking for an hour.

  One of my many boasts was that even in my seventies I still did not have a bad back, but, oh lord, I had had twenty years of arthritis. My joints got all swollen, I was screaming in agony at night in bed wanting someone to come and cut off my toes and my hands.

  Over the years, I had had the usual drugs for arthritis – sulphasalazine, methotrexate, plus steroids when it got unbearable. They had each worked for a while, then they ceased to be effective. But I had an excellent rheumatologist at the Royal Free, Huw Beynon, who had put me on some good drugs with the trade name of Humira. I had to inject it into my tummy every two weeks – and the result was brilliant. All the joints calmed down. The agony had gone. Amazing.

  One Friday, at the height of Margaret’s pains, as she still waited to see the dermatologist, I was due in Dr Beynon’s clinic for a checkup. I happened to tell him about Margaret – her appalling backache, and her cancer history.

  Unlike Margaret, I have always gone out of my way to develop personal relations with all medics who are treating me – creeping and arse licking, it is called. I even had Dr Beynon’s personal mobile. When I was in total agony, I would ring him. He would then say come at once, no need for an appointment, go to his next clinic and he would give me a steroid injection.

  He had never met Margaret, knew nothing about her history, she was not his patient, but he said it sounded bad. She could come to his Royal Free clinic now, at once, and he would see her at the end of his surgery. I said how kind, but you are a rheumatologist not an oncologist.

  ‘I am also a surgeon. I will be able to give a quick response to how serious it might be.’

  I was so pleased that I rushed out of the Royal Free and jumped into a black cab – something I never do, being mean. I told him to race to our house and wait outside, to hell with the clock ticking over, I knew there was only half an hour before Dr Beynon finished his surgery, though it always ran late.

  I ran upstairs to Margaret’s office where she had propped herself up, trying to write, but clearly in awful discomfort.

  I said quick, get your coat and shoes, I have a cab outside, my Dr Beynon will see you now.

  ‘He’s not a cancer specialist,’ she said.

  I explained that as a surgeon, he was trained and experienced enough to know the signs of something dodgy when he saw it.

  ‘No, I am not going. I do not like the idea of jumping his queue.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It is his idea, not mine. I didn’t ask him. By the time you see the stupid dermatology department, anything could have happened . . .’

  She still refused. I knew there was no point arguing when she said no to something, so I went outside and paid off the black cab.

  I rang Dr Beynon’s mobile. I left a voicemail, saying how kind he had been, but Margaret would not be coming – a message which he would probably not pick up for days.

  That night, Margaret was in even worse agony. I thought she was going to pass out with the pain. So in the morning I rang Dr Beynon on his mobile again, asking if there was some way he could have a quick look at her. It was now Saturday, so he was not at the Royal Free. He rang back to say he had a private surgery in a private hospital in Barnet, whose address he gave me. He could see her there in an hour. Then he hung up. He was always brisk and decisive, which I like.

  We had never used private medicine, ever, or had any private health insurance, even though we could afford it, just as we had never sent our children to fee-paying schools. We always believed we should support the state system, for health and education.

  In his waiting room, at this private hospital, there was a tourist board woman I had met in the West Indies. She started a long banal conversation about our favourite West Indian islands, going on and on, while Margaret sat there in agony.

  When Dr Beynon examined Margaret, he immediately said the problem was in her spine. It was serious. She should be treated at once, but first she would need an MRI. He would not be able to arrange one at the Royal Free till Monday. She could wait till then, or go now, on Saturday morning, and have it done privately.

  I said immediately we would pay. Margaret, for once, agreed.

  Dr Beynon made a few calls then gave us an address of a private hospital in St John’s Wood where he had booked her an appointment. We got in the car and raced like mad to St John’s Wood, to a posh hospital near Lord’s Cricket ground.

  They took down Margaret’s details, and said yes she could have an MRI, but before having her MRI, we would have to pay for it. What? I could not believe it. Why would anyone want to go through with an MRI then do a runner when the bill came in?

  By chance I had my Visa card on me, which was fortunate, as we had rushed out of the house in a panic that morning without taking any cash. The cost came to around £1,500, which luckily was the limit of my credit.

  We paid, the card said transaction completed, and she had the scan. We got the result in our hand, in about half an hour, as Dr Beynon said we would. Then we drove like mad again back to Barnet. He studied the scan and said yes, it was what he feared. There was a tumour on the spine.

  He told Margaret to go first thing on Monday to the Royal Free A&E and check in. I sighed heavily. A&E on a Monday morning at the Royal Free, or any hospital, is heaving with the weekend accidents. You can sit there for hours. It’s a nightmare. Dr Beynon said it was the only way to be checked into a
ward quickly. The oncologist on duty would come down and see her. Margaret would then be admitted into the ward. He would ring the chief consultant, Alison Jones, a friend and colleague of his, so they would know she was coming and the details.

  Getting through Saturday and Sunday was awful. Margaret could not speak for the pain, but did not want to speak anyway.

  Waiting in A&E was the normal nightmare. I was convinced no one from oncology would see her, or have her details, or know anything about her. And that all Dr Beynon’s arrangements and efficiency and kindness would be wasted. But after about an hour’s wait, she was seen by a nurse, then a duty oncologist came and finally she was admitted into the cancer ward.

  She was in hospital for two weeks, having endless tests, by which time her legs had suddenly gone. The tumour in the spine was enormous and pressing on various vital organs. No surgery could be done, because of the delicate position, so she was put on a series of heavy-duty cancer drugs, all the names of which I used to know, but most of which I have forgotten. Arimidex was one and Exemestane, which I think was a drug on trial.

  When she came home, she still could not walk, could not get upstairs to bed, so I immediately got on the phone to John Lewis, Margaret’s favourite shop, which I normally refused to use saying it was too expensive. What about Curry’s, I would say, they have the same brands. Or Pound Stretchers. They are really cheap.

  I ordered the best, most comfortable single bed and mattress John Lewis had. It came the next day.

  Margaret spent the next six months sleeping downstairs. We have a lavatory downstairs, but our bathroom is upstairs, so she could not wash herself properly. I at once rang builders and plumbers about installing a shower, asking them to come and estimate. Margaret went potty when they started arriving. She wanted no more work done, ever, in the house. She could not face it, the disruption, the dust, the noise. She would manage fine without a shower.

  After a few weeks, palliative care nurses came from the Royal Free, all very nice and pleasant. They arranged physiotherapy at the Marie Curie Cancer Hospice in Hampstead. So for a month or so I drove her across several times a week and she did exercises in their gym on the top floor.

  She was then given a zimmer frame on which she laboriously learned to stagger around the garden. You don’t realise, till you have any of these awful devices, that you have to be taught how to use them, which is not easy.

  I was surprised and delighted how mobile she was becoming, yet how much effort it was taking. I caught her on my video camera one day, and of course she was furious. She did all her lessons and exercises, being a very obedient girl. I would have said they were stupid and given up, and would have taken twice as long to recover, At the end of six months, her legs were strong enough for her to get up the stairs and sleep in our bedroom. Very slowly, after about a year, normal life returned. She was back to walking enormous distances round the Heath, far further than I ever did.

  She was still of course on constant heavy drugs, packets of them in straw baskets all over the house, neatly labelled, with times and dates ticked off. But there were awful side-effects, such as sickness and always feeling tired.

  We managed the next year to get up to Loweswater. In the car she had her back propped up with orthopaedic cushions and we had lots of stops. We stayed for about three months, then she had to come back for tests. It did seem as if life would slowly get back to some sort of normality.

  But her back was constantly painful. She could not be touched there, or anywhere round that area. It meant that from then on, from 2007, I could not touch her. The slightest contact made her wince. In bed, I had to make sure I did not go near her. Holding hands was about the most she could manage, without experiencing the most searing pain.

  One thing which really upset her was that she could not play with our two new grandchildren. She could not pick them up, hold them, the way she had with our two older grandchildren. The older ones had stayed with us a lot. Margaret had looked after them, while their parents had holidays. Now she could do nothing with them. It made her feel useless, and a failure.

  Because of her back, she could not manage any aeroplanes or airports. She could not go to the West Indies. But she insisted I went on my own. She did not want her problems to ruin my life. She could manage fine on her own at home for two weeks. So from then on, from 2007 onwards, for the next eight years, I went every January on my birthday to Cobblers Cove, the same hotel, the same time of the year, usually staying in the same bedroom, in which we had so many happy years. Having gone for so long at the same time, and knowing all the regular guests, the hotel had become like a club. Many of the guests knew Margaret, and knew what was happening to her, and why I was on my own.

  One other effect of all the heavy drugs she was now permanently on was that she lost her taste for alcohol. The drugs had somehow ruined her taste buds. We had gone through our married life having a bottle of wine with our evening meal, arguing about who had had most. I often marked the bottle in pencil every time she had a glass, to make sure she did not have more than me.

  So from then on, I drank for her. Which is why I was soon on a bottle of wine a day. It crept up to two small glasses at lunch and three in the evening. Okay then, I limited myself to a litre a day. Tops.

  Stupid, I know, and not good for one’s health, but bugger it. I have got to have some simple pleasures in life, so I told myself, even if poor Margaret can’t.

  21

  FAMILY MATTERS

  Caitlin, our oldest and tallest, which is what she always says, is today so sensible, so organised, so hard working, so reliable, so prudent, and so caring.

  Which she was as a little girl, she was always neat and tidy, doing what Mummy said, wearing the clothes Mummy laid out for her, always obedient, excellent at school, loved by all the teachers, a paragon of all the virtues, really. This lasted right up until, well, about the age of fifteen.

  What happens to them? Hormones kick in, so they always say, they suddenly want to rebel, go against whatever grains they have been given or fed, but there again it does not happen to all teenagers. And also when it does happen, it takes many forms, some serious, some just passing madnesses and idiocies.

  The first signs were a teenage party at fourteen, which we allowed her to have in our house. All her friends, girls and boys she had grown up with, seemed so nice and well behaved, so we did not think for a moment things could go wrong. How stupid was that. But when it is your firstborn, who has been so well behaved, you are not wise to the world. I did hide all my drink, just in case, and Margaret emptied the fridge, but we forgot the eggs on an egg rack. Then we went out to the cinema.

  The house got wrecked and the walls covered with broken eggs, where they had fun throwing them at each other. Not Caitlin’s fault of course. Uninvited guests pushed their way in. Caitlin was in tears, but she and her girlfriends worked hard to clear the place up.

  We blamed each other, saying you should have stopped that, you should not have allowed it, you should have stayed in and supervised. A typical incident, a rite of passage all parents have to go through when they have teenagers. You always get caught the first time, not expecting things to go wrong or get out of hand.

  We always worried about her friends taking drugs, getting drunk, especially when she started staying out late, hanging around Camden Town. I would insist on picking her up at an agreed spot, so she did not have to catch the late-night Tube or bus, but I never knew where she had really been.

  In the upper sixth, aged seventeen, she left home and moved into a squat with her awful boyfriend, but she still managed to keep up her A-levels. She went to Sussex University to read American Studies. The awful boyfriend followed her down and spent all her money. I started giving her a living allowance weekly, as opposed to once a term, hoping she would not give it all to him.

  Eventually he disappeared, phew, and she went off after graduating to the USA, doing research and getting another degree, and working as a TA – a teacher’s assis
tant – at Clark University, Massachusetts where she met and fell in love with Ronald from Botswana. He was doing a computer science degree. She qualified as a teacher back in Brighton, then joined Ronald in Botswana, worked there as a teacher, and then when they set up house in Maun, his home village, on the edge of the Okavango Delta, she became editor of the little local paper, the Okavango Observer. And won an award as journalist of the year.

  I was so pleased when that happened. All the time at Brighton I was trying to encourage her to work on the student newspaper, as I had done, or the student radio, but she ignored me, even though I knew she was quite interested in writing. As a little girl she had often written down little scenes, things that happened, overheard conversations.

  We went out to Africa to see her every two years, and she came home in between. I moaned all the time about getting there, as it took three days, with having to go to Jo’burg first in South Africa, then Gaborone in Botswana, then Maun. I was always saying oh if only she had married a West Indian, it is so handy to get there, and lovely beaches. Margaret warned me on no account to say that to Caitlin herself.

  But we did make the most of her being in Africa, going on safaris, exploring the surrounding countries, such as South Africa, Zimbabwe and best of all Namibia. Made a change from the Lake District.

  She was in Botswana twelve years, during which time she had started to write, and got her first book accepted, a novel, Jamestown Blues, published in 1996 by Penguin, which was good going, considering she was living so far away and out of the London literary swim.

  But then the marriage collapsed, and various awful things happened to her, such as being brutally attacked. She also got involved in various campaigns which upset the authorities and got herself arrested. So she came back to England, with a baby, no money, no house, no husband, no job. Her daughter Ruby was then diagnosed with epilepsy, which fortunately faded after a few years.