by Naomi Thomas
We made our way through Graham’s front door and upstairs, past the living room where everyone was hiding. How he didn’t hear their hushed whispers and giggles I’ll never know! I whipped off the blindfold at last, just in time for the room to erupt into cheers and birthday congratulations. It was a lovely moment, and I will never forget his face as he drank in the sight before him. I was so grateful that his family and friends had turned out in force to give Graham a reason to smile.
Graham’s grandparents were there too – his granddad, who he affectionately called Gramps, had been ill for some time, but Graham and I were unprepared for the deterioration in his health. His face was grey and riddled with pain, and he didn’t move from his chair all night. The family knew that he was suffering from cancer, but not to what extent. He was a proud man, not wanting to make a fuss, and an amazing husband to Graham’s grandma.
In the two months leading up to Graham’s birthday, Gramps had made the decision that he and his wife should move into a home together. We all knew that he was making plans for the future, ensuring that Graham’s grandma would be safe. It was heartbreaking. As they left the party, Gramps said goodbye to each family member individually, as though he knew that this was going to be the last time he saw everyone. He was unable to make his way down the stairs, so Graham carried him out to the car. He later confided that he’d had an overwhelming urge to tell Gramps that he loved him, something that he hadn’t done throughout his adult years.
The following week Graham and I travelled to London to catch a show. Visiting the West End had been on my ‘bucket list’, and a friend had kindly purchased the tickets as a special treat for my impending birthday. While packing up ready to leave for a short day of sightseeing before returning home, we got a call from Graham’s mum. Gramps had taken a turn for the worse. Graham was visibly upset and I made the decision to leave there and then. As we pulled up at the nursing home, the doctor was just leaving. Graham shot out of the car.
‘How is he?’ Graham asked. The doctor’s face was grave.
‘I’m sorry. He passed away about ten minutes ago.’ We had missed Gramps by minutes; it was devastating. He had been such a character and, although I hadn’t known the family for very long, he already had a special place in my heart.
Chapter Four
It was decided that I would start chemotherapy as soon as possible. Gramps’s funeral was drawing closer and had been planned around my treatment, giving me a day or two to recover from my first dose. It had been good for cancer to not be at the forefront of my mind; supporting Graham and his family had been my primary concern.
Chemotherapy can ruin your chances of having children. As there was no time to freeze my eggs, the doctors had suggested putting my ovaries to sleep to try and protect them. There was no guarantee that it would work, but Graham and I both thought that it was worth a try. I knew that I needed to come to terms with the fact that we would probably never be able to have children of our own, but, at that very moment, all I wanted was to beat cancer.
Before the chemotherapy could be administered I had a small operation to insert a portacath. This device, which looked very much like a Flying Saucer sherbet penny sweet, fitted snugly onto my ribcage and was connected to my heart via a long tube that would dispense the chemotherapy intravenously. I was so nervous about starting my treatment, not least because I knew there was a good chance it would make me sick. No one particularly likes being sick, but I am terrible at coping with it; I can’t even hear someone vomiting without crying and freaking out a little.
The nurses were lovely, but, as they handled the bags of chemotherapy drugs, they resembled something out of a Hollywood chemical disaster movie. They had to wear protective overalls and huge, armpit-length rubber gloves and protective goggles; not exactly reassuring! I will never forget the feeling as they linked the bag of chemotherapy up to my portacath. I knew that the fluid now seeping into my body was poison and that, even if I’d asked them to stop there and then, my hair would still have fallen out. Deep down, I was heartbroken.
The treatment took around three hours to complete and I went home later that day. Although I felt tired, I was relieved that there was no sickness. All of the research that I’d done had led me to believe that the sickness would eventually catch up with me, but I felt fine the next day. I started to feel positive for the first time since my diagnosis – perhaps I was going to breeze through this after all.
Gramps’s funeral took place a couple of days after my first dose of chemotherapy. It was a beautiful service, and I was so proud of Graham as I watched him carry his granddad’s coffin into the crematorium. Death now had a weird new meaning to me – a sort of realness that hadn’t existed before.
It wasn’t long before my next session was due. It was relentless. As the levels of chemotherapy drugs built up in my body, I began to feel weaker and more tired. I was still lucky as I was never sick, although I wasn’t entirely surprised with the amount of anti-sickness medication that I was on.
A few weeks into my treatment, Mum joined me for my latest dose. During the session she received a phone call to say that her best friend’s son, who had also been fighting cancer, had passed away. Mum had known Brian since he was a young lad, and was absolutely devastated. I knew that my cancer diagnosis had been very hard on her, and that this awful news would now make it that little bit more real.
In that moment, I couldn’t possibly have known that Brian’s death was about to become the beginning of a pattern. As a cancer patient you meet many other people along the way who are sharing your journey. The more involved you get the more heartache you experience, and I found myself attending so many funerals. It never gets any easier, despite the frequency with which bad news comes around – if anything it gets harder.
Chapter Five
With every session of chemotherapy, things got tougher and tougher. When I got home I would put myself straight to bed and sleep, although I’d return to feeling almost normal again a few short hours later. My treatment was always on a Tuesday and I remember the fear that washed over me whenever someone mentioned that day – my tummy would do somersaults, and I would completely fill with dread. The drugs used during my chemotherapy were bright red and I found that I grew to detest the colour. Anything red repulsed me. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as anything that resembled those drugs.
As the days after my treatment went on, I would improve a little and then relapse significantly. The effect that the chemotherapy had on my moods was severe, and I know I was a horrible person to be around! I was angry at my situation, and feeling awful never helps matters; it just envelops you and leaves little room for rational thought.
Another side effect of my treatment was an increased appetite. There were Saturday nights when Graham and I would order pizza and sit in front of The X-Factor, comfortably eating more than enough food for four or more people; and yet, five minutes later, I could have eaten the whole meal again. I would experience horrible pains in my chest, like severe indigestion, and the only way to relieve them was to eat. I knew my weight was creeping up and I began to feel really uncomfortable about myself.
I’d let my hair fall out naturally, and one weekend caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had no idea how thin my hair had got; from the back, I looked like a monk! It was then that I decided to shave it off, giving myself a little control over my cancer. I was also fed up of finding hair all over my home and clothes, so I took a razor to my head the next time I found myself alone. Within minutes there was nothing left. It was a weird feeling, slightly liberating, and there were no tears. I’d just accepted losing my hair as part of the process, and decided to post a photo on Facebook to let people know I was okay. Within seconds of uploading the photo of myself smiling, I was inundated with comments – I knew I had the support I needed to keep fighting.
I was due to meet Graham that night for a drink and, other than on Facebook, he was yet to see my new look. I donned the long, blonde wig that I h
ad chosen a few weeks before and set off to meet him, slightly nervous about how he’d react. I arrived feeling emotional and angry at the whole situation, and as soon as I saw Graham I was overcome with anxiety and shame for having no hair. We had barely been together for five months and now Graham was having to face all of this with me; it seemed so unfair on both of us. I wanted to give Graham the opportunity to walk away, as much as it hurt me to do so.
I explained how I felt to Graham. He hugged me close and pulled off my wig, drawing me into a deep and meaningful kiss. We pulled apart and he looked into my eyes.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, and I knew that he meant it.
That weekend the pain in my chest peaked. I had become so depressed that I told Graham I didn’t want to live any more. I became hysterical as he insisted that he was taking me to the hospital. The only way he could get me into the car was to promise me that he wouldn’t leave me there, and that we could come home that night. I knew that he was just worried for me; I was in such a bad place that he had no way of knowing what I would do to myself.
We arrived at the hospital and went straight to the oncology ward. The doctor came to meet us and asked to see all the medication that I was on, which Graham dutifully emptied out in front of him. The doctor explained that half the medications I had been using should not be taken together, and that this was probably the cause of my erratic thoughts and chest pains. As soon as we got my medications sorted, the doctors allowed me to go home. Graham watched me like a hawk from then on, but I soon started to feel so much better in myself.
With no hair and my ever-increasing weight I couldn’t feel good about myself at all. My clothes were pretty and feminine but just didn’t look right with a bald head. I was trying to wear my wig as much as possible, but it was the height of summer and far too hot. I knew that I didn’t have to wear it, but didn’t want to embarrass anyone that I came across while I was out; I wore the wig for them. On occasions that thought made me angry. Looking back it was a stupid way to feel, but I couldn’t help it. I remember sitting in a restaurant one evening with Graham, the sweat dripping from inside my wig and down my back. He repeatedly told me to take it off, but I just couldn’t – I’d walked in wearing it, what would people say if I took it off? I endured the rest of the meal with it on, but inside I was seething.
As the months went by and the end of my chemotherapy came into sight, I realised that I was beginning to run out of savings very rapidly. Money was getting tighter and tighter, and I didn’t know how much longer I could afford to keep a roof over my head. I hadn’t wanted to rush into moving in with Graham, but it was looking as though it was the only option for both of us. Graham worked selling second-hand cars, but the Government’s scrappage scheme had put paid to much of his income. Cars that he would normally have bought were being scrapped, and his earnings were dwindling to nothing. There were times when he had to decide whether to drive to work and try to earn money, or eat.
Graham always chose to work, and I would find him living off a loaf of bread, eating toast for his tea. Living in Devon was becoming increasingly expensive, and we had discussed moving to Nottinghamshire to be closer to some of our family, namely Graham’s dad, and my nan, aunty and uncle. My aunty in particular had been an absolute rock to me during my treatment, sending cards and flowers to cheer me up. She never forgot an appointment, always wished me luck, and touched base after every session to check I was okay – words cannot express how grateful I will always be to her. My nan, well into her 80s, was funny and loving and always talked sense. I knew that my family had kept much of my illness from her, but she knew exactly what was going on!
Graham and I decided it was time to think about the big move. The Nottinghamshire area was cheaper in terms of living costs, and it would mean we could spend time with family we’d not been local to for a long time. My nan’s age and health were also at the forefront of my decision, and I was eager to spend as much time with her as possible before it was too late. Our minds were set.
Chapter Six
We decided to move as soon as possible, giving us time to get back on our feet. We also had high hopes of returning to the West Country in the future; it was our home, after all. Graham and I found a house and, while it didn’t tick all of our boxes, it was much cheaper than the houses we currently lived in, and much bigger too. It was in Bilsthorpe, a village about 14 miles north of Nottingham, 20 minutes from Graham’s dad, and 45 minutes from my family in Sheffield. It suited us perfectly.
We had also heard good things about the local oncology department, so I knew I was in safe hands for the remainder of my treatment. My chemotherapy was now coming to an end and my oncologist had suggested that I should also have six weeks of radiotherapy to ensure that the cancer was well and truly beaten. That would involve targeting a beam of radiation at the area where my lump had been, from Monday to Friday for the whole six weeks; still, if it would help in the long run I was prepared to endure the treatment.
We quickly signed for the house and moved in at the beginning of December. Although it wasn’t our dream house the extra room was most welcome, and the location was lovely. It was lovely to finally be alone. Our wonderful friend, Stuart, helped us to move our stuff, and before long we were settled in.
I soon started my radiotherapy treatment, and came out the other side unscathed, with no real lasting side effects. I felt as though I had come to the end of a long journey, and attended my next oncology appointment in the hope that everything was finally over, and that I would be sent on my way with an ‘I kicked cancer’s butt’ badge for posterity!
At the appointment I met a lovely consultant called Dr Khan. She had a really caring nature and I warmed to her immediately. She informed me that the plan was for me to start taking Herceptin and Tamoxifen, two drugs that acted as hormone blockers. Being HER2 positive meant that my cancer fed off the oestrogen in my body; taking these new drugs would remove the hormone and essentially starve any potential cancer cells, stopping them before they could form.
I’d done my own research, though, and knew that if I started this new course of treatment it would be another five years (at least) before I was completely drug-free. That was five long years before Graham and I could start thinking about having a baby. I knew that getting pregnant would be a long shot, but if there was any chance at all then we wanted to take it. How many more precautions were they expecting me to take? After all, my cancer had been eliminated as soon as the lump had been removed. I didn’t want to be ungrateful – I knew that these drugs were very special, helping to save lives all over the country, so I didn’t make the decision not to take them lightly.
It was nearly Christmas, our first as a couple in a new home together, and we were turning it into a cosy love nest for us to enjoy over the festive period. I couldn’t wait to close out the world and just chill out together. We had invited Graham’s mum and grandma to stay with us over Christmas and enjoyed a lovely few days with them, eating plenty and playing family games of Trivial Pursuit. I had Grandma on my team, and even at the age of 90 she helped me storm to victory against Graham and his mum.
New Year’s Eve arrived and I realised then just how much my life had changed in just 12 months. A year before I had been getting ready to go out and dance the night away, and now I was celebrating with a wonderful man who loved me more than I’d ever been loved before (and vice versa). I’d fought cancer and won! Wow, what a reason to celebrate. Not knowing anyone locally we decided to stay in, cracking open a few bottles with the intention of having an early night. As usual, though, things didn’t turn out as planned. Graham and I drank our combined body weight in alcohol, danced with the Christmas tree, fell over lots, and got to bed in the early hours. It was a great way to spend New Year’s Eve; we had turned over the page onto a new chapter of our lives.
Chapter Seven
The only reminders of my previous year from hell were my bald head and the portacath device still embedded in my chest. I had de
cided that it was time for the portacath to go, and was booked in for a minor procedure under general anaesthetic to have it removed. Yet more scars to add to my never-ending dot-to-dot!
We arrived at the day surgery only to discover that they didn’t seem to be expecting me. They sent us to the waiting room, but a few hours later we were still there, although many of the other patients had now been and gone. We went to check that we hadn’t been forgotten about, only to find that it seemed we had. The secretary to the surgeon had initially rung to offer me the appointment, and then forgotten to tell the surgeon that he’d need to book the theatre slot. Being the impatient, feisty soul that I am, I’m afraid I got a little vocal – I call it ‘getting things done’, while Graham refers to it as ‘kicking off’. Whatever you want to call it, it was now 2pm and I was starving. The surgeon agreed to do my procedure if no urgent admissions came in, and asked the nurses to prep me for surgery. By then my stomach thought my throat had been cut.
The nurse was extremely apologetic about what had happened, and completed the necessary paperwork and pregnancy test, which is standard procedure prior to any operation. A few moments later she walked back into the room with a huge smile on her face. She held out her hand in front of me, clutching the pregnancy test that I’d just done. Within seconds my mind and heart were racing; I couldn’t be … could I? I looked up at the nurse, whose face said it all.
