Change of Life (38 page)

A momentary flicker of alarm crossed Sam’s face. Then she picked up her bag and fled from the flat.

I didn’t see or hear from her for a couple of weeks. At first she wouldn’t answer her phone when I called. Then I got a couple of terse texts in response to my messages.

It was the last day of July when she came back to the flat. Jenny was with her. It was early afternoon when they arrived, and I was resting on top of the bed. I sat up and shouted hallo when I heard the key in the front door. They came straight through to the bedroom.

“Hi, Mum,” said Jenny, as she gave me a hug and a kiss. “I’ve brought camomile tea for you to try – you said you’d gone off the ordinary stuff. I’ll go and get the kettle on.”

Sam, who’d been hanging back in the doorway, looked at her sister, pleadingly, but Jenny just smiled and patted her arm as she passed.

“Come in, Sam,” I said.

She took a step into the room. “Mum,” she spoke quietly. “You look tired. Are you feeling bad?”

“I feel better after my rest. And I feel better seeing you. Come here.” I held out my arms. She came into them so quickly, she nearly knocked me over. We sat on the bed, holding each other tight.

When Sam released her grip, she sat back, looking into my eyes. She was so like Tom that my breath caught in my throat.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry – what I said - it was horrible. Jenny was so cross when I told her – she’s the only person I’ve told. I’ve been too embarrassed to talk to you. But you know Jenny. She wouldn’t let it go. She persuaded me to come. She said you’d forgive me.”

“Oh, my darling, there’s nothing to forgive.” I kissed her and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry too. Sorry you’ve been so hurt by all this. I love you so much, Sam.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

“Right, I’m glad that’s all sorted!” Jenny was back in the bedroom. “Now dry your tears you two and come through for some camomile infusion.”

“Sounds revolting,” said Sam. “I think I’ll have a Coke.” Jenny rolled her eyes as Sam went off to the kitchen, but she gave me a huge grin.

“Have you given Mum her present?” Jenny
said,
when Sam joined us in the living room.

“Oh, yes!” Sam scrabbled in her bag and produced a prettily wrapped package. “For you, from me” she said.

It was a hat, a pretty little blue hat with an upturned brim. “Oh, Sam, it’s lovely. Thank you.” I took off the hat I was wearing, an earlier present from Jenny, and tried on my new one. Sam looked at me and smiled – a wonderful sight.

“It suits you, Mum – good choice, Sam.” Jenny nodded in approval. She reached into her bag. “Here.” She handed me a mirror. I looked at my reflection. I’d been avoiding looking at myself for weeks. In fact I’d turned the bedroom mirror to the wall. I let out a little gasp. I looked pale and my face was much thinner, but the hat was flattering. Jenny rested her head on my shoulder and looked at us both in the mirror. “It matches your eyes perfectly, but that face could do with some colour.”

“It certainly could!” said Sam. “So get that tea finished, and then sit back for your makeover.”

“What?” I asked, as my daughters laughed. They’d come prepared. I was treated to a facial by Jenny. Then Sam applied some makeup to my face. And I had to admit, when I surveyed the result, that I looked much better for their ministrations.

“And this is from both of us,” Jenny said, handing me another package.

“This is too much, girls!” I
unwrapped
a beautiful, turquoise and lilac, tie-dyed, cotton scarf.

“No, no, it isn’t,” said Sam. “You deserve a treat, Mum. Here, I’ll show you how to tie it round your head. We thought you could wear it as a change from your hats.”

After that my daughters and I had regular girlie afternoons of makeup and manicures - and I treasured every moment.

Chapter Thirty Five

I meant it when I said to Jenny that I’d never intended my leaving to be permanent. I missed home and I loved it when the children visited me. They really did lift my spirits. So, what was stopping me going back? Yes, there was the risk of infection, but seeing family and friends at the flat was only marginally less risky. I didn’t tell my medical team just how many visitors I had, because I didn’t want to be hospitalised. But if I was honest, as the summer progressed, my low immunity was a convenient excuse to stay on my own.

And, as I’d also said to Jenny, that day at the Maggie’s centre, I wasn’t ready to go home.

For one thing, I was putting on a brave face about the cancer whenever I was with my family or friends. But it was just that – an act – an utterly exhausting act. It was something that I noticed - people seemed to expect bravery from cancer patients. It was seen as admirable. I think
,
if the patient was stoical and serene throughout, it made the unafflicted feel less threatened by the whole filthy, painful business of cancer. Oh yes, I felt that bitter. I resented the healthy. I’m not proud of it, but sometimes, when my mood was the very darkest black – I hated the relentlessly cheerful, look-on-the-bright-side brigade.

Because the truth was, I wasn’t the least bit brave - I was absolutely petrified. I was an emotional wreck. The physical pain, the vomiting, my ulcerated mouth and bleeding gums were nothing compared to the internal terror.

It could happen any time – day or night. I’d think I was coping but then
she
was always there, just biding her time, waiting for the slightest sliver of self-pity or fear. She was an ever-present, dark shadow - waiting in the wings. As soon as there was a chink in my defences, she was out of the wings and at centre stage. And yes, I’m sorry to say, it was a she. My cancer was a malicious, marauding, merciless witch-bitch from hell – a most wicked Queen, offended by healthy femininity. She was a hideous and heartless entity – a violating and invasive, alien presence. She plotted my death.

Sometimes she made me cower. At those times I could only curl up on the bed and cry – and try to keep the sickening pictures out of my head - images of my mutilated chest, or of my morphine-clouded deathbed, and my bereaved and motherless children. But the bitch would be there screaming and cackling, “Look! Go on, look!”

And sometimes she’d win and I would look. I’d look at the fiery, jagged scar that served as a sickening marker of what I’d lost. And I’d cradle my remaining breast – stroke, press and prod it. I’d convince myself there was a lump. I’d check again and there’d be nothing there - and how the evil, festering crone would laugh. These were my darkest times and, on these occasions, I felt my sanity hanging by a thread.

I had to come up with a way of fighting this truly awful entity.

It was speaking with Dawn, a young patient I met at the
Maggie’s, that
helped me come up with my battle plan. Dawn was very young, just Sam’s age, and was being treated for
secondaries
in her bones. It was humbling enough just conversing with this amazing girl. It certainly helped me regain some perspective. For one thing, I was utterly grateful it was me and not one of my children who was the cancer patient. But it was Dawn’s visualisation technique that really resonated with me. She pictured herself as Lara Croft swinging through tombs blasting her nasties, her tumours.

“It works for me, Rosie. You feel strong – like you’re the boss and you’re in charge and kicking the cancer’s ass. Try it!”

And so I did. The choice came easily. The Alien movies were some of Tom’s favourite films. We saw the first one at the cinema when we were just married – and we got it on video as soon as we had our first VCR. It remained our favourite of the series. We watched it many times, with a takeaway and a bottle of wine, in the years before we had the kids. I bought it on DVD after my conversation with Dawn. I watched it over and over.

I was going to be the gutsy Ripley – the armed-to-the-teeth Sigourney Weaver character, the heroine of the movie. My body was the spaceship Nostromo and I was going to rid my craft of the stinking, malevolent witch-bitch alien.

As Ripley I’d scream my threats at the ghastly hag that was stalking me. I’d stand my ground and I’d yell at her to do her worst, shout that she wasn’t going to get me. She’d got my mother but she wasn’t going to get me. And she needn’t even think about getting her scrawny, wraith-like hands on my daughters, because I was going to obliterate her from my life and she wasn’t ever coming back.

I’d patrol my spaceship and, always, that stalking bitch was waiting, tucked round a corner, ready to lunge out in front of me, forcing me to stay and fight or, to turn and flee – but return another day. Being Ripley brought me strength, helped me look past the shadow in the wings,
helped
me get to know my enemy better.

I researched symptoms and treatments obsessively on the internet.

I quizzed my doctors – what were the chances of a recurrence, of a carcinoma in the other breast, of a genetic link that meant my daughters were vulnerable? Mostly they answered patiently and kindly, but never with the unqualified assurances that I sought.

But it was from Dawn and my other fellow patients at the Maggie’s Centre that I got the most practical support. We exchanged information about therapies and treatments. And we shared a black humour – tumour humour –we called it. And when my sense of humour failed me and I needed to weep, to grieve for the loss of my breast and the loss of my self, no one at the Centre minded - and no one made bloody stupid, bland remarks about how it would all be fine.

So, by August, the bitch and I reached an understanding. I wasn’t going to waste any more precious energy being angry. I would still get scared, but if I remained strong in the face of my fear, then I believed I would win. This was not bravery - but a strong desire to survive. I no longer trusted my treacherous body, so I had to rely on my strength of will. I’d negotiate the road on my terms. To do it, I needed space to manoeuvre and to react as I saw fit. And agony though it was, at times, to be separated from them, I honestly believed my children were better off not witnessing the full horror of my journey.

My resolve, my determination to be in control, also meant that I couldn’t be with Tom. Not only had my own body betrayed me, but Tom had too. And I still feared the force of his belief that he knew best.

However, my feelings of anger towards him did subside.

I realised that I’d never given him the slightest inkling that I was ready to talk about Heather’s suicide. I’d blocked the whole malignant business and let it eat away at me. The irony of the parallel with my present physical condition was not lost on me. I knew there was more to the story regarding Tom’s part in the end of my sister’s life and the beginning of Robbie’s. And although it might hurt like hell, I also knew that I needed to hear it.

And I was grateful to Tom -
that
he did as I asked and gave me my time alone. But though it was what I wanted and needed, I did yearn for him. I missed him in every way – physically, mentally,
emotionally
. I longed for his touch, his smell, his maleness – and, perversely, I know, at times I longed for his strength.

I found that I looked forward to his twice-weekly phone calls. And I had to admit to myself that, on the day Adam came to meet us both at the
flat,
I was as excited about seeing Tom as I was about seeing Adam. He was so kind and gentle that afternoon, even after I threw up on him.

A week after that visit, the exam results came out. Jenny’s results were very good, four
As
and a B. Being Jenny, she was, of course, more annoyed about the B in History than thrilled about the four As. She phoned me to let me know how she’d done. She’d got the grades she needed for university and we chatted about the pros and cons of the courses offered by Edinburgh, St Andrews and Aberdeen.

Adam arranged for his results to be forwarded to Ruby’s. He said he’d call me to let me know how he’d got on and that I was to tell Tom. He clearly didn’t want to discuss the outcome with his father. I rehearsed how I would react when he phoned. I was determined not to say the wrong thing, no matter what he had to tell me, but the trouble was I didn’t know what the right thing would be. If the results were better than expected, I told myself not to gush, but to sound pleased in a controlled way. If the results were bad, then I mustn’t sound pitying. I would be positive, but not overwhelmingly so. By the time his call came I was a nervous wreck.