Change of Life (8 page)

I cuddled him tightly, struggling not to cry. “You’re a very wise boy sometimes, Maxy. And I love you very much.”

“Love you, too, Mum.”

As always, Max had lightened my mood. He was such an uncomplicated and cheerful lad. Despite professing to hate being kissed, he still regularly sought and accepted a hug, and still liked to cuddle up close on the sofa when watching the television. I hoped it would be some time before this changed.

Once at school, I reminded Max I wouldn’t be there at the end of the day. And then he was off into the playground, shouting to a friend to kick the ball to him.

Like the day before, I found work to be therapeutic as I had no time to think of anything other than what was happening in the classroom. One of my pupils, Maisie, a shy and reserved child normally, was glowing with the arrival of her baby brother. She stood up and told her news to the whole class and showed us a photo of the baby. This inspired several of the other children to share stories of wee brothers and sisters. There were tales of a two-year-old having to go to hospital to have a raisin removed from his ear and of a wee sister’s potty training accidents. Then it was time to get everyone changed for P.E. As we lined up to go to the gym, Jordan was copiously and colourfully sick on the classroom carpet. This caused hysteria among the other children, who were both disgusted and delighted. I despatched a runner to find the janitor. After break there was a maths test to do,
followed
by an exploration of the wonders of magnetism.

Before I knew it, it was two o’clock and time to drive to Edinburgh. The traffic heading into the city was not too heavy at that time of day, so I didn’t take the by-pass all the way in. It was such a horrible road. I much preferred to approach the city through Musselburgh and Portobello, keeping the sea in view. The sun was out and it was a warm afternoon. The sea sparkled. I threaded through Leith with its new flats, warehouse conversions and trendy bars and restaurants. And soon I was heading west along Ferry Road to the Crewe Toll roundabout and the Western General Hospital. It took me almost as long to find somewhere to park as it had done to drive into the city.

I knew the Western quite well. Tom worked there when he was a junior doctor and it was where my mother had her cancer treatment. I’d accompanied her to some of her appointments. It was still a sprawling, incoherent set of buildings, supplemented nowadays by various portacabins. The breast clinic had moved from where it had been during my mother’s time. It had taken me a bit of time to find it on my previous visit, when I came to have the tests done. This time though, I knew where I was going.

The clinic’s waiting area was cramped and dilapidated. Two rows of mismatched chairs faced each other; many already occupied when I walked in. The reception desk sat across the top of the small space. In the middle was a low table, its grubby surface littered with ancient magazines and empty plastic cups. I informed one of the receptionists of my arrival and was told to take a seat. I managed to find one that had no one sitting on either side.

Across the corridor from the waiting area were several consulting rooms. The doors to these rooms opened from time to time and a patient would emerge, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied.

It helped pass the time to wonder about the relationship between patient and escort, and what their story was. Sometimes a patient and partner would come out beaming and embracing. Other times a woman would emerge in obvious distress and supported by a nurse. Then there were those who were impossible to read. Had they had good or bad news? And away they would all go, to face their fate.

Then a nurse would call out the name of the next soul awaiting their verdict and sentencing. Each time this happened my heart lurched. Part of me wanted the consultation to be over, but another part wanted to prolong this time of ignorance. What you don’t know can’t hurt you - my mother again.

Up until Robbie came into my house and said who he was, everything was normal. Then in the space of a sentence everything changed. My world shattered, certainty fragmented and fell away.

And now, at the hospital, another potentially devastating sentence could be about to be uttered. But at least I was bracing myself in preparation this time. My mind drifted on and on.

“McAllister, Rosemary McAllister?” The nurse’s voice sounded impatient as it broke into my thoughts. She was frowning. I wondered how many times she’d said my name. I raised my hand.

“This way, please,” she said, without smiling. I followed her across the corridor to the door with Mr Campbell’s name on it. She showed me in and disappeared.

“Good afternoon, Mrs McAllister.” Mr Campbell came round from behind the desk and shook hands. As at our first meeting, there was the nice smile and the calm manner. “Do sit down, please.” He indicated two chairs side by side at right angles to the desk. The room was very small and stiflingly hot.

“Thank you,” I said as I took a seat. My mouth was dry. My voice sounded weak. I cleared my throat. There was a quiet knock on the door. A nurse entered. She looked friendlier than the one who’d shown me in. She smiled and sat down beside me.

Mr Campbell brought his chair out from behind the desk and sat facing me. He looked down at the file in his hand. “I have the results of the scan and the biopsy.” He laid the file down. He leant forward and put his hand on mine. “Mrs McAllister, I’m sorry to have to tell you that the lump in your left breast does appear to be malignant.”

So much for bracing
myself
, it was still a shock. To hear that word –‘malignant’ – applied to me, to something in me, was devastating.

“Do you have anyone with you today?” He nodded towards the nurse. “Would you like Sister Webster to ask them to come in?” Mr Campbell looked me in the eye, his hand still on mine. He had such a kind face.

“No, there’s nobody with me. I came alone. I preferred it that way. My husband would have come if I’d asked him, or any of my friends, of course. But this is how I wanted it. I’ll tell people when I’m ready. My husband’s a doctor – a surgeon – I didn’t want him taking over.” I was babbling. I knew I was, but couldn’t help it. For some reason it mattered to me that Mr Campbell understood why I’d come alone.

“That’s all right. Everyone copes in different ways. A surgeon you say?
McAllister - not Tom McAllister, heart man at the Royal?”

“Yes, Tom’s my husband. Do you know him?”

“We’ve met, but I know him by reputation mainly. He’s very highly thought of. But I take your point about us surgeons wanting to take charge. We make terrible patients and even worse partners of patients!” Mr Campbell laughed at this observation. I managed a weak smile. “Anyway, Mrs McAllister– I know it seems like very bad news, but
try
not to worry. I believe we’ve caught your cancer early and it will prove to be treatable. I’d like to get you in as soon as possible and take a good look at what we’re dealing with. I need to operate and I’ll only take as much of the tissue as is absolutely necessary. Then we’ll work out exactly what further treatment is needed. But you will definitely need a course of chemotherapy.”

He sat back in his chair and I realised he was waiting for me to respond. I was unable to speak. All I could take in were the words ‘your cancer’, ‘taking tissue’ and ‘chemotherapy’. They echoed round my head. I felt very strange. I actually thought I was going to laugh. This was all some hideous joke – Robbie, Tom, cancer…

“Mrs McAllister, take a wee sip if you can.” Sister Webster was holding a cup of water to my lips. Her arm was along my shoulders.

Mr Campbell was opening the window in the stuffy little room. I took a couple of sips.

“Better now?” Mr Campbell smiled his lovely smile again. “Sister Webster was quick off the mark. She saw you about to hit the deck and caught you. Good catch, Wendy, by the way!”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be! These rooms are far too hot and you’ve had a shock. It’s me who should apologise. I was going too fast for you. When you’re ready, come over to the examination couch. You’re still very pale and I’d like to check you over. But first you need to gather your thoughts. I’ll leave Wendy here with you for a few moments. She’ll answer any questions you might have and she’ll explain the support she’ll offer you throughout your treatment.” Mr Campbell offered his arm and helped me over to the couch. “Now try and relax and I’ll be right back.”

Wendy Webster was as calm and reassuring as Mr Campbell. She was about my age, tall and slim with short grey hair and a kind face. She went over everything that Mr Campbell had said and more.

“Don’t worry if you don’t take everything in now,” she said. “That’s perfectly normal. Here’s my card. You can phone or email me anytime with any questions you might have. If I’m not here when you get in touch, I promise I will get back to you as soon as I can.”

In a little while Mr Campbell returned. “You’ve got your colour back. Feeling better?” He took my wrist. “I’ll just check your pulse, Mrs McAllister.”

“Rosie, call me Rosie. Mrs McAllister makes me feel like I’m either ancient or at work – I’m a teacher. And, yes, I’m feeling much better thanks.”

“Rosie it is then. I’m Angus. I don’t like to presume and go straight to first names. Some patients prefer to keep it formal – although it does tend to be the older generation. And that’s fine. I want my patients to feel comfortable.” He let go of my wrist. “I’ll just take your blood pressure, if I may.”

I nodded.

“Teacher, eh?” he continued as he removed the pressure cuff. “I couldn’t do your job. I wouldn’t have the patience. I couldn’t put up with the backchat and the cheek.”

“Oh, I have the little ones. They’re only seven. They can try your patience, I agree, but it’s a good job and can be very rewarding.” I realised I was smiling and feeling much better. Angus Campbell was a skilled practitioner.

“Seven year olds!
Even more scary!”
He laughed.
“ Right
, you’ll do, pulse and blood pressure are fine,” he said. “Now sit up slowly and, when you’re ready, come back over and sit down.”

Once I was back sitting in the chair he asked, “Anything you want to know or has Wendy done her usual efficient job? I take it we can call her Wendy – don’t want her to feel left out.” He winked at his colleague.

“You said you’d take some tissue during the operation. Did you mean - does that mean that - that you’ll - that I’ll..?

“Lose your breast?” His voice was very gentle. I nodded. “I could do a lumpectomy, which is only to remove the lump. But I may decide, once I see what’s what, to take a bit more than that – and yes, possibly, the whole breast. I will ask you to give consent for the entire visible tumour and as much surrounding tissue as is advisable, to be removed at that operation, because that’s how I prefer to do it. However it’s up to you to make an informed decision. Read the leaflets Wendy’s given you and do ask any further questions as they arise.”

I nodded again. “You said I’d need chemotherapy. Does that mean it’s really bad and if it is –well - is it worth having chemo? It’s just my mother had chemo for her breast cancer and it was awful. It made her so ill and she died anyway.”

“Rosie, I can’t make promises. I don’t know the full extent of your disease, but yes chemo is well worth it. I’m sorry your mother had cancer too, but you’re not your mother. Every cancer’s different and it’s not over till it’s over, okay?” He touched my hand again. I nodded. “Talk it over with your husband or someone else close. Let all this sink in. I’ll be in touch soon to arrange admission – it could be as soon as next week. And you can be signed off work whenever you want to start your sick leave. I’ll be in touch with your GP shortly, so it’s just a case of letting him or her know.” He stood up. “We’ll get this thing sorted. Don’t worry.”

I stood up too. “I’ll try not to. Thank you.”

“And you must rest assured that this is all confidential. I know Tom’s a doctor – one of the club – but he’ll only hear about any of this, if and when you decide to tell him. However, I do urge you to tell someone amongst your nearest and dearest. You will need support. Goodbye for now.” He held out his hand. I shook it. I added ‘perceptive’ to the list of Angus Campbell’s good qualities.

Chapter Nine

I don’t really remember the drive home. I know I didn’t let myself think about the diagnosis. The car radio hummed its tunes and the roads went by in a blur. All I wanted was a soak in a hot bath and then to sleep and sleep.