Fight For Your Dream (11 page)

In at the Deep End

The day after we had collected ‘the boys' was a Sunday. The weather was awful, rain, rain and more rain. I awoke early as I was keen to go and see the boys. I hoped that they had been sensible enough to use the field shelter we had made for them, but no, they hadn't. The straw had not been disturbed at all. Once again my lack of experience showed. When I sell any of my alpacas to customers, I always tell them not to be concerned if the alpacas don't use their field shelter for a week or so. Alpacas are quite timid creatures and have to be confident and comfortable in their new surroundings before venturing into new shelters. Alpacas are, however, very nosey creatures, and eventually curiosity will get the better of them and they will start to explore their new surroundings. Once they've checked things out, peered into the shelter a few times, and had one foot inside, they will eventually decide that its okay, and actually, yeah, its better to be in here than stood outside in the rain.

By lunchtime it was still raining. As I stood in our lounge looking out through the window, I was sure they were shivering. Nigel was laid on the sofa watching TV, totally oblivious to what was happening outside. That was until I decided that enough was enough. I was fretting at them stood in the rain. ‘Nigel, I'm worried about the boys, they look cold'. No answer came from the sofa. ‘Nigel, did you hear me?' I said.

‘They look cold. Why aren't they inside the shelter?'

‘Er, well, they obviously don't want to'.

‘Nigel, Nigel, look at them, we've got to do something'.

‘Like what? he sighed, sounding really not bothered. ‘Look, love, I'm trying to watch the Grand Prix'.

‘Oh, Nigel, please come and help me get them in, I can't manage on my own...please,' I pleaded.

‘It's hopeless, totally useless, the one thing I look forward to once a fortnight on a Sunday. But no, you want me to go running round the paddock in the pouring rain, chasing after a llama and an alpaca. It's crazy, Elaine, just crazy!'

Ten minutes later a reluctant Nigel, still complaining, followed me into the paddock where the boys were. ‘So, what now? What's the plan? How do we get them in the shelter?' Nigel said, sarcastically. ‘Well...well, let's think,' I said stalling for time. ‘What do you suggest?' ‘Oh no, no, this is your idea, you decide,' said Nigel, as he threw his arms in the air.

Some two hours later we triumphantly shot the bolt across the bottom half of the stable door behind the two boys. Both of us leaned against the door, absolutely knackered, trying to catch our breath. The rain was still pouring down, but by now we didn't really notice or even care. Although Nigel would never ever admit it, I do believe he did feel some satisfaction when we finally got them tucked up with food and water in their nice warm dry bed!

Those first few months, owning Marty and Georgie was a massive learning curve for me. It certainly had its highs and lows. I was trying to cope with the trauma which chemo brings, but at the same time I was totally responsible for the two beautiful creatures standing outside in our paddock. Nigel had made it quite clear that if I was going to go ahead with taking on a llama and an alpaca then ‘on my head be it'. They would be my sole responsibility, and I had to look after and care for them. Some people might think Nigel sounded quite hard saying this to me, but Nigel knows me better than anybody. He knew that this would probably give me the focus which I needed to help pull me through the dreadful depression and OCD. Don't get me wrong; those early days were very, very difficult at times. My whole demeanour was like an ever-changing pendulum, sometimes it would be swinging in a good direction, but at other times it was stationary in the wrong direction. Throughout it all I had a duty, a duty to the two beautiful animals that graced our paddock. No matter how bad I felt, whether caused by the chemo or the depression, I still had to get out of bed to care for Marty and Georgie. They needed me; I was their life-line, and they needed me to be there for them no matter what. The one lasting memory of those early days was that, no matter how bad I felt, Marty and Georgie always managed to make me smile and, to be honest, I think that was pretty damned good.

As spring turned into summer I was gaining more confidence handling my boys. I had taught them to walk on a head collar, but ironically it was Marty who proved to be the awkward one on this occasion. Like most animals alpacas have a short concentration span when learning new tasks; so little and often is the best way to teach them. Sixteen years ago alpacas where still pretty rare in the UK, especially where we lived, which made moral support from other owners virtually non-existent. Nigel was always on hand to lend an ear but, apart from that, I was pretty much on my own. Neither family nor friends had a clue about these so-called camelids, so it was down to me and trial and error. The first time I ventured out of our paddock with them was fairly non-eventful, not at all what I had imagined. With one in each hand I walked them up our drive towards the front door. It was a Saturday and a lovely warm summer's day. Mums and dads were with us as usual, so I thought we would surprise them and ring the door bell. Nigel and dads were working in the garden on their latest project and, as we smugly sauntered past them, they cheered and gave us a round of applause!

I knew mums were busy in the kitchen making elevenses coffee for us all, so the three of us wandered towards the front door and rang the bell. A few seconds later I could hear footsteps approaching. ‘Just a minute,' said a voice that I recognised as my mum's. ‘Ok, don't rush,' I shouted back. The door opened and a stunned mum looked out. ‘Well, I never,' gasped mum. ‘Sheila, Sheila, come here. Look who's come to see us'. Sure enough, Nigel's mum followed with a wide grin appearing on her face! ‘Goodness me,' exclaimed an equally surprised mum.

Cruel Sea

It takes no prisoners. It demands respect. A stormy sea is dangerous, dark, cold and menacing. It can take lives without thought or concern or remorse. It's a foaming mass of anger just waiting to draw you closer and then swallow you up when you can fight no more. It's reminiscent of OCD and depression. In short, the word ‘terrifying' describes it best!

Unless you've lived through the experience, you will never ever know just how bad it is. To quote a well-known term, ‘Just when you think it's safe to go back in the water'; how very true that is.

I know, because I lived through the experience and continue to do so, on a daily basis. Just like the sea, I have my controlled, settled, calm days and weeks, but I can never be sure when another storm may whip up. Maybe I will never be sure; maybe I will take this fear with me to my grave; maybe is the future, and the future is totally unknown.

With Marty and Georgie I was beginning to find some sort of contentment. I was several months into my chemo, when another storm was brewing. We were still in the very early stages of understanding the illness, and what to look for in the tell-tale signs; but I knew I wasn't okay. I felt a familiar black cloud descending on me rapidly. I couldn't run away from it, because it seemed to be attached to me by elastic. I was frightened, and shrinking back into my shell. My medication had recently been changed. In the early days of long-term medication it was important to experiment with a few different combinations to see what worked best. I was taking a cocktail of drugs, and all of them had different side effects. Whenever I went to Western Park for my treatment, some member of the family went with me. I would have been absolutely fine on my own, but everyone wanted to give me their individual support, and be with me at some point throughout the therapy.

This particular day, Nigel's mum and dad had taken me. My heart felt sad and heavy, as it quite often did when I was in a bad place. The odd thing, though, was that my jaw had started to ache early in the morning, but by lunchtime the whole of my jawbone was feeling solid and vulnerable, and I was feeling positively strange. The routine was that I would spend the rest of the afternoon at Nigel's mum and dad's house; then Nigel would come to their house after he finished work. We'd all have tea together, then we would go home. Only this day the routine was not working out as expected. I tried to control my emotions, but both mum and dad knew me very well. They were aware that I wasn't normal. I was subdued, quiet and didn't want any lunch, the usual symptoms, but it wasn't until around 1.30pm that they realised to what extent. I was beginning to panic, the lunchtime news was on. I couldn't understand what was happening to me. I made a decisive move off the settee where I had been laying. Mum and dad were sat in their usual armchairs.

Dad put his pipe down in the ashtray and said, ‘What's the matter, duck?' Dad always had a calming effect over me. Apart from loving him as a real dad, I had great respect for him and I knew I could always turn to him for advice. He was calm in a crisis, one of the many traits that Nigel had inherited.

‘My jaw feels funny, it feels like it's going to lock,' I mumbled in panic mode.

By now mum was sat in an upright position on the edge of her chair with a confused expression on her face. ‘Look, pet, I think we'd better ring the doctor for some advice.'

‘Mmm, please mum, I don't like it, it's frightening me,' I said.

The only advice the surgery could give was to ‘contact Charles Clifford, the dental hospital.' They took some details and background information on my recent illness, and suggested we drive down to see them asap. I'd never been in the building before. Neither had Nigel's mum and dad. In fact, it wasn't an easy place to find, what with all the new one-way street restrictions being put in place. By now I was in no fit state to try to help navigate. I'd gone into trance mode, which was how Nigel used to describe my demeanour when this happened. The room was packed full of miserable-looking people, me included. Obviously, we were all in the same situation, all in pain! Mum sat holding my hand on one side of me and dad on the other. I cushioned my head on mum's shoulder and sat patiently, waiting for my turn.

Eighty minutes later my name was called. ‘Alright, pet,' mum said, turning to me. ‘Come on, they've called us'. My speech was slurred and I felt tired and drunk. I was escorted into a large black dentist chair, which I flopped into. It reminded me of a similar black chair way back in my childhood. A large window was directly in front of me. All I could see was the sky, as a large gentleman reclined my chair backwards. I was finding it increasingly difficult to speak, let alone make sense. It was all quite surreal. I felt as though I'd been in that chair an age, but obviously my recollection was somewhat tainted. All I can remember is the pain and discomfort that the instruments caused as they probed my mouth. The dental nurse who was holding my hand gave me a reassuring smile, as she must have seen the tear that was creeping into the corner of my eye. Mum squeezed my arm, smiled and whispered, ‘Be brave, pet.' But by now the tear had escaped and was trickling down my face.

Lockjaw

I'd heard of it, but I didn't know of anybody who'd experienced it!

Anyway, it didn't matter now as I could give a first-hand account. As I lay prostrate in the chair I felt as though I was having an out of body experience. I stared skywards. Allowing the scenario to be played out around me, I was conscious but I didn't feel it. Stuff was happening around me, I could hear it, but in my mind's eye I'd clocked out.

The edges were becoming blurred. I can remember feeling drunk and dizzy, warm and cosy, but very sleepy yet almost comfortable in my own bubble of existence. I wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep. The past ten months had been incredibly difficult. What must I have done in a former life to deserve this? It must have been a bad thing. I didn't understand back then, but OCD was raising its ugly head again. It just couldn't resist the opportunity to hurt me. Oh no, please, go away, please! The next thing I can remember was the pain returning and a crack. I was no longer tired, but the jaw was back in place... or so they all thought. The pain returned with a vengeance.

I must have been in a state of shock, because I can't really remember getting out of the chair, or even travelling back to Nigel's mum and dad's in the car. What I do remember was thinking: this is still not right, it's not sorted. Nigel had been made aware of the afternoon's events via mum and a phone call, so that evening he arrived home relatively early. ‘Now then,' he said, ‘I can't leave you alone for two minutes, can I?' I must have had such a vacant expression on my face, because Nigel cupped my face in his hands as he knelt down and said, ‘It's okay, honey bun, that's over now.' My eyes sprung a leak again as tears silently dripped onto my jumper. How could I tell him that I didn't think that was the case? All I could do was to hope that I was wrong. But I was not wrong.

We arrived home at around 8.15pm. Bassett is only a five minute drive away from Nigel's mum and dad's. I'm pretty vague about most of what happened next, but what I do remember is Nigel encouraging me to get undressed and climb into bed.

I felt weird, my mouth and jaw ached terribly, yet I was just wandering around in total oblivion, almost trance-like. Nigel sat me on the edge of the bed, undressed me and got me into my pyjamas. As he pulled the covers back he said gently, ‘Elaine, come on, get in.'

I always know when Nigel is getting cross or frustrated with me, because he uses my ‘Sunday name': Elaine. This was one of those occasions. He helped me into bed, got undressed and proceeded into the bathroom. I lay in bed, gazing at the bedroom ceiling. Something was happening with my jaw and I couldn't control it. I tried to call out to Nigel, but my mouth wouldn't work. I was feeling distant again, like earlier in the afternoon, but much more so. I felt my chin and realised that the wetness was saliva dribbling out of the corners of my mouth, but I had no control over it. Tears streamed down my face, but I was unable to call for help. My chest was tight and I was becoming short of breath. I didn't realise at the time how close I was to permanent sleep. I was very tired again, but I wasn't warm like earlier. I didn't understand what was happening. I was frightened and just wanted to see Nigel's face again. It can only have been a matter of minutes, but it seemed much longer, when Nigel's face came into view as he leaned over me and started to shake me. To be perfectly honest, I'm unable to be articulate enough to describe the exact sequence of events that took place over the next few hours. All I do remember is the fear I saw in Nigel's eyes as he struggled to make sense of what was happening.

I was told days later that what actually happened is that I dislocated my jaw. This was caused due to an allergic reaction to some new drugs that I had recently had prescribed for my condition. The life-threatening situation, that took place that evening, was that the drugs had caused such a violent reaction that the outcome culminated in me swallowing my tongue, and it was only due to Nigel's quick thinking and actions that night that I am here today to tell my story.

Apparently, Nigel dialled 999 to the emergency services, and immediately he was connected to an online paramedic who guided him through the delicate operation of retrieving my tongue from my throat, ultimately securing my survival. Nigel was told that a paramedic team was on their way to us, but that until they arrived Nigel had to remain calm and listen carefully to what he had to do. She told him that she would stay talking to him until the paramedics arrived, but that he had to do what she said, to help me until they did. Even now, sixteen years on, Nigel still finds that time very difficult to talk about and discuss. At the time of writing this chapter we are on a condor ferry from Poole, accompanied by our little Chihuahua (Chico). We are just approaching Jersey where our pride and joy sits in Elizabeth Marina, our boat ‘Black Pearl'. The date is 22
nd
May 2013. It has been with some reluctance that Nigel has only now agreed to describe to me in detail the events of that night for the sake of me writing my book.