The Cancer Survivors Club (7 page)

I'm sixty-five years old and my main hobby is gardening, but never in a million years did I think this would save my
life.

One day, I thought I'd prune some of the tall trees in our garden. I climbed the ladder and reached the top of the tree with my sixteen-foot pruner. Once I'd finished the job, I threw the pruner on top of the growing pile of branches I'd cut off. At that moment, something in the back of my neck hurt and didn't feel quite right.

A week went by and the pain in my neck got worse, so I decided I should go to the doctor. They said I'd probably just pulled a muscle and gave me some painkillers. These didn't work and my neck continued to hurt, so the following week I went back again. This time I was given yet more painkillers, but stronger ones; again these didn't work either. Four weeks later and the pain just kept getting worse. Then one night I went to bed and woke up to find that I had lost most of the use of my right arm. My initial thought was I'd had a stroke, which was terrifying. So back to the doctor I went again; calmly I showed him that my arm had stopped working. To my amazement, I was just packed off home with even more painkillers. A week later, I went back yet again and this time they still appeared to ignore what I was saying. It was becoming very frustrating, not to mention painful. It was now eight weeks since I'd started getting the pain while gardening and it continued to get worse. At times it was so severe it prevented me from sleeping normally.

During this time, there wasn't one doctor who suggested I should have a scan; I'd now been seen by all five doctors at my local surgery,
too!

Each week I went to see them and each week they gave me different types of painkillers, which provided no relief from the pain. I was at desperation's door, so in one last-ditch attempt went back to the doctor. This time, I really did have a good old moan, I was so frustrated and angry.

At last, this doctor made an appointment for me to see a physiotherapist, to see if they could help with the mobility of my now useless right arm. The physiotherapist started various exercises, but the pain they caused was so intense it felt like my whole body was being kicked.

Eventually, the physiotherapist stopped the exercises, as they were actually making me feel ill. She thought I should see a doctor at the hospital. By the time I arrived, I was doubled up in pain. I begged for the doctor to do something for me and quickly. She arranged for me to have a scan. At long last, after nine weeks, somebody was actually listening to me. Just three days later, I was having a scan of my back and
neck.

The following day, while I was waiting for another appointment with the physiotherapist, which I was obviously dreading, my doctor called asking if I could pop down and see him. This really started to panic me. It was then I was given the news that I had a tumour on my spine. Words can't describe how absolutely devastated I felt. Immediately, the doctor made an appointment at the main hospital. I was told I should collect the MRI scan results from another hospital en route.

My husband and daughter arrived at the hospital within an hour with the scan results and I was immediately admitted. After months of moaning that nothing was happening, suddenly people were listening and things were moving quickly.

The next morning, I was to have a life-or-death operation
–
literally. When I came round from the operation, I was connected to a life-support machine. Thankfully, from there on, I progressed and got loads better each day. While I was recovering from the operation in the hospital, doctors told me they'd removed a large tumour from the top of my spine. This was why I'd been experiencing such terrible pain in my neck and back. Thankfully, now the pain has totally gone. I was told I was lucky to be alive. The surgeon said, if the tumour had not been found and dealt with, I'd have soon lost the use of all my limbs, not to mention my life. I was told I had an extremely rare type of cancer and it was even rarer for the spine to be the primary site for cancer. This news was such a massive shock to both me and all my family.

Each day, I kept thinking to myself, ‘I'm sure I didn't hear this right' or perhaps I'd been having some kind of bad dream. While I was in hospital I never once thought, ‘Why me?' My focus and concentration was purely on getting better and surviving. The doctor once asked if I would like to see the hospital chaplain, which I agreed to. Not that I ever thought I might die, but I knew my Christian faith would help me through my treatment. The chaplain and I went into a room together and she asked if I wanted to pray. As we were saying a prayer, I could hear the chaplain speaking, but lost track of her being there.

As I clasped my hands in prayer, I saw Jesus' hands praying in the same way as me. In his hands he was holding the brightest light I'd ever seen. Next to me in my prayers my husband and daughter were sitting in a line. Jesus passed the light into my hands and then I passed the light into my husband's hands. He in turn passed it on to my daughter. This was truly a wonderful feeling and, although the chaplain was still speaking, I'm embarrassed to say I didn't really hear much of what she said. She asked me if I was all right and I explained I'd seen the most wonderful sight. Afterwards, she told me that she felt I'd received a truly wonderful sign and the light would always be with all of us, wherever we all go. From that day on, my life has continued to get better.

Near the end of my stay in hospital, six of the doctors came to see me. I knew they had come to talk to me about the cancer. One of the doctors said the cancer treatment would start once I'd been discharged. This again was a bit frightening, but I was determined I'd deal with whatever treatment I had and ultimately survive.

I was measured up for a collar to support my spine and neck; I had to wear it for about nine weeks following my discharge. I even had to wear the collar in bed, which prevented me from lying flat on my back. This was because, when the surgeon operated to remove the tumour, my spine had to be rebuilt with a titanium mesh and cement to replace the fifth and sixth vertebrae. This was due to the bone being completely destroyed by the cancer.

I soon received a course of radiotherapy, which consisted of five sessions a
week.

From time to time, I needed the odd x-ray just to ensure that everything was all right.

In all the time that I had the cancer, I never once thought that I would die. I believed I'd get better because I had everything to live for: a wonderful husband, daughter, son-in-law and grandson. They were my reason to live, fight and beat the disease.

I've now fully recovered and I owe my thanks to all the doctors and nurses who have helped me along my cancer journey; without them I would not be here. I must say to everyone, if you think that you might have any type of cancer, please get it checked. There was nobody more frightened than me and I'm so grateful to the people that saved my
life.

I'm right handed but unfortunately due to the tumour I lost the use of part of my right arm. Thankfully, I can use my left arm and hand to move my right arm where it needs to be, and this works just fine. I have now had the results from my latest tests, which say there is still no sign of any cancer. This truly is a wonderful feeling.

Unfortunately, my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer in July. This has been a really stressful road we have both been down but now everything is drawing to a close. Thankfully, my husband has also recently been given the all clear from his cancer.

Our thanks go to our family for their love and devotion shown to
us.

My daughter Clare was having a difficult time during the early stages of her long-awaited pregnancy. She detected all was not well but her doctors didn't appear overly worried. They simply put her concerns down to being an excessively anxious new mum-to-be.

In June, my wife and I visited her at home, just as doctors had finally agreed to admit Clare to hospital for some tests. They wanted to explore why she felt so unwell. Clare asked her mum, Yvonne, to accompany
her.

After her appointment, Clare then stayed with us for the weekend. However, she soon received a phone call from the hospital asking if she could pop back in on the Sunday. They explained they wanted to carry out some more tests. Clare readily agreed as she was feeling so unwell. She actually asked if they could see her a day earlier, on the Saturday, and thankfully they agreed.

On Saturday, after a few more tests, the doctors discovered Clare had an ovarian cyst. She was immediately admitted and the doctors proposed to remove it during surgery the following Monday.

When Yvonne and I visited Clare later on Monday after her surgery, she told us the dreadful news that surgeons had actually found some type of cancer. This had been found in her bowel and samples had been sent off for testing. To learn your child has cancer is quite simply the most devastating thing to experience. What do you say when you're asked, ‘Why me,
Dad?'

During the following week, as Clare recovered from surgery, we all waited for the test results of her biopsy. Yvonne and I visited every day, staying at a small hotel close to the hospital. Kris, Clare's husband, was staying with his parents. We didn't want to intrude by staying at Clare and Kris' house.

The next Monday, Clare was transferred to a cancer centre at a different hospital. We arrived in the evening to find her looking very poorly and breathing with the aid of oxygen. Again we stayed nearby and visited her the following day. Sadly, during Tuesday night, she lost her baby. It was thought the surgery may have been too much for her body to handle.

On the Wednesday afternoon, a doctor had arranged to see Clare. He'd seen her on Tuesday night after we'd all gone, but Clare wanted us to be there when he examined and talked to her again. During his examination, we noticed he looked very concerned. Within just minutes, he arranged for a chest x-ray and swiftly organized for her to be moved into the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). We had been told that this doctor, who specialized in cancer, spoke his mind and was very direct in his approach. But we really weren't expecting him to tell us that Clare was desperately ill and had failing kidneys. We also weren't expecting him to tell us we should prepare ourselves for the worst: Clare could actually die. I can't begin to explain how awful it felt to be told she might not make it. I was standing in a busy hospital corridor outside Clare's ward at the time, with people rushing around, when we were given this dreadful news. I am not ashamed or embarrassed to admit I broke down and cried.

We soon found ourselves following an ambulance to the other hospital and then sat in the family waiting room, while nurses took Clare into the ICU. By now it was gone 11:00
P.M.
During that long dreadful night of tears, we were visited by the duty doctor who said he was going to try to kick-start her kidneys with injections of diuretics. However, in his words: ‘I don't think we'll succeed.'

As Thursday morning dawned, Clare was thankfully still with us. She was certainly putting up a good fight, bless her. The nurses and doctors on the ICU were wonderful. It's so hard to describe how grateful I was
–
no tin of chocolates or words of thanks could begin to express just how thankful I was. Again, we had to find somewhere to stay the night, so found a room in a local bed & breakfast. The nursing staff assured us they would call the minute they thought we should come back to the hospital to be with Clare; for the moment she was stable.

We were so exhausted we soon managed to drop off to sleep. It was a wonderful feeling when we woke to realize the phone hadn't rung during the night. However, when we arrived at the hospital on the Friday morning, we found she'd been put on a life-support machine as well as being given drugs to keep her sedated.

Her kidneys were still failing. We sat with her all day, doing shifts and simply holding her hand, knowing she might be about to die. During one of my breaks, I met a man from Scotland next to the coffee machine. His son was in a coma after being involved in a car accident. He asked for our names and said he'd pray for us in the chapel. He explained he prayed every day for his son. In those darkest of moments, I really felt lifted by this kind man's sentiments.

At about 6:00
P.M.
, I looked up from Clare's bed to see the doctor coming into the room, with another man behind him. He introduced himself as the haematology consultant and said he wanted to talk to Clare. He asked her some basic questions: her age, where she lived, etc. Clare responded so quickly we were all quite surprised. The drugs had clearly worn off by now. Both doctors explained they wanted to talk to us all, so we quickly gathered in a small meeting room next door. They said the results of Clare's biopsy had shown she had a rare type of Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. Because it was rare, it had taken longer than normal to be identified. They said it was treatable with chemotherapy, but imperative they started that evening. The bad news was her chances of survival were very slim. Now we'd gone from no chance to slim chance; this gave us hope! By the time we got back to see Clare again, they'd already started reconnecting the life-support machine, which had been removed when all seemed lost. Yvonne and I went back to the bed & breakfast that night, clutching at this small window of hope and relieved Clare was still fighting.

When we saw her the next morning, it seemed as if the Scottish man's prayers had been answered. Clare's kidneys had suddenly started working again. I never thought I'd get so excited at the sight of a catheter bag full of urine! Clare had even asked to see her sister Erika and her brother-in-law Jeremy. They too were obviously excited and drove up later that day to see her. This gave her a tremendous boost and again we returned to our bed & breakfast that evening with slightly more
hope.

The next morning when we arrived at ICU, we were met by an animated Diane, Kris'
mum.

She said we'd not believe our eyes when we saw Clare. Worried, we rushed in to see her sitting up in bed, putting milk and sugar on cornflakes and sipping a glass of orange juice.

Clare appeared full of energy; it was absolutely remarkable. She was still fighting, though, and the slim chance looked like it was getting bigger. Friends of Clare also visited during that day, which again she appreciated. This was quickly becoming the best Father's Day I could have ever dreamt
of.

On Monday morning, we were told that Clare would be having an MRI scan at around 1:00
P.M.
But first she needed to have an uncomfortable lumbar puncture as samples of her spinal fluid were needed. After the scan, she was to be taken straight up to the Haematology Department. This was amazing news that she no longer needed to be in
ICU.

During Tuesday morning, we were with Clare as the nurse gave her the second dose of chemotherapy. Over the next couple of days, she started to drink fluids again by mouth and her appetite slowly returned. I even managed to tempt her with a prawn salad sandwich. But only after I had cut off the crusts and cut the bread into small triangles. It was so brilliant to see her wolfing them
down.

By Saturday, she managed to get out of bed and sit in the bedside chair for a while. On Sunday, she also managed to eat a roast lunch and had more friends to visit. During Clare's stay, I was surprised by the number of different nurses who kept popping in to visit her. These were the nurses who had looked after her from the maternity section, ICU and Haematology Department. They'd all come to keep an eye on her progress and regularly give her pep talks, which was so kind. Clare continued to improve rapidly now and no longer needed oxygen or intravenous lines. She also started to walk by taking a few steps to the bathroom.

On Saturday, 2 July, she was allowed home during the day, but had to return to the hospital at night. When we next visited Clare, it was such a wonderful sight to see her dressed, standing without crutches waiting at the front door for us. From no chance to slim chance, she now had every chance of beating this cancer.

On Wednesday, 6 July, she was finally discharged and we helped her move back home. I was so excited how quickly she was regaining her mobility.

A few days later, we all went out for a celebratory meal and had quite a normal evening under the circumstances.

Clare continued to get stronger over the next week or so, but worryingly around the middle of July she developed some really bad headaches. Initially, she put them down to migraines, which she had suffered from in the past. But within two or three days she was back in hospital, being checked over. The doctor's first thought was the migraine had been brought on by stress. They organized a CT scan, which unfortunately showed the lymphoma had moved up from her spinal area to around her brain. When Kris rang with this news around teatime on Thursday, I felt absolutely gutted. One minute we're told we're going to lose Clare, and then she is OK; next, we hear the cancer has spread. I told Kris we'd drive up immediately. Thankfully, we managed to get a room in the same bed & breakfast and we arrived just after 9:00
P.M.
; but it was too late to visit Clare.

When we saw her the next morning, her headaches had eased, with the help of some drugs. She kept asking if it was getting dark as she was having trouble seeing clearly. The specialist arranged for a neurosurgeon to examine her, who in turn arranged for an MRI scan to be done. Later that day, the duty doctor explained that, if the scan indicated the need, they would start Clare on some new chemotherapy that evening. He said they had pre-empted the scan results and ordered the chemotherapy from the pharmacy already, just in
case.

During the night, Clare had indeed started the first of an intensive course of chemotherapy, and the rest was to follow over the next two days. By Saturday afternoon, she was feeling brighter but her sight had virtually gone. I explained to Clare that we would go home that night and come back Sunday. Just as we were about to leave, she needed to use the toilet and Kris had to guide her towards it. I was so pleased she was unable to see my face as I watched her being led to the cubicle; it was utterly heart-breaking. After nearly dying from kidney failure, and the trauma of chemotherapy, my dear baby girl was now practically blind. We had no idea if her loss of sight was permanent or
not.

There was not much to say as Yvonne and I drove back home. We rang on the Sunday morning and Clare did sound much brighter and slightly happier. I suggested she rest as much as she could as she didn't have any visitors coming that
day.

As the bed & breakfast was fully booked, we saw her on the Monday, not Sunday. Over the next couple of days, she said she had started to see strange shapes. As we walked across the car park on Thursday morning and looked up to her fifth-floor room, I couldn't believe it when I saw Clare waving at us; this instantly started me off crying again. When we arrived in her room we found her dressed and sat up in her armchair. She was also free of all lines and drips. What a ‘remarkable girl' she is, I kept telling
her.

We had to go home on Friday to tend to Yvonne's elderly mother, but later that evening Clare rang to tell us that she would be allowed home during the day on Saturday. The only downside was she would still have to spend the night in hospital. By now her vision was almost back to normal; thank
God.

On 5 August, her birthday, Clare was again allowed home during the day but the hospital still wanted to keep an eye on her during the night. Their house was crammed with both sets of family, which I could tell was getting a bit too much for her as she'd started to look really tired.

On 9 August, we visited her and took her for a little walk in the nearby park, making the most of the warm sunshine. Clare was still feeling fragile as the chemotherapy did its job. This was expected; however, the doctors were really pleased with her progress.

A day or so later, we had a call from Clare saying she'd got the results of her CT scan early. It appeared that her body, including the brain area, was totally free of any cancer. Good news indeed, but I was not about to break open the champagne just yet, as I was getting used to having a setback after each piece of good
news.

Throughout August and September, Clare continued going in and out of the hospital for various tests and treatments. During November, she had her last course of chemotherapy.

By January of the next year, she was back at home and had to visit the Oncology Centre as an out-patient, for a course of radiotherapy. She was to have this on the base of her head to eradicate any last traces there might be of the disease.

Over the next few months, Clare made great strides back to full health again. Now she just has regular blood tests and check-ups as a precautionary measure, as I know all members of the cancer survivors club
do.

About a year later, both Clare and Kris had fully recovered mentally and physically from the experience. Thankfully, we finally have our daughter back and Kris has his
wife.

In August 2012, Clare reached the six-year milestone since the end of her treatment. She is fit and well and the dark days are a fading memory. This horrible encounter with cancer has really changed our lives. Clare and Kris work hard to raise awareness for various local cancer charities near their home in Bristol. They even did a sponsored bike ride, which raised more desperately needed funds for charity.