He pointed to the tree that I’d initially pointed out to Mousey.
‘I KNEW IT!’ I shouted.
This was all her fault, but looking back I find it very funny.
By that point, it was impossible not to see the ridiculousness of the situation. There I was, Sarah Harding from the glamorous pop group Girls Aloud, lying in my nightie at the supposedly healing tree with Ray-Bans on, like Patsy Stone from Ab Fab – at the wrong bloody tree.
Mousey didn’t have the heart to tell me at the time, but when I got up, I had twigs, cobwebs and a spider in my hair. Meanwhile the shaman stood, pointing and shouting at us, while we tried not to laugh.
‘This is really fucked up,’ I said.
As the retreat continued, I did my best to do what I’d gone there for and dig deep into my inner psyche. There was lots of meditation, considering thoughts and feelings, getting them out and writing them down. I have to say, after the disaster of that first night, I began to get into the swing of it. In the end, the retreat brought out a lot of positivity in me; more than I’d ever felt before. Yes, I was absolutely shattered when I finally got home, but the lasting effects of what I’d been through were quite remarkable. One of the things it taught me was that you had to learn to endure and get past the rough to appreciate the smooth. It taught me to continually remind myself of my objectives and goals. I’m hoping maybe that’s something I can put into practice with what I’m going through now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After selling my house in Buckinghamshire, I’d been renting a place, which turned out to have some sort of lurking infestation. All of a sudden, I noticed that I was getting bitten here, there and everywhere, and I couldn’t work out why. Once I realised that the place was infested, I started to stress out to the point where I wasn’t getting any sleep. At one point, we got pest control out to bug-bomb the place, but nothing seemed to work. I ended up staying with friends and in bed and breakfast accommodation – anything to get me away from that house. Eventually, I had to get rid of or destroy so much of my furniture, because it just wasn’t fit for purpose any more.
One night, I stayed up late, working on some music. For me, it wasn’t just the composition that took time, it was getting to grips with how to use the technology needed to record and mix it. I’d often start in the evening and end up working right through to the early hours. I’d be completely engrossed and lose all track of time, but I didn’t mind. I always loved hearing the results. With all the turmoil of everything else around me, music was something to focus on and kept me sane.
Anyway, this one late night, I was sitting on the floor, playing my guitar, when I started to realise that one of these bites had turned quite nasty. The area in question, my left lower-thigh, was excruciating and felt almost as if something was trying to burrow its way inside me. This eventually led to a cyst that went septic, and, because it was there for so long, started making me very ill. My temperature rocketed, and I felt horrendously sick. Before long, I was in and out of sleep with a fever. My mum took my temperature, which turned out to be much higher than it should be, so she managed to get a doctor to come out to us.
On examining me, the doctor said instantly, ‘She needs an ambulance now!’
Before I knew it, I was in the hospital, dangerously ill, being treated for sepsis. It was a horrendous time, but the doctor had managed to catch it and halt it before any significant damage was done.
On the day I was about to leave the hospital to go home, I felt something painful under my arm while I was washing. My first thought was that it was something similar to what I already had, caused by a bite, but there was something different about this. As I felt around, I realised that my lymph nodes were enlarged, and it felt tender.
I mentioned it to the doctors, who told me that I’d need to go to a separate clinic because that wasn’t their field of expertise. I told them that I would sort something out.
It was December 2019, and I’d just starting seeing a new boyfriend. I felt a bit better, so I kind of forgot about the lumps under my arms and carried on. At one point, the lad I was seeing pointed out how big my boobs were getting, but I still didn’t think anything of it. My boob size had fluctuated before. When I was with Girls Aloud, performing on the Tangled Up tour from May to August of 2008, they seemed to disappear completely. This was mainly because of all the dancing I’d done during gruelling rehearsals and on tour.
In the end, I went for an ultrasound, but the news at the end of it wasn’t exactly consoling.
‘I think this might be something that needs to be looked at more closely,’ the doctor told me.
I was advised to schedule an MRI, but before that happened, the world changed in what seemed like an instant. Coronavirus hit – the dreaded Covid-19 – and everything either went into slow motion or stopped altogether. On top of that, I had to move out of my rented house the day before the whole country shut down.
Now we were in lockdown, and by now I was living at my mum’s. I was aware that I needed to get this health issue sorted, but with everything that was going on, it was tough. At the start of the pandemic, there was so much conflicting information about hospital appointments, with the main message being to stay away unless it was a real emergency. What kept me calm, was my firm belief that this was just a cyst. I’d been playing my guitar a lot, and I thought the strap had probably irritated the area around my breast. I just had to stay brave. There hadn’t been any cases of breast cancer in my family. Plus, after what had happened the previous year with the infected bite, I probably just assumed it was more of the same. The trouble was, the pain was getting worse. It got so bad while I was living at Mum’s that I couldn’t sleep in a bed any more. I slept on Mum’s sofa, popping painkillers like they were smarties. I really overdid it, but the pain was overwhelming. Eventually, my skin started to bruise, and by now I was terrified. I’d been waiting it out through lockdown, but Covid wasn’t showing any signs of going away, and it was just getting worse and worse. I could see blisters forming, and that was scary.
One day I woke up realising that I’d been in denial about the whole thing. Yes, there was a lockdown, yes, there was a pandemic, but it was almost as if I’d been using that as an excuse not to face up to the fact that something was very wrong.
Feeling sicker and sicker one day, I called and spoke to someone at the hospital. A woman asked me exactly how many painkillers I’d taken, and when I told her, she told me I needed to go to A&E as soon as possible. I knew she was right, but that didn’t stop me feeling scared at the prospect of walking into a hospital. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, and all any of us had seen on the news was how terrible the situation in hospitals was during the Covid pandemic. I just didn’t know what to expect.
My fear wasn’t exactly eased when I got there either. Everyone I came into contact with was in full PPE gear, and suddenly everything I’d seen on the news was right there in my face. As scared as I felt, though, it dawned on me just how amazing these people working at the hospital were. They were as calm as anything, putting their lives on the line to help people, simply doing their jobs, while I was in the midst of a panic attack.
I was put on antibiotics, and I explained the issues with my breast to the doctors, which was why I’d taken so many painkillers. The doctors told me that I needed to get my breast looked at properly as soon as possible.
With lockdown easing slightly, it was time to act. I finally went back down south, on my own, for an appointment where I had an MRI. This time, I was able to see a highly recommended doctor, who a friend knew and had put me in touch with.
I went alone because of the hospital rules around Covid. After that, there was another appointment, this time for a biopsy. I’d always been close to Tommy’s sister, Anna, who really was like a sister-in-law to me, and still is. She offered to come with me, and she was brilliant. So supportive the whole way through. I’m just so grateful she was there for me.
All through the tests, I was, of cours
e, praying that it wasn’t cancer. I think the fact that what I had was so painful gave me some hope it might not be. I’d read and been told that cancer lumps are often not painful, which is why I was hoping against hope that what I had was just a cyst of some kind.
Anna also came to the appointment where I got my results. The worst of all days.
When we got there, there were three medical professionals in the room, which Anna later admitted to me she immediately took as a bad sign. Let’s face it: if there was nothing sinister to report, why would it take three people to deliver the news? A doctor, a surgeon and a breast nurse, all were looking solemn. When I looked over at Anna, I could see the worry on her face. This was not good.
When the doctor delivered the news that I had breast cancer, I was a mess – like anyone would be. Being faced with your own mortality is not something you consider, but that’s how that moment felt for me. I just remember thinking: well, that’s it, game over. The oncology breast nurse tried her best to make me feel better.
‘Sarah, there are so many things that can be done these days,’ she told me. ‘You mustn’t give up hope.’
Whatever else she said to me barely sank in. My head was spinning. How was I going to process this news? How was I going to get by from day-to-day with the knowledge that I was suddenly fighting for my life?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Anna’s initial thought was that I should go straight into hospital. She rang around the hospitals, but said I should stay at her place that night, so we could work out the best way forward. The first thing I did when we got there was open a bottle of wine. I know it probably wasn’t the best idea, but it was my go-to in times of acute stress. Anna was very understanding.
‘I’m not convinced you should be drinking, babe, but I’m not going to have a go at you,’ she said. ‘You’ve certainly got good cause, and you probably need it right now, so you just do whatever you fucking need to, to get through the next few hours.’
That evening, we got through a couple of bottles of wine together. Eventually, I passed out, and Anna put a pillow under my head and tucked me in under a duvet. The following day, after Anna had delivered the news to my mum, it was suggested I go to Watford General Hospital in Hertfordshire. I guess they could see what kind of a state I was in when I arrived, so I was put in a side room on my own, rather than on the ward.
The thing I learned very quickly was what amazing human beings nurses are. I always knew how hard people in the medical profession worked, especially in the NHS. Still, having these people around me 24/7 was a real eye-opener for me. They’re angels, doing the job that they do, especially for the comparatively small amount of money they get. No one should ever underestimate how hard they work. Those nurses sat with me at night as I cried, and it was in those moments when I realised that what they were doing was more than just a job. They were caring for me, as they do all their patients. Actually, genuinely caring, even at the end of ridiculously long shifts.
As time went on, I found myself getting to know some of them, and I’d often ask, ‘What time did you start today?’ I’d always be surprised to hear that they’d started very early in the morning, and yet here we were, late in the evening. In the end, I started taking it on myself to brighten their days if I possibly could. Whenever I was having a relatively good day, I tried a bit of a laugh and a joke with them; a little bit of banter to keep them smiling.
Some of them would ask me about life in Girls Aloud, and I’d tell them stories about our antics on tour. I recall telling one nurse about the time I was so hungover on stage at one of our gigs, that I was convinced I was going to throw up. The nurse giggled as I told her how, when I had to get from the A stage to the B stage in a vast arena, I didn’t think I was going to make it without being sick. With only a Perspex walkway under our feet as we travelled from one performance spot to the other, I was thinking, Oh my God, I’m going to throw up. I’m going to throw up over the audience, everyone is going to see me, and we’ll all be traumatised for life. It’s not as if we were in a blackout during the transition, and with giant screens behind us the whole thing would be beamed out to the audience in full HD. When I got to the B stage, I could see our manager Hillary looking up at me with a face like thunder: angry but worried. I could see her willing me not to throw up. That was the kind of story I kept the nurses entertained with whenever I was feeling up to it, hoping to brighten their day a little bit.
While I was at Watford General, I requested a medical detox because I wanted to know that I had a nice clean body before I started any treatment. I’d been drinking a bit because it had helped to numb the pain. Although it hadn’t been anything over the top, I still wanted to make sure all that was out of my system before they started to pump me with anything else. When a person’s body becomes dependent on something, whether it’s prescribed or otherwise, sudden removal can cause physical and psychological symptoms. Detox provides a safer environment for withdrawal from drugs, alcohol or whatever under medical supervision. For this, I stayed in a regular ward rather than in the side room.
‘I’ve got curtains around the bed,’ I told the nurse. ‘I can just keep them pulled around if I want privacy.’
The only problem with that was some of the other patients were struggling to cope with dementia. On any hospital ward, there’s always a real mix of patients, and some are doing worse than others. I had one particularly scary night when a guy from the other end of the ward was wandering around threatening to beat people up. On another occasion, a woman spent the night yelling at everyone to get out of her house. To be honest, the way I was feeling during the detox, I’m surprised it wasn’t me running up and down the ward, shouting.
The way I got through it was to keep the curtains pulled around my bed, put my headphones on and watch Friday Night Dinner on my laptop. I felt vulnerable and scared about what was happening to me, so I thought it best just to keep myself to myself. The nurses even decided to use my middle name, Nicole, to help keep my privacy.
I started off on some antibiotics, painkillers and Diazepam to help me sleep, as well as some morphine for the pain. I wasn’t going to have my cancer treatment at Watford General, so that was about as far as it went.
It was such a weird time, where I was trying to process what was happening to me, and I remember crying a lot. There were some really nice ladies in the beds next to me. Whenever they could hear that I was upset, one of them would call out, ‘Are you all right, Nicole?’ which was the name above my bed. They’d watched me going backwards and forwards for X-rays and CT scans and all the rest of it; I guess they knew I was in a bit of trouble.
When I arrived at The Christie Hospital in Manchester, that’s where the work really began. There were more X-rays, more CT scans, more MRIs. The doctors there were so thorough, trying to find out what they were dealing with and exactly what the spread and the damage might be. I learned more about my body and what was going on with it than I ever thought I’d need to, and that has continued throughout.
One of the first things I had to have was a port fitted in my chest, where the chemotherapy drugs could be administered. Plus several other smaller ports for drips and other things. It was like being bionic, and needles were coming at me from every angle. Like many people, I bloody hate needles, although I’ve kind of got used to them now. When you have cancer, needles are all part and parcel of it – whether it’s injections, blood taking, lines to administer drugs, or saline drips and flushes. It’s non-stop needles.
Once my port was fitted, everything seemed hunky-dory at first, but after a couple of days, I felt like something wasn’t as it should be. The area around the port felt sore and swollen. When the doctors checked it out, they agreed it didn’t look normal, but the fact that the swelling felt like it was going into my neck was even more of a concern. I don’t really remember much after that. I only know what I’ve been told. At some point after that, my blood pressure fell dangerously low, and I was rushed into intensive care. I had sep
sis, which, as you probably know, is the body’s extreme response to infection, causing a chain reaction in your system. It’s considered a medical emergency and most undoubtedly life-threatening.
Straight away, my port was removed, but with both my lungs and my kidneys failing, doctors decided to put me into a medically induced coma. The only way I was going to survive was to be in a deep state of unconsciousness, with ventilation to keep me breathing. Even then, the doctor wasn’t sure he was going to be able to pull me back from it, so advised Mum to prepare for the worst. While I was out, I had lumbar punctures, where a needle was inserted between my vertebrae to remove a sample of brain and spine fluid. I also had more brain scans, which revealed that I also had a condition called posterior reversible encephalopathy syndrome, also known as PRES. It’s a pretty rare condition, and it’s when parts of the brain, usually at the back, are affected by swelling.
While I was under, the nurses asked my mum what kind of music I liked to listen to and what shows I liked on TV, so they could have stuff on in the background. They felt like it would be good to give me something familiar to take in.
‘She loves The Big Bang Theory, Family Guy and Friday Night Dinner,’ Mum told them, so that’s what got played in the room while I was in my deep slumber, as well as some of my favourite artists – Pink and Lady Gaga.
I wasn’t in that room, however. I was in another world. I remember having the most horrible dreams during it all, but I could never put my finger on precisely what happened in them. Just that they were awful. Situations I couldn’t get out of, no matter how hard I tried. I have recollections of being on some sort of quest, but not being able to find or obtain the thing I most needed. I remember everything being larger than life and otherworldly, as if I was in a movie like Labyrinth or The NeverEnding Story. If ever there was a twilight zone, this was it. There was no warmth, no comfort, just fear and a need to escape.
Hear Me Out Page 17