by Chris Geiger
The following day, I received a phone call from my doctor, explaining he’d arranged for a biopsy of the lump to be taken that afternoon. This was to be the first of numerous hospital visits. A couple of days after the biopsy had been successfully taken, I was allowed to go home. I’d have to wait as long as six weeks before I got the results. Things were different in the nineties – no targets or urgency, regardless of the disease involved. These were genuinely the longest six weeks I’d experienced. I wish I could have somehow disengaged my brain at night in order to sleep; my imagination was having none of it.
Finally, the day arrived when I met with my consultant to get the biopsy results. By now, I’d become a complete emotional wreck, my mind playing all sorts of games with me. It was explained that I had a ‘nice’ type of cancer, called Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. I didn’t know that there was such a thing as a ‘nice’ cancer, nor had I heard of Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma before. My treatment was going to be a combination of both chemotherapy and radiotherapy, which would hopefully destroy the mass in my chest. I’d also have a few operations thrown in for good measure. If none of these worked, I would not be around to see next Christmas; this was such an awful thought. Just thinking about it now gets me all emotional.
So began the war, a battle that I’d have to fight alone, my only weapons being chemotherapy and radiotherapy. I was now very frightened.
I didn’t know anyone who’d had cancer; all I’d heard were stories of people who’d died from it. Books like this one weren’t available either and the internet was just a distant dream. Not that I’d recommend anyone believes what they read on the internet either.
Soon dozens of Get Well cards arrived, along with bouquets of flowers and endless phone calls from friends and family members, all offering their support. Suddenly, my life had changed and was so different. I noticed through time some people would cross the street if they saw me walking in their direction, as they simply didn’t know what to say. I drew strength from all the cards and good wishes. I received well over a hundred and today they are treasured in a photo album, along with various articles and notes about my story.
Treatment started with chemotherapy. I was to begin with eight courses followed by three solid weeks of radiotherapy. Then unfortunately I’d have more chemotherapy just to finish off. The staff at the hospital were brilliant, especially the Macmillan nurses who explained what side effects I might get and how best to cope with the treatment.
The first dose of chemotherapy certainly wasn’t what I’d expected. I was fitted with a line into my vein, which was flushed with saline. Then I was given steroids and an anti-nausea drug and then finally the chemotherapy. The steroids made me so hungry that I couldn’t wait for the lunch trolley to come around. I had to have the chicken dinner, which wasn’t a wise move on my part really; it’s strange the things I’ve remembered. It took around an hour before the deed was done and the chemotherapy was flowing round my body. On the way home, I was still hungry so I stopped at my local newsagent and purchased half a pound of liquorice torpedoes – another bad move. The anti-nausea drugs were effective for about three hours. Let’s just say I’m now unable to face hospital chicken dinners or liquorice torpedoes without my stomach turning!
I approached the second dose of chemotherapy quite differently, on an empty stomach. I spent the next nine months looking at life through the bottom of a bucket. There were times when I thought I couldn’t handle any more treatment. However, thanks to the incredible support of my family, I somehow soldiered on. Cancer treatments are so different today and anti-sickness drugs are very effective now.
My hair soon fell out, so what I saved in shampoo and haircuts I spent on sunscreen and baseball hats. The benefits were I didn’t have to shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows or keep my bikini line under control! However, the worst side effect was the onset of an early menopause. I’d been warned that this was going to happen. Not being an earth mother, it wasn’t a great priority in my whole life plan.
Now was a good time to have all the animals I’d always wanted, but never had before. I loved horses so I got one, I loved dogs so I got one, and I loved cats so I got a few. We lived on a farm, so space and grazing wasn’t an issue. The day after I got out of hospital, having had the painful bone marrow harvest, I got my horse. Riding her home when I couldn’t ride at the time was one of the most foolish, blondest things I’d ever done. Oh well, I was always told you learn from your mistakes. My animals were my therapy and I shared my blackest thoughts with them. I had to look after them, so I didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity. If the day was going particularly badly, I’d tack up Tara, my horse, take my dog, Kizzy, and plod around the bridleways until my dark mood lifted. Tara and Kizzy became the best therapy ever. I’m eternally grateful to both those wonderful animals, who are sadly no longer with me. I’ll never forget them.
A friend of mine, Wayne, once told me that we’re all like food on a supermarket shelf: we all have a ‘sell-by date’. When that date arrives, it doesn’t matter what we’re doing or how fit we are, it’s our time.
Knowing my luck, I’ll come back as a chicken sandwich! Tragically, Wayne was killed in a car accident thirteen days before he was due to marry my sister. His death plunged us all into total despair; he was only just twenty-nine and fit and healthy. I’d also just turned twenty-nine but was fighting a terminal illness. I couldn’t understand why this tragedy and all this unhappiness was happening.
Christmas was a milestone that I knew I wasn’t supposed to see. I spent the evening with Keith, my husband, in our local pub, with a nice glass of wine in one hand and a thermometer in the other. My temperature had reached 39°C; I knew I should go back to hospital for intravenous antibiotics, something that was almost a weekly occurrence. My poor immune system had been hit so badly by the chemotherapy that the slightest infection could be my last.
In February of the following year, I was yet again on the operating table. This time, though, I was having cancerous cells removed from my cervix; what a way to spend Valentine’s Day! I didn’t even get any roses or chocolates from the doctors, just confirmation that I was now indeed infertile and would never have children.
Twelve months on from my original diagnosis and May had arrived again, along with my thirtieth birthday. I always thought of the ‘What ifs?’ and ‘Why me?’ on special days, such as birthdays and anniversaries. Currently, cancer affects one in three of us, so the ‘Why me?’ I understood because I’d now become a logical statistic.
I finished my treatment in the summer and tried to put everything behind me and move on.
My hair had started growing back and I was feeling stronger. I was still prone to getting an infection so had to be careful. My immune system had taken a battering over the last year and I knew it would take a long time to fully recover.
In the Easter of the following year, I started to feel unwell again. Obviously, my worst fears came back to haunt me. Secretly, I feared that the tumour that had been rendered inactive with all the chemotherapy and radiotherapy was starting to wake up again; all the symptoms were there.
My friend Ali thought otherwise and she went and bought a pregnancy testing kit. Two days earlier, Ali had given birth to her third child; I dread to think what the chemist must have thought! Just to humour Ali, I did the pregnancy test. I wasn’t laughing for long though when the second blue line appeared. Both my doctor and I were stunned and soon all those tests and hospital visits that were on the decline started all over again. This time, instead of the Oncology Department, it was the Gynaecology Department I was visiting. It was suggested by the top geneticist that the pregnancy should be terminated, mainly because the foetus would be badly deformed; harsh words to hear. Being extremely stubborn and a typical Taurus, I decided I’d have an amino test at seventeen weeks before making a decision. Waiting six weeks for the results of my biopsy for cancer was hell, but the four weeks it took for these tests felt much worse; my stamina was being severely tested again.
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nbsp; Sitting in the consultant’s room as I waited for the results with Keith was torture. The consultant had good news as everything was looking normal and I was expecting a baby boy. I would be monitored closely and would require a Caesarean section delivery; not a problem really.
My guardian angels were now taking care of me. Tom, as we now called my bump, was due on 25 December; another hospital Christmas dinner. On 3 December, my nesting instincts took over. I made sure the calves had plenty of straw and gave Tara’s stable a complete muck-out. Once in labour, I phoned the midwife who suggested I make my way to the hospital where they would monitor me. Tom was born at 12:40 P.M. on 4 December via the sunroof, a C-section, which all went well. I was back on the ward in time for lunch; naturally, it was chicken again! I was discharged just five days later. I was so not prepared for being a mother; thankfully, Tom thrived.
Time moved on and I wanted to do something for Cancer Research. My mother-in-law was a member of the local committee, so I decided to join, too. I found myself, along with three friends, Wendy, Betty and Helen, and our mascot, Tom (who wasn’t allowed to come with us on the walk), walking the new Severn Bridge before it was officially opened to the public. We had a wonderful day, the atmosphere was electric and we raised over £1,000. A week before the walk, I was interviewed by local media, which was great fun. This helped raise the profile and awareness of Cancer Research locally. I then became secretary of the local committee and began to raise more money, along with all our other dedicated committee of volunteers. I now attend many functions for Cancer Research and have had several articles written about me and my miracle son. I continue to help at various fundraising events, from abseiling and sponsored walks to the ‘Race for Life’.
I’ve also been interviewed for television programmes, magazines and newspapers. I’ve been privileged to meet many famous people and spent a rather pleasant afternoon in Cardiff with the Welsh rugby team.
As time went by, Tom continued to grow fast. He went through the crawling, walking and talking stages and soon it was time for him to start school. He loves life on the farm and it’s a wrench for him to leave his cows and calves behind. Luckily, the local school is very rural and Tom spent much of his early days in school watching the farmers and tractors in the surrounding fields. He could only identify his colours by tractor makes. For Tom, red meant Massey Ferguson, blue was Ford, yellow was JCB and green was, of course, John Deere, his favourite colour at the time.
Just as life was getting back to some sort of normality, I began to feel really unwell again. I was experiencing severe nausea, twenty-four-hour sickness and extreme tiredness. I was still taking various medications, such as pain relief, anti-nausea tablets and of course Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT). I made an appointment with the Oncology Department and felt very scared attending on my own. Once again, various tests were carried out, including a pregnancy test. I was asked to sit in a corridor while the staff busied themselves to get all the results together. The next thing I knew, I was having an ultrasound and being told I was once again pregnant. Pregnant again, I couldn’t be. I was soon to find out my guardian angels had a worse sense of humour than myself, when the consultant came back into the room and said I was having twins. More tests, more hospital visits and more hospital chicken dinners. Once again, I had to have the amino test, this time though it had to be done twice as no one could tell from the ultrasound whether the babies were identical twins in one sac or non-identical in two sacs. Yet again we had another agonizing wait, four weeks this time. Keith and I decided not to say anything to Tom just in case things didn’t work out.
Four weeks passed and we were once again sitting in the consultant’s waiting room. Good news: all was well with the tests and I was carrying identical twin boys, who we named Jack and Harry. My family stopped me calling one Richard (Tom, Dick and Harry)! All our boys are named after past family members. Tom was told he was getting twin brothers. All through my pregnancy, we referred to the boys as ‘the twins’. This pregnancy wasn’t without concern; as I was expecting identical twins, the doctors were worried that I could develop twin-to-twin infusion, which means one twin takes all the nutrients, starving the other twin until it dies. Every week, I was scanned as I continued to get bigger and bigger. I got to know so many of the hospital staff. I was on first-name terms with everyone from the porters and cleaners to the nurses and doctors. I have so much respect for the hard work they carry out, for which they get little financial reward.
Once again, I was told I needed to have a Caesarean section and asked if I’d like to choose a date. I chose 14 March, as this was the only date that I didn’t have any other birthdays on. Jack was born first, with a reluctant Harry following a minute later. Harry made such an awful noise as they pulled him out. He was not letting go of the umbilical cord, and it had to be prised out of his hand. They were perfect and both a healthy birth weight.
Tom came to see the boys and me in the evening. As he walked into the room beaming, he stopped, looked first at me holding Harry, then at Keith holding Jack, and then promptly asked who the other baby belonged to. We’d wrongly assumed he knew the meaning of the word twins.
Maybe spending more time listening to the teacher and not looking out of the window watching tractors might have prepared him for the biggest shock of his little life. He looked so disappointed, the realization that his life would never be the same again. Up until that moment, Tom and I had done so much together: swimming, walking and horse riding, all the fun things that I feel children need to experience. It was then that Tom decided it would now be Daddy he’d devote his time to.
I had been home for less than three hours with the boys when I was rushed back into hospital with a suspected blood clot on the lung, which obviously could prove fatal. We didn’t have time to wait for the ambulance. Once I arrived at Accident & Emergency, I was placed in a curtained cubicle next to a man who was explaining to the doctors that he had an unfortunate rash on his testicles. I wondered if this would be the last conversation I would ever hear. God, I hoped not.
After another five-day stay in hospital and avoiding the chicken dinners, I was given the all clear and allowed home. Keith brought my boys in to see me; however, one of the tests made me radioactive, so I wasn’t allowed to go near them for twenty-four hours.
Once home, we all settled into some sort of normality. Tom spent more time out with his dad on the farm, while I looked after Jack and Harry, along with help from our family. The twins, or, as I was calling them, ‘the termites’, were into everything; sometimes I got there before they broke things, other times I didn’t. They, like Tom, also enjoyed the outdoor life, especially looking after and caring for the animals. I’m sure the attraction had more to do with the thought of getting muddy!
Today I suffer a serious lung condition, which is quite limiting as I get extremely short of breath. This is the result of the radiotherapy being targeted directly at my chest area. I’m on medication to control my symptoms, but I’m also trying to keep myself fit and eat a healthy diet. I’m still in remission from cancer and have regular check-ups.
I dedicate a lot of my time to raising money for cancer charities and creating awareness about the disease. I have been made an ambassador for the cause, telling people about my story and lobbying MPs about the way cancer patients are treated.
We are still busy dairy farming, and I oversee the small campsite run in conjunction with the farm. In the summer months, my boys go feral and they have the freedom and experiences that all children should enjoy.
On 18 May, it was my nineteenth year from diagnosis and boy did I celebrate it. Hand on heart, I’d not change anything that’s happened to me. I’m not saying that having cancer was the best thing that has happened to me, but it has made me the person I am today. I’m determined, positive, take nothing for granted and know how to prioritize things in life. Having fun, laughing and seeing the funny side in all situations is a priority.
Before, I was very materialistic, onl
y wanting the best things, designer labels, flash cars, regular holidays and a nice tidy house. After the termites have been playing, our house looks like a bomb has hit it. Those things of course are no longer important. The last nineteen years have been a hell of a rollercoaster ride for us all; it’s taken me from one episode or crisis to the other. I suppose I could have given up and bailed out at any time, but I’d not be here now to enjoy the most important things in my life, my boys and my loving husband.
My Story by Jessica Smith
Life and Death Inside Me
Membership: # 7
I felt so liberated when I was finally diagnosed with bowel cancer. At last I was going to get the treatment needed to free me from my weak, painful and exhausted body.
My consultant said how pleased she was that she’d persuaded me to have another colonoscopy, but more worryingly went on to say she’d found a cancerous tumour. She looked up from her notes for a response to see someone who felt like they’d just been punched. Yet, by the end of our meeting, I left the consulting room feeling strangely relieved. I think, looking back now, I was obviously in shock. I remember the feeling subsiding to leave a sense of bewilderment and confusion. While going through my treatment, I once asked a Macmillan nurse if I was going to die, the words spilling out while crying. I now recognize it was just a release of built-up emotion. I never really believed I would die; not from cancer anyway. I credit my strong mental attitude as one of the biggest reasons I survived, enabling me to tell my story.