by Chris Geiger
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 u
p 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.
No longer do any of us take life for granted or waste a minute of our days; we appreciate just how precious life is.
My Story by Andrea Paine
Things Happen for a Reason
Membership: # 10
There it was, the tiniest spot of blood. It was no bigger than a pinhead. At the time, I thought it could be just about anything, so ignored it.
A few more months went by and I’d practically forgotten about my little red spot until it appeared again. This time, it was obvious it was a spot of blood. However, it was now bigger and far more visible than a few months earlier.
I’d started running almost a year to that day. I began as I had a high-pressured job working practically every hour given. Stress as we know can do all sorts of nasty things to your body. Not only did I want to reduce my anxiety levels, but I also wanted to lose some pounds. Somehow, my weight had crept up to over twenty pounds more than my ideal weight. It took me a long time to admit I was a runner. I was a swimmer, but a swimmer that didn’t have enough hours in her day to practise the sport. Running was easy: just throw on a pair of shoes and head out the door. It’s a beneficial low-maintenance sport. Boy, I’m starting to sound like an athlete or some super-fit woman – I’m not!
A year into practising my newfound sport, I was back to my ideal weight; I was now feeling stronger and on top of the world. I’d even run a half-marathon; yes, I’d managed 13.1 miles or 21.1 kilometres. Then I saw that spot of blood again. It just happened that I was reading a lot of books and magazines on running at the time. I recalled reading about women who were clocking up a lot of miles during their weekly training. Some were experiencing irritated breast nipples, which sometimes bled.
This was caused by the friction of their bra constantly rubbing. I simply assumed the rubbing had caused the spot of blood. After all, I was in the best physical shape I’d been in my whole adult life. I felt energized, healthy and definitely not sick.
A close friend had sent me the article, which had prompted me to do a little investigating on the internet. While I was poring over other websites about various physical problems female runners had experienced, I noticed the word cancer kept appearing on the screen.
As I continued to read, the symptoms described were very similar to mine. This type of cancer is largely asymptomatic and is considered non-invasive. It’s not like there’s a lump in there that you can feel. Although I was more concerned than I’d previously been, I decided I wouldn’t let my overactive imagination take over. Contradicting myself, I did make a decision to visit my gynaecologist; an appointment was made.
The following week, I was sitting in the doctor’s office, feeling rather apprehensive while I waited to be called. I’d been a patient at this clinic for almost fifteen years. My doctor had delivered all three of my daughters and been through the various other ups and downs in my life. He’d have an answer, I confidently thought. After my name was finally called, I found myself sitting in his office explaining what had been happening over the past couple of months.
My last mammogram had been taken less than a year prior to this visit, but he suggested I have another one just to rule anything out. Maybe it was because of my age, I thought, as I’d recently turned forty-five. Perhaps it was because I was in good shape; whatever the cause, the doctor was confident it was nothing to worry about. He’d wait for the results of the mammogram and in the meantime advised me to go out and buy a more supportive bra; so my ‘girls’ wouldn’t jiggle about as much when I was
running. The bleeding, which wasn’t constant or even annoying, should soon stop, he told me. I invested in a supportive running bra and, sure enough, the bleeding did stop. The results of my mammogram soon arrived and everything looked fine and my life carried on as normal.
However, just one month later, the bleeding had started again. This time it was heavier, particularly when I wasn’t wearing a bra. After another visit to my doctor, I was sent to a special breast clinic. There I was given a laser imagery test and an ultrasound. Both tests confirmed the inevitable. I had cancer. The rest of that day was a complete blur. Everything seemed to speed up and get crazy. I was booked for a lumpectomy at the hospital just two weeks later; I was lucky and managed to get a cancellation. The operation went very well and the recovery was easy. I assumed my next visit to my oncologist would be my last. My brief encounter with cancer was done. Life would go on. Not so fast, Andrea: this would turn out not to be the case.
My next appointment with my oncologist would prove to be the most devastating. Not only was the lumpectomy unsuccessful at removing all the cancer, but suddenly I had all these older family members coming out of the woodwork with their depressing tales of breast cancer; what an experience!
Now I had to make a decision between another lumpectomy, where the doctors would try to get clean margins this time, or a full mastectomy. Not all women make such drastic choices. But, given my newfound family history, and knowing I’d worry for the rest of my life about the cancer coming back, I decided to have a double mastectomy. I’d also have an immediate reconstruction using tissue taken from my stomach.
Through this journey, my running had taken on even more importance. I was now running for my life. Running gave me purpose, refreshed my mind and reminded me I was alive. I even made race plans in order to keep training with a purpose and my mind focused. I ran most days up until the very day I entered the hospital for the biggest operation of my life. It was a lovely run and I remember it well; but not because it would be a while before I laced up my running shoes again.