by Chris Geiger
A week passed and I was making good progress, when doctors started to talk about moving me out of ICU and into the High Dependency Ward. This really pleased me as I’d become tired of the ICU and knew the move was a step closer to getting home. Quite suddenly one evening, it was announced I was moving and staff arrived to carefully transport me to the specialist ward. I’d hoped for a single room again and was disappointed to find that I would be sharing the room with another patient. My first thought was that I hoped he didn’t snore. It took me a while to settle; I was a little unnerved by the fact that I no longer received the one-to-one attention of a nurse around the clock. However, the environment was quieter and there was more space for my visitors.
I introduced myself to my room-mate. His name was Ron, a lovely old fellow well into his eighties. We started with all the usual questions about each other – where we lived, family, kids, all that kind of thing.
‘What line of work did you do?’ I enquired.
‘You don’t want to know that while you’re in here, mate,’ Ron replied.
‘Yeah, sure I do,’ I said.
‘I was an undertaker,’ he said, smiling.
I found this very funny and we both had a good laugh about it, instantly becoming best of friends. I spent just over a week sharing the room with Ron, never running out of things to chat about.
Outside, the weather was cold and snow showers blew through regularly. As each day passed, I gradually improved and grew stronger. I started walking further with the help of the physiotherapist. Soon I could walk on my own, once all the drips, drains and various tubes had been removed.
Living with the stoma wasn’t an issue, contrary to what I had imagined. I’d become quite proficient at emptying, cleaning and changing the bag. This was my last hurdle to overcome, and the following day I was told I could go home. My clothes literally hung off me; I’d lost over two stone in the time I’d been in hospital.
The two-hour journey home was a long one and I was exhausted by the time we arrived. It was a tearful reunion but at least I was home; I’d actually made it. The following few weeks, I continued with daily walks and gradually grew stronger and stronger. Adapting to home life, living with a stoma and coming to terms with what I had been through was a struggle, but at least I was getting better.
Three months passed, and I went back to Basingstoke Hospital to have my stoma reversal operation. The operation was a walk in the park compared to the MOAS and all went well. Afterwards, I did have a rough time though and was quite ill for two or three days before my bowels started working properly again. I remember quite clearly sitting outside the hospital reception one evening, in my dressing gown, watching the sunset with my arm around Tracey. We took in the fresh air and for the first time I felt like a normal person again. I was truly starting to feel better.
I spent a few more weeks at home recovering and then finally returned to work. Initially, I started off working just half days then built up to full-time. It was great to get back into my busy life again and not have the worry of my operation and cancer hanging over my head.
While in Basingstoke for the stoma reversal, I’d decided I wanted to try to raise some money for the PMP ward. This would allow them to continue their research into this rare form of cancer. So I soon found myself planning a sponsored walk around the Snowdon Horseshoe. We would take in the ridges around each side of the mountain as well as the peak itself. I was joined by other friends and family, including a fellow PMP sufferer who had endured the MOAS operation at the Christie Hospital in Manchester and was raising money for them. It was great that both specialist centres in the UK would benefit from the one event. It was only six months since my MOAS and three months since my stoma reversal. We had a great day, completing the walk in around seven hours, and we raised thousands of pounds for both the hospitals.
My Son’s Story by Gillian Metcalfe
A Mother’s Perspective
Membership: # 18
Alessandro kept vomiting for nearly a week so I decided it was best to take him to the doctor. Their opinion was he simply had a stomach infection, but he didn’t get any better. Therefore, a week later, I took him to the hospital and this time they thought he had hepatitis. However, when they did an ultrasound, they soon discovered he had a large tumour, which measured about 7 cm by 10 cm in size.
He was immediately hospitalized on the Saturday, and by Wednesday morning we had been rushed to England from Gibraltar, where we lived. I have two other children, both girls, aged one and ten years old. Alessandro is the oldest at eleven years old.
Alessandro had now become very weak and looked almost yellow; all he did was sleep. Initially, doctors thought the cancer was in his liver so we were transferred to a different hospital. Alessandro was actually put on a brand-new children’s ward. As he was one of the first to be admitted to the new hospital, they gave him a commemorative certificate.
Surgeons were unable to operate because his tumour was so large it was pushing on his stomach, liver and heart. They felt such an operation would be way too risky and life-threatening. It was therefore decided his only chance was some very aggressive chemotherapy. I was told if this didn’t work, there was very little else they could do to save him. I was obviously terrified at the thought of losing him.
He was to have chemotherapy every day for a whole week, and then once a week during the treatment he would go into theatre to also have it injected into his spine. When I arrived at the hospital one day, I remember seeing lots of other terribly sick children on the ward. One child had only just celebrated her first birthday; it was heart-wrenching and so sad. Alessandro thankfully slept most of the time during the first two months of his treatment. He had a very special teddy bear he took everywhere with him. He was so ill one night I thought he was going to die.
I spent the whole night with him, wondering whether I should keep the teddy as a reminder of Alessandro or bury it with him. My thinking was that at least he wouldn’t be alone; he’d have his teddy he loved so much. As you can well imagine, this was an absolutely terrifying and worrying night.
One day, he shocked me by actually asking if he was going to die. He said he wondered because whatever computer game he’d asked for recently, I’d bought him. If truth be known, I really did think his time was limited so I didn’t want him to go without anything, for what time he had left. I didn’t normally spoil him but this was different. I obviously reassured him that he’d be fine and not die.
He made a lot of friends with other children on the ward and I formed some close friendships with their parents. It was just nice to talk and swap stories; this really helped us all a lot.
Alessandro was always the first in the classroom at the hospital, as thankfully he wanted to keep up with his schoolwork. One day, when he was too weak to go to school, the teachers gave him a musical keyboard, so he could keep himself occupied. Up until then, he’d never really listened to or shown any interest in music.
It was his sister who enjoyed music more. She was even having piano lessons. Alessandro had never been interested, but out of the blue one day he asked me what song I liked. The first thing that sprang to mind was the theme tune from Titanic; I didn’t think any more of it. A few days later, he amazed me when he’d actually learnt how to play it on his keyboard. He played the whole tune to me really well, causing me to shed a few more tears, but this time they were tears of joy and happiness.
Thankfully, his chemotherapy went really well, and after seven months we were able to go back home to Gibraltar. I was so pleased as I was missing my daughters and had missed out on my youngest taking her first steps.
On the plane back, I explained to Alessandro that in Gibraltar it’s quite unusual for children to have cancer and some kids might make fun of him due to him losing his hair. Thankfully, he said, ‘It’s their problem, not mine.’
He really made me feel so proud of the way he dealt with the whole situation at such a young age. As soon as we arrived back, instead o
f going home, he wanted to go straight to school; this was a first. He was so keen to see all his friends and teachers who’d supported us while we’d been away. Alessandro had spent his twelfth birthday in England and his school friends had made him a lovely birthday card. His attitude had always been strong and positive and, although he doesn’t remember much about England, we made some very good friends while we were there.
As soon as I could, I arranged for him to have piano lessons as I wanted him to be able to read music properly, even though he was already playing songs using his PlayStation. Alessandro started his lessons just five years ago and has already completed stage six, which he passed with distinctions; there are only eight stages in total. He’s entered local competitions and has always come away with a prize. Last year, he won the top award for the competition of ‘Young Musician of the Year’ sponsored by Albert Hammond, the famous songwriter. Alessandro actually composed the winning song himself. He has written a total of nine songs and has also played in various restaurants, hotels and pubs.
He is now seventeen and is a very noble and good kid, not your normal teenager. He even helps around the house and is an A student in school. Alessandro is currently studying music for his A-levels and wants to go to a music university in London to further his studies.
He never really likes to talk about his cancer or the treatment; he just says that it was his past and it’s his future that he’s concerned about. His view on life is to just get on with it and leave the past where it belongs. He now wakes up playing the piano and sleeps after playing the piano. Music is his whole life, and who knows, maybe if he hadn’t got cancer, we would never have discovered his natural hidden talent.
Not long after this story was sent to me, ‘Mrs Metcalfe’ asked that I change both her and her son’s name for privacy reasons; however, she was exceptionally happy for her story to be published in the hope it helps others.
My Story by Barbara Conway
How It Was
Membership: # 19
I was a young, fit fifty-one year old when I found a lump in my breast. I’d had lumps before, but, thankfully, after seeing a specialist and having mammograms, they always turned out to be cysts. This lump appeared during a very hectic time in my life. With help from other relatives, I was looking after my elderly parents, so this was a physically and emotionally busy time. Both my parents were very poorly. Sadly, in March, we regretfully decided they needed more professional and experienced residential care.
On the Friday, they were both admitted to a care home, and I thought, ‘Right, on Monday, I’m going to see the doctor and get my lump checked out.’ My doctor quickly referred me to the hospital and just two days later I went through a number of tests and examinations. I also had a mammogram, scan and a biopsy taken. I was still busy, just in a different way. Once all the tests were completed, the consultant called me back into his office and said those dreaded words: ‘Yes, it is cancer.’ He might as well have hit me with a sledgehammer; I was totally knocked over by the news.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ he asked.
I suppose deep down I did wonder, but chose to believe it wasn’t anything more than another cyst. I’d had the lump for several months and knew I should have seen my doctor sooner. However, due to previous test results always coming back clear and my time being occupied looking after my parents, I’d chosen the easier option. I talked things through with the consultant, and another appointment was made for the following Tuesday.
This gave me time to digest the news and think about the options I’d been given, including having a mastectomy. I felt way too young and healthy to have my breast partially or even completely removed.
In the meantime, I carried on throwing myself into my work and dancing. I was a dance teacher for children and adults with learning difficulties and special needs. As well as this, I also ran a book-keeping business so always kept very busy.
3 April – It was my birthday but I obviously felt I didn’t have too much to celebrate. I did have two lovely cats, though: Mitzi and Pixie.
Mitzi was pregnant and due to have kittens at any time, so I decided to visit the vet and find out if it was likely she would have them while I was in hospital. I was told the kittens could be here any day and it looked like there would be four of them. I explained I was going into hospital and was hoping they’d arrive once I got home. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ the vet said.
Once home, I told Mitzi to hold on until I was discharged, but wasn’t convinced she understood me. She seemed more interested in having a brush.
My next appointment was at the Breast Care Centre where I told the consultant that, after a lot of thinking and sleepless nights, I’d made the decision to go ahead with the mastectomy. He was delighted and thought it was the right decision for my long-term health. He explained my breast cancer was stage two: small and hormone related. He also said the operation would be done the following week. I was pleased with this – the sooner the better from my perspective. I just wanted to get it over with. I explained to the consultant that I didn’t want the chemotherapy, radiotherapy or any reconstructive surgery.
His response was that I might still need to have it, despite having the breast removed. However, they wouldn’t know for sure until after the operation.
I was booked to have my breast removed on 12 April. My stay in hospital would be for about five days and it would take another eight or so weeks at home to recover fully. I’d also not be able to drive for four weeks; this was going to be a big hindrance. In the big picture, I guess not driving was the least of my troubles. I remember the doctor started to explain what would happen after my stay in hospital, but I stopped him. ‘Nope, just one step at a time please,’ I said. I needed to deal with my cancer slowly, in my own way.
As soon as I got home I started making plans for my stay in hospital and continued telling Mitzi to hold off having her kittens until I was back. I told her every day. I still wasn’t sure she was listening – like most cats she was more interested in her food.
12 April – A lady called Margaret whom I met while in hospital was going to be there at the same time as me. We first met while I was waiting to hear my test results. We soon got chatting and found we had so much in common.
My friend Teresa came with me to the hospital. When we arrived, I immediately noticed Margaret; she had some relatives keeping her company. We all sat together and Margaret and I were told by the nurses not to drink anything after 10:00 A.M. We were all joking about, pretending we were at an airport lounge waiting to be transported to some exotic destination. This helped pass the time and made us both feel a little more relaxed. At 10:15 A.M., we were called in, first Margaret and then me.
We laughed with the receptionist about being in an airport lounge and she joined in the fun; either that or she thought we were absolutely mad. We completed the necessary paperwork and were given instructions on how to find the ward. ‘You can wait there for your flight,’ the nurse joked.
As we entered the ward, we continued doing our best to keep our spirits up; again, we tried to forget how nervous we were now feeling. We told the staff how we were imagining we were going on a sun-drenched holiday. The nurse showed us to the ‘airport lounge’ and told us the stewardess would be with us shortly.
Soon, I was lying on a hospital bed being whisked off to theatre with the porter, nurse and Teresa pushing. The joking had stopped now and I was starting to feel very anxious indeed. We arrived at the theatre, where I was moved onto another bed, then Teresa and I said our goodbyes before she went home. When the various consultants, anaesthetists and other doctors greeted me and asked how I was, I replied, ‘Suddenly nervous.’ They all did their best to reassure me everything would be OK.
The next thing I knew, it was midnight, my breast had been removed and I just remember my throat feeling really dry.
13 April (Good Friday) – I was given a cup of tea and a bed pan. When a nurse came around to change my dressing, I asked if I could see my s
car. The nurse said, ‘Really, are you ready?’ I nodded; the sooner the better, I thought. The nurse slowly uncovered the site and let me take a quick peek at where my right breast had been. Once I’d seen the scar, my fears instantly dispersed; I was so pleased I’d asked.
If I’d hung on and waited a few more days, the dread would have built up inside me.
My friend Margaret was in the next bed to me, which was nice as we were able to chat and look after each other.
Later that day, I managed to walk to the toilet with the help of the staff and even managed to wash myself. The staff kept a close eye on me as I got back into bed, just in case I fell. I was told I’d be able to get dressed the following day. I also had a number of visitors, which was really nice.
14 April – I got myself washed and dressed without the nurse’s help, which I was so pleased about. I put my big comfy jumper on and managed to stuff the various tubes and bag under it. I kept telling other patients I was six months pregnant and it wouldn’t be long before my baby arrived. If nothing else, I’d convinced them I was mad! It’s always good to keep a sense of humour in these situations, even if it was only me laughing.
15 April (Easter Sunday) – I had lots of visitors, which really helped the time pass. I even managed to walk down to the café for a drink. I was so looking forward to getting home now and seeing my cats. I kept my fingers crossed Mitzi hadn’t had her kittens yet.
16 April (Easter Monday) – I had a steady flow of visitors again and the tube in my hand and the drain in my chest were removed. The painkillers were too strong for me now, so I decided just to have some paracetamol.
17 April – I asked the consultant if I could go home and explained about Mitzi being pregnant.
He agreed, and after arranging the paperwork I finally got home.