The Choice

by Bernadette Bohan

  His reaction was instant. He just held me, and didn’t let go for a long time.

  ‘We’ll get through this. We’ll handle it, we’ll be all right,’ he kept saying, as much to convince himself, I thought after, as to reassure me. I tried to tell him about the chemotherapy and the radiotherapy and the terrifying operation and then there was the nurse again, telling me gently it was time to go in for the core biopsy.

  ‘Ger, it might be better for Julie not to be with us this afternoon – can you call your mother and get her to take care of her?’ He nodded encouragingly to me as I went back into the surgeon’s consulting room.

  The core biopsy, I was told, was the final test that would confirm beyond doubt that the cancer had indeed returned. My mind was such a blur that day, but I’ll never forget the sight of the unnaturally long needle which he plunged into my breast again and again from different angles to extract tissue for examination. I can’t remember if he used an anaesthetic, but in my state of shock I hardly felt it.

  ‘I’ve called Mum,’ said Gerard when I came out again, ‘I had to give her the news, but she’s in such a state we can’t possibly leave Julie with her. She’s worse than we are – there’s no way she’d be able to hold it together. Julie would definitely know something was wrong.’

  This hospital was right next door to my original hospital, and I had been told I’d have to go and make an appointment to see my oncologist. Leaving Julie and Gerard outside his office, I went to find Claire. She looked at me when I went in, and when she saw my face such a look of sympathy crossed hers. She knew everything. I just stood there and wept. She is not a demonstrative woman, but she put her arm round my shoulders in a gesture that, for her, spoke volumes. I made the appointment, dried my eyes and walked out – putting a brave face on things for my little Julie’s sake. And I had to hold it together for the rest of the day – it was a Friday and Julie usually stayed up late for a special supper with us. We so badly wanted to be by ourselves, but we also did not want to give any hint that anything out of the ordinary was happening.

  We were driving home from the hospital, with Julie sitting quietly in the car. I wondered if she had picked up our distress and looked nervously over at her. Suddenly Ger’s mobile rang. It was Sarah. My God, Sarah! We’d have to tell her.

  ‘Dad, have you seen the doctor? What did he say? What’s wrong with Mum?’ Sarah fired a volley of questions at him while he was driving. I looked at him, indicating Julie with a jerk of my head, hoping he wouldn’t let anything slip. I needn’t have worried. He was monosyllabic in his answers to her, ‘Yes … no … tell you later … yeah … it’s back … OK.’

  Poor Sarah, she had vomited at work that day – she had literally been worried sick about me. Her colleagues had laughed at her, assuming she was hung over after a big night out. She had a holiday job in one of Gerard’s shops, and she had promised him not to say anything about my tests. He was always concerned to keep his private life separate from his professional life – and never gave anything away. After all, he reasoned, I don’t want to give anyone any reason to suspect that – in any confrontational situation – I may be thought to be bringing my personal problems into work. It was not that he was ashamed, he just needed to keep work and home separate. There would be a time to tell people, but it certainly was not now.

  Gerard put the phone down. ‘She took it OK, don’t worry. She said she’d be all right to carry on at work until the end of the day and she’d see us later.’

  It seemed like a lifetime ago that we had been chatting about what we would do that day. And, like automata, we did everything we’d planned: we bought the plants, we did the grocery shopping, Gerard cut the grass, we put up some shelves and he fixed a wobbly gate. We even cooked a lunchtime barbecue with Julie, letting her throw the sausages on the top and help mix up the spicy sauce. All this we did in a kind of daze, not talking about it because of Julie, holding our shattering news inside ourselves, and watching other people carrying out their business, completely unaware of the turmoil we were feeling.

  They were normal; we were different – and things would never be the same again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Breaking the News

  No one knows how they are going to react at times like this. Some people need to be alone; others need to be with a crowd of people. Some people want to discuss the diagnosis, their fears and the treatment with everyone they meet; others withdraw into themselves and are unwilling to discuss anything at all. For me, it was something of a blessing that my friend Maria, who lived in Italy, was staying with us that weekend.

  Maria is a lively, boisterous woman and was the breath of fresh air and normality we needed. We told her the news when she returned from a shopping trip late that afternoon, and she sat down suddenly, saying simply, ‘Oh my God, no.’ Within moments she had pulled herself together and grabbed Julie’s hand, muttering something about having lots of good games to play in the garden. I took refuge in the kitchen to prepare the evening meal, and watched them from the window playing Grandmother’s Footsteps and Hide and Seek. I felt glad she was there. Gerard opened a bottle of wine and handed me a glass. It was the first drink I’d had since getting the news, and as the alcohol warmed the back of my throat I realized how much I needed to relax. I was wound as tightly as a spring.

  Richard was due back at any moment from his holiday job in the record shop at the airport. Unlike Sarah, he had not called to find out what happened at the hospital, but I knew it would have been on his mind all day. I felt a sudden pang for my only son. How on earth was I going to drop this bombshell on him? He was eighteen, and had just finished his Leaving Certificate. This news was going to be a crushing blow.

  ‘Ger, I don’t know how I’m going to tell Richard. I just don’t think I can do it without breaking down. I’m trying really hard to keep it together.’

  ‘I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,’ Ger reassured me.

  As soon as he came through the door Richard looked at me, questioning. I hugged him hello, then Ger beckoned him into the lounge and sat down on the couch with him. I could just hear Gerard’s voice.

  ‘Richard, Mum had some bad news today. The cancer is back. She will need an operation, chemotherapy and all the rest.’ I couldn’t hear Richard’s reply, then a few minutes later the door slammed shut and Richard raced upstairs two at a time. I didn’t follow him – I knew he needed to be by himself. I would talk to him later.

  Normally family meals in our house are rowdy affairs, with Sarah and Richard squabbling, the two of us laughing and chatting, Julie entertaining us with her random thoughts, the clatter of plates and clinking of glasses. But that evening we were all absorbed in our own thoughts. Ger and I were uncharacteristically quiet, and throughout dinner Richard sat and watched me with eyes that could have bored holes in me. He did not take his gaze off me all evening – while I was serving, while I was eating. He hardly touched his meal and wouldn’t talk about the holiday he was planning to take with some friends. I kept seeing him struggling to compose himself, taking deep breaths as if he was trying to stop himself keeling over. I knew that by staring at me he was trying to read my mind, wordlessly begging for reassurance that I was all right. Maria, on the other hand, rose to the occasion tremendously and yakked on about anything and everything, over-compensating for our silence and keeping us all going until the meal was over. Sarah was amazing, too, and she chipped in with news about the village, about her friends, about what she was doing. Yet the atmosphere was heavy with the one big subject none of us could discuss because Julie was with us. As soon as dinner was over Sarah asked if she could go out with her friends.

  ‘Of course you can – what time will you be back?’

  ‘Around twelve. You go to bed, Mum, if you’re tired. Don’t wait up.’ I knew what she was doing, and I understood. My Sarah, at sixteen, would have stayed out half the night, given the chance. Tonight it did not seem so important to check up on her, and I knew she knew
we had enough going on without having to worry about her staying out too late.

  After clearing up I went upstairs to get Julie’s pyjamas. Maria was out on the patio drinking wine and chatting to Ger – their last chance to talk before she returned to Italy the next day. Julie was playing happily with her dolls next to them. I glanced into Richard’s room as I passed. He had his back to me, but I could see he was fiddling with stuff on his desk, probably pretending to be busy. I paused.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked gently, knowing full well that he wasn’t. I went over to him and put my arms around him.

  ‘I want to protect you from all this, son, but you’re old enough now to understand. This is a big thing I have ahead of me and I’m going to need your help, so I am.’ He turned round in his chair and put his arms around my waist, resting his head against me. I couldn’t see his face. He did not say a word. I stroked his hair, and it occurred to me at the time how long it was since I had been able to hold him like this. It reminded me of the times when he was six or seven and used to come home with cuts and bruises from playing, or little worries from his day at school. At eighteen he was a pretty cool customer, and rarely liked to show his emotions.

  ‘Things like this can be hard to talk about,’ I said, ‘but if you want to discuss it anytime I will try to tell you everything I know, and explain as much as I can about what is wrong with me, and what the doctors are doing about it. At the moment, I must say I don’t know very much myself.’ I waited a moment. All the kids knew how Ger and I felt about telling the truth: honesty was something we were very firm about, and had impressed upon them that no matter what they have done, whatever has happened, the most important thing is to be open and honest.

  I grew up in a family where there were many secrets – my father’s drinking problem being one of them – and I wanted something better for my own children.

  ‘You and Sarah, you two can handle this. But we must protect little Julie. She doesn’t know a thing and I can’t have her distraught and confused. She needs to be a normal little girl living a normal life. So I’m going to need your help with her.’

  ‘I know, Mum. I’ll try.’ His voice was muffled and he was holding on to me for dear life.

  ‘Listen, Rich, I’m only little but I’m a fighter, you know I am. I’m not going to let this thing take me down.’

  He looked up at me then, his face contorted with grief. He was trying so hard not to break down in front of me. My heart ached for him – this boy who was not quite a man – his world was falling apart, and he thought his mother was going to die. I felt so guilty, so responsible, thinking Dear God, what have I done to give myself this cancer and take me away from my children who need me so much? Was it getting pregnant with Julie, albeit all those years ago? Was it that desperate prayer to God when Sarah was ill? Tears were pouring down my face – I was so full of sadness not for myself, but for this lad. And the realization struck me at the same time that he loved me with all his being – I was that special to him. It was overwhelming. I don’t think I have ever felt closer to him, and I will remember that moment, when I knew my boundless love for him was reflected back, until my dying day. Now, when I meet people who tell me that their only wish is to do something to help their sick parent, I think of Richard, and how he must have been feeling that night.

  ‘When this gets tough, Richard, you can cry on my shoulder and I’ll cry on yours.’ He nodded, forcing a lop-sided grin, and I slipped out to get Julie ready for bed.

  I hardly slept a wink that night, lying awake and worrying, unable to get that horrible vision the doctor had conjured up out of my mind. Feeling my breast, I wondered what it would be like to feel nothing there, or to feel a new, pretend breast made out of my back muscle – but without a nipple. I would be like a Play-Doh person with bits stuck on and pulled off by a clumsy toddler. For the life of me I could not understand how they could pull a muscle around from my back, and this weird and puzzling image frightened me far more than the thought of losing my breast. All this and worse I turned over and over in my mind in absolute terror, with horrible imaginings crowding into my restless dreams. I must have dozed a little, because when I woke up I found tears spilling out of my half-closed eyes.

  The clock said 8 am. It was Saturday morning. Not even twenty-four hours since the diagnosis and I was alone in the house with Julie, who was still asleep. Gerard, who was anxious to hold on to normality, had left for work, as had Sarah and Richard. Maria was out with some of her students getting some last-minute things before their flight home. My heart sank as I remembered what was ahead of me this weekend. My sisters were coming over early that afternoon, and my mother-in-law was joining us all that evening. They were all to stay over for Sunday dinner. I knew there was no way I could put a brave face on things in front of them, and, besides, I would have to start telling people. I could practise on them, maybe.

  As I brushed my teeth that morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and tried it out. ‘I have something to tell you. I have cancer again. Breast cancer.’ The words sounded all wrong, my mouth looked strange saying them. Breast cancer. I stared at my breast – it seemed so ordinary really, just the same as it had always looked – and I tried to imagine the lump under the skin with its cells multiplying, spreading, invading my body. No, that was enough. I screwed my eyes tight shut, blotting out the vision.

  Julie appeared in my doorway. My God, Julie. How was I going to hold myself together for her?

  ‘Good morning, Mama. What’s for breakfast?’ My mind went blank and suddenly I felt dizzy. Breakfast?

  I sat down heavily on the bed and realized my palms were sweating and my heart was beating wildly in my chest. Surely I wasn’t having a heart attack? My breath was coming in short, shallow bursts.

  ‘Would you go downstairs and switch the television on for the minute, there’s a good girl … I’ll be down shortly.’

  ‘Yeah, great!’ At least she was happy – we never usually let her watch TV in the mornings.

  After a few minutes my head cleared. I felt shaky and realized this was no heart attack; it was panic – pure and simple. There was no way I could cope with Julie that morning. Not only was I completely exhausted from the night I’d had, I couldn’t trust myself not to break down in front of her.

  Slowly I made my way downstairs and started fixing breakfast. I felt my eyelids drooping. I wasn’t going to be able to stay awake! My heart started beating heavily again. There was only one person I could think of who would not hesitate to help: Grace.

  Her husband Sean answered the phone.

  ‘No, sorry Bernie, she’s in the shower at the minute. I’ll get her to call you later this morning.’ That was a blow.

  ‘OK, that’s fine. I hope I didn’t wake you. Sorry to bother you.’

  ‘It’s no bother. Are you all right, Bernie?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I’m grand. Thanks anyway Sean, I’ll talk to you later. See you.’

  Three minutes later the phone rang. It was Grace.

  ‘Sean said something was wrong.’ Thank goodness for friends – Sean had obviously guessed there was a reason for the early call. What a relief it was to hear her voice, and everything spilled out of me in a rush. The cancer was back, I was on my own, I couldn’t take care of Julie, I was afraid of what was going to happen to us all, I was feeling panicky and out of control.

  ‘I’m coming right over – I’ll be with you soon.’ Within fifteen minutes she was with me, hair still wet. And, bless her, she stayed all day until the others got back. We chatted about what had happened over the past few days, and she played with Julie while I dozed on the couch; she made me cups of tea, cried with me, brought me chocolate biscuits, and tried to make me laugh. Somehow she knew just what to say, and what not to say. I was so grateful to her for getting me through that first terrible day, when I was still raw with shock.

  As it happened, Ger had spared me the necessity of telling Aquinas and Deirdre by phoning them before they came. When they ar
rived I opened the door to let them in and they both held out their arms to me. My big sisters who had always looked out for me as a kid, plaited my hair, helped dress me, clattered me if I was cheeky – here they were, both devastated by the news, still caring for me in their grown-up sister way.

  ‘You know, then,’ I said. They nodded.

  ‘Well, come on in. Julie can’t wait to see you.’ It was too soon to talk about it.

  It was a clear, sunny afternoon and I had prepared drinks for everyone out on the patio. I, still exhausted, went through the motions of entertaining them all, wandering in and out with trays of drinks and plates of food. The best thing for me was seeing how Julie, normally such a shy child, opened up like a little flower that weekend. I don’t know what got into her: perhaps she sensed that I was unable to perform myself, but she rose to the occasion magnificently, entertaining everyone with little dances she had learnt, games and songs and funny stories. I have not seen her behave so confidently either before or since, but she was a true godsend to us all that day.

  Apart from her antics there was a lowering atmosphere hanging over the day that reminded me of a funeral. My sisters and Maria would be out on the patio gabbing away – then I would appear with some snacks and their chitter-chatter would instantly stop. Silence. Of course I knew they had been talking about me, and I knew they were worried and all, but it hurt me that they were treating me as if I wasn’t there. I felt like I was no longer a person, a friend, a sister – but the embodiment of this terrible curse, cancer. It was bigger than me, it cancelled out me. It gave them leave to talk about me, but not with me. This happened several times, and it was the strangest feeling. At some level, though, I suppose I understood that they were just concerned about me, and I knew they thought they were being terribly subtle about it, so I said nothing. But I couldn’t wait until the next day when they’d be gone. I had been glad of company but at times that day I just wanted to be on my own.