And, as I’d also said to Jenny, that day at the Maggie’s centre, I wasn’t ready to go home.
For one thing, I was putting on a brave face about the cancer whenever I was with my family or friends. But it was just that – an act – an utterly exhausting act. It was something that I noticed - people seemed to expect bravery from cancer patients. It was seen as admirable. I think, if the patient was stoical and serene throughout, it made the unafflicted feel less threatened by the whole filthy, painful business of cancer. Oh yes, I felt that bitter. I resented the healthy. I’m not proud of it, but sometimes, when my mood was the very darkest black – I hated the relentlessly cheerful, look-on-the-bright-side brigade.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t the least bit brave - I was absolutely petrified. I was an emotional wreck. The physical pain, the vomiting, my ulcerated mouth and bleeding gums were nothing compared to the internal terror.
It could happen any time – day or night. I’d think I was coping but then she was always there, just biding her time, waiting for the slightest sliver of self-pity or fear. She was an ever-present, dark shadow - waiting in the wings. As soon as there was a chink in my defences, she was out of the wings and at centre stage. And yes, I’m sorry to say, it was a she. My cancer was a malicious, marauding, merciless witch-bitch from hell – a most wicked Queen, offended by healthy femininity. She was a hideous and heartless entity – a violating and invasive, alien presence. She plotted my death.
Sometimes she made me cower. At those times I could only curl up on the bed and cry – and try to keep the sickening pictures out of my head - images of my mutilated chest, or of my morphine-clouded deathbed, and my bereaved and motherless children. But the bitch would be there screaming and cackling, “Look! Go on, look!”
And sometimes she’d win and I would look. I’d look at the fiery, jagged scar that served as a sickening marker of what I’d lost. And I’d cradle my remaining breast – stroke, press and prod it. I’d convince myself there was a lump. I’d check again and there’d be nothing there - and how the evil, festering crone would laugh. These were my darkest times and, on these occasions, I felt my sanity hanging by a thread.
I had to come up with a way of fighting this truly awful entity.
It was speaking with Dawn, a young patient I met at the Maggie’s, that helped me come up with my battle plan. Dawn was very young, just Sam’s age, and was being treated for secondaries in her bones. It was humbling enough just conversing with this amazing girl. It certainly helped me regain some perspective. For one thing, I was utterly grateful it was me and not one of my children who was the cancer patient. But it was Dawn’s visualisation technique that really resonated with me. She pictured herself as Lara Croft swinging through tombs blasting her nasties, her tumours.
“It works for me, Rosie. You feel strong – like you’re the boss and you’re in charge and kicking the cancer’s ass. Try it!”
And so I did. The choice came easily. The Alien movies were some of Tom’s favourite films. We saw the first one at the cinema when we were just married – and we got it on video as soon as we had our first VCR. It remained our favourite of the series. We watched it many times, with a takeaway and a bottle of wine, in the years before we had the kids. I bought it on DVD after my conversation with Dawn. I watched it over and over.
I was going to be the gutsy Ripley – the armed-to-the-teeth Sigourney Weaver character, the heroine of the movie. My body was the spaceship Nostromo and I was going to rid my craft of the stinking, malevolent witch-bitch alien.
As Ripley I’d scream my threats at the ghastly hag that was stalking me. I’d stand my ground and I’d yell at her to do her worst, shout that she wasn’t going to get me. She’d got my mother but she wasn’t going to get me. And she needn’t even think about getting her scrawny, wraith-like hands on my daughters, because I was going to obliterate her from my life and she wasn’t ever coming back.
I’d patrol my spaceship and, always, that stalking bitch was waiting, tucked round a corner, ready to lunge out in front of me, forcing me to stay and fight or, to turn and flee – but return another day. Being Ripley brought me strength, helped me look past the shadow in the wings, helped me get to know my enemy better.
I researched symptoms and treatments obsessively on the internet.
I quizzed my doctors – what were the chances of a recurrence, of a carcinoma in the other breast, of a genetic link that meant my daughters were vulnerable? Mostly they answered patiently and kindly, but never with the unqualified assurances that I sought.
But it was from Dawn and my other fellow patients at the Maggie’s Centre that I got the most practical support. We exchanged information about therapies and treatments. And we shared a black humour – tumour humour –we called it. And when my sense of humour failed me and I needed to weep, to grieve for the loss of my breast and the loss of my self, no one at the Centre minded - and no one made bloody stupid, bland remarks about how it would all be fine.
So, by August, the bitch and I reached an understanding. I wasn’t going to waste any more precious energy being angry. I would still get scared, but if I remained strong in the face of my fear, then I believed I would win. This was not bravery - but a strong desire to survive. I no longer trusted my treacherous body, so I had to rely on my strength of will. I’d negotiate the road on my terms. To do it, I needed space to manoeuvre and to react as I saw fit. And agony though it was, at times, to be separated from them, I honestly believed my children were better off not witnessing the full horror of my journey.
My resolve, my determination to be in control, also meant that I couldn’t be with Tom. Not only had my own body betrayed me, but Tom had too. And I still feared the force of his belief that he knew best.
However, my feelings of anger towards him did subside.
I realised that I’d never given him the slightest inkling that I was ready to talk about Heather’s suicide. I’d blocked the whole malignant business and let it eat away at me. The irony of the parallel with my present physical condition was not lost on me. I knew there was more to the story regarding Tom’s part in the end of my sister’s life and the beginning of Robbie’s. And although it might hurt like hell, I also knew that I needed to hear it.
And I was grateful to Tom - that he did as I asked and gave me my time alone. But though it was what I wanted and needed, I did yearn for him. I missed him in every way – physically, mentally, emotionally. I longed for his touch, his smell, his maleness – and, perversely, I know, at times I longed for his strength.
I found that I looked forward to his twice-weekly phone calls. And I had to admit to myself that, on the day Adam came to meet us both at the flat, I was as excited about seeing Tom as I was about seeing Adam. He was so kind and gentle that afternoon, even after I threw up on him.
A week after that visit, the exam results came out. Jenny’s results were very good, four As and a B. Being Jenny, she was, of course, more annoyed about the B in History than thrilled about the four As. She phoned me to let me know how she’d done. She’d got the grades she needed for university and we chatted about the pros and cons of the courses offered by Edinburgh, St Andrews and Aberdeen.
Adam arranged for his results to be forwarded to Ruby’s. He said he’d call me to let me know how he’d got on and that I was to tell Tom. He clearly didn’t want to discuss the outcome with his father. I rehearsed how I would react when he phoned. I was determined not to say the wrong thing, no matter what he had to tell me, but the trouble was I didn’t know what the right thing would be. If the results were better than expected, I told myself not to gush, but to sound pleased in a controlled way. If the results were bad, then I mustn’t sound pitying. I would be positive, but not overwhelmingly so. By the time his call came I was a nervous wreck.
“Hi, Mum, how are you feeling today?”
“Hi, son,” I replied keeping my voice calm. “I’m well, thanks. No chemo this week.”
“That’s good. I’ve got my r
esults here.”
“Yes?”
“I got my maths –I got a C in my maths! How cool’s that?”
I could hear the smile, the delight in his voice.
I smiled too as I spoke. “It’s very cool, son – very cool. Well done – you’re obviously pleased about it – and so am I – higher maths is a great achievement – really it is!” I stopped at that. Don’t gush, I reminded myself.
“I’ve never done anything this nerdy before – me – higher maths – still a C’s not too nerdy is it.”
I laughed.
“What you laughing at?” He didn’t sound defensive. I could still hear his smile.
“You, Adam, you – but in a nice way.”
He laughed back. “Okay – if you say so. I failed the others by the way.”
I took a deep breath. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Okay – I got a D in English – which is better than I expected and an E in biology.
“Right – well - you sound positive, I’m glad. I’m really proud of you. Well done, Ad.”
“I guess. Anyway, I better go. You’ll tell Dad about my results, yeah?”
“Yes, I will. Bye, son.”
I called Tom at the hospital right away. I guessed he’d be feeling as nervous as I’d been. Sheena answered. She told me Tom was just out of theatre and she’d page him.
When he came on the line he sounded out of breath. “Rosie, hi – are you okay? Everything all right?”
“Yes, Tom, everything’s fine. Thanks.”
“He called then?”
“Yes, he called. He passed his maths – got a C.” I heard a little gasp from Tom. I wasn’t sure if this was because of joy or disappointment. Did Tom see it as only a C? I continued. “He thinks it’s cool and not too nerdy. Don’t you think he did well to pass?”
“Yes, yes I do,” said Tom. “It’s good. What about the rest?”
“He failed the rest – but as he said – not as miserably as he’d feared.”
There was momentary pause before Tom spoke. “I don’t suppose the subject of him going back to school came up?”
“No, Tom, it didn’t. I think he’s made it clear what he thinks on that score. I really don’t think we should push it. The main thing is he’s feeling positive.”
“Yes – you’re right of course. I need to let the school thing go, don’t I?”
“Yes you do, Tom. Adam’s made it clear. He’s going to be making his own decisions from now on.”
“God, I really screwed up with Adam, didn’t I?”
“No – no you didn’t. You want the best for him – that’s a good thing – you care. I got it wrong too. I stifled him. I was far too protective. I thought he couldn’t cope on his own and he quite clearly can. We both need to give him space.”
“Yes, and thanks, Rosie, it means a lot that you don’t blame me.” He spoke very quietly.
I wished we were together in the same room. I wanted to touch him. But I was aware he was at work, and I wasn’t sure if he was alone. So I didn’t say anything.
Then he added, even more quietly, “Over Adam at least.”
Chapter Thirty Six
As September began, Edinburgh quietened down and settled herself. The crowds of summer tourists had gone home and the bustle of the festival was over. It had been the hottest summer for years, but the weather broke with several dramatic thunderstorms at the end of August. Autumn’s muted tones were reflected in the city’s more sedate pace, and I experienced a similar calming down after my own fraught summer.
The cooler air, misty mornings and wash of glorious autumnal colour over the city’s parks, gardens and tree-lined streets were all soul soothing. And as the season changed, I sensed I too had reached a turning point.
It was during the first week of September that Adam came to have dinner with me. It was his suggestion. I hadn’t seen him since he visited Tom and me at the flat a month before. I was apprehensive, like when awaiting his exam results phone call. As then, I knew I must be calm and not rush anything.
He brought me flowers, freesias, which surprised and delighted me. He’d never done anything like that before.
“They’re my favourites,” I said. “Thank you.” I wanted to kiss him, but settled for patting his arm. He looked at the floor, embarrassed. He seemed to have grown again and had become even ganglier.
But the thing that struck me most, was how like Tom he looked. He was becoming a fair-haired version of his father. As he ran his hands through his hair, a flustered gesture straight from Tom’s repertoire, I had such a strong desire to be with Tom that it knocked the breath out of me for a moment.
“God, Mum, are you okay?” he asked. “I know it’s a shock – me giving you flowers – it was Robbie’s idea –he said they were your favourites.”
“Yes, I’m okay – sorry – never mind me. I was just thinking how like your Dad you’re getting. And it made me think I was missing him – that’s all.” I hadn’t meant to blurt that out to Adam.
“Right – well that’s good isn’t it – you missing Dad? Maybe you’re ready to talk to him – maybe go home?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. So, it was Robbie’s idea – the flowers?”
“Yes – I had dinner at his house yesterday – he invited me and Jenny round. He’s a good bloke.”
“Yes, he is.” I smiled, relaxed and spent a lovely afternoon in the company of my son.
A couple of weeks later, another significant milestone was reached when I had my last dose of chemo.
Sam took me to the hospital and stayed with me while the noxious mixture dripped into my vein.
Wendy was very upbeat. “Last time,” she said, smiling at Sam and me as she hooked me up.
I know I should have been pleased it was the final shot. But I wasn’t. I was in turmoil. For one thing, I could hear witch-bitch cackling in anticipation. I was frightened bythis major disarmament. She’d be there in a flash, spreading her malignancy round my body. How would I fight her then? These toxic chemicals were the bullets for Ripley’s guns and Wendy was stealing away my ammo. It felt like I was losing control. I considered begging Wendy to let me have another six months treatment.
Then there was Tom – I suspected he’d see the passing of my last chemo as the end of my need to be away. I was unnerved to realise, I’d probably agree with him. Contemplating going back to Tom - I felt like I had when I was at the top of the Nemesis ride at Alton Towers – both wanting and dreading at the same time.
“So how do you feel, Rosie? About stopping.” Wendy’s voice broke in on my thoughts.
“Oh, I’m glad, of course,” I lied. “But I must admit I’m a bit scared of stopping.” Oh, the understatement. “Does that sound daft?”
“No, not at all, it’s a very common response actually. Patients often feel it’s like they’ve stopped fighting when they stop getting this stuff. Let’s just hope it’s done its job.”
“Oh, yes, don’t get me wrong, I’m not up for getting more.” Liar! “It’s just - it feels like letting your guard down.”
“Well the fight’s not over yet, but you get a bit of a break now - before radiotherapy. You’ll be seeing Dr Knox soon, to find out if the chemo’s been effective. And - just think – your hair will start to grow back now.”
Wendy made sure I was comfortable and then left us while the potion made its journey from bag to bloodstream. Sam had brought a couple of gossip magazines with her and, for a while, she distracted me by reading aloud from them. We shared a laugh at some of the crazier stories and I realised how much I was going to miss her.
Soon she’d be going away to university and we were trying to spend as much time together as we could. Tom was going to be running her to St Andrews and, as she drove me home, she broached the subject of me going along too.
“I don’t know, Sam. What if I feel sick?”
“It’s two weeks away Mum – you’ll have stopped being sick. And this is a big occasion – y
our number one child going off to uni – you can’t miss that.”
“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” I said smiling.
“Yes I have – please, Mum. Dad would like it too, if you came.”
“Would he, now? You’ve asked him then?”
“Yes, but he said you wouldn’t come. Prove him wrong, Mum – go on.”
I didn’t need much persuading – not after my realisation in the chemo ward earlier. And, like I’d said to Adam, I was missing Tom. I was probably as ready as I’d ever be to listen to what Tom had to tell me. The time had come to try to rebuild my life – our lives.
“Okay, I’ll come,” I said, and I found I was laughing.
I phoned Tom that evening and told him I’d be going to St Andrews with them.
“You’re coming - in the car - with Sam and me?” he asked.
I laughed. “Yes, that’s the plan. Sam said she’d asked you.”
“Yes – she did - but I didn’t think you’d agree. Not if it meant being with me.”
“I think I’ll cope. Maybe we can have a bit of a talk on the journey back.” There was silence at the other end. “Tom, Tom, are you still there?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m still here. Right, it’s a date then. I’ll call you nearer the day and we can fix up a time to collect you on our way north.”
Over the following few days I was hardly sick at all, and even the nausea disappeared. By the end of the week I was feeling quite well.
Robbie called in to see me on the Friday. Over lunch he told me that Adam had been to visit him on several more occasions. “My dad and him seem to have bonded over engines, which is fine by me – it takes the pressure of me having to pretend to be fascinated by pistons and carburettors.”
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