My Story

by Jo Malone

  The clinic’s doorman must have noticed the trepidation in my face. Why else, instead of holding open the door, would he take my hand and lead me inside?

  At the registration desk, they placed a pink medical band around my wrist – ‘Joanne Willcox’. We then took the elevator to the surgery floor, where I changed into an orange-coloured gown and white surgical stockings. I went through to a room where about twenty other women – some with partners, some not – were waiting, sitting in the same gowns and socks, prepped for their lumpectomy, biopsy or mastectomy. No one said a word. The oldest must have been a woman in the far corner, who looked in her seventies. I had to have been the youngest, and it seemed as though I was the only one trembling like a leaf. Gary took my hand but I only transferred the shakes to his wrist and forearm.

  And then my name was called.

  ‘I’ll be here when you wake up,’ Gary said.

  They don’t wheel you into the theatre at Sloan Kettering; you walk in, fully conscious. As I pushed through the double doors, I recognised the anaesthetist from the biopsy – his name was Charlie. Dr Heerdt was standing behind him, surgical mask on. To their right was the duvet-like bedding where I would lie, beside metal trays laid out neatly with surgical instruments.

  As I lay down, staring at the overhead lights, I felt embarrassed that I was shaking so much. Charlie reassured me that everything was going to be okay, but he needed me to relax so that he could get a line in. You’ll soon be asleep, he said.

  ‘Charlie? Can you hold my hand a second?’

  He stopped what he was doing. ‘Of course, Jo.’

  I gripped his hand and asked Dr Heerdt if it was okay if I said a prayer.

  ‘You go ahead,’ she said.

  Holding Charlie’s hand, I prayed out loud for God to bring me through. And yet, even after praying, I still couldn’t help one last-minute plea to Dr Heerdt.

  ‘Is there any other way?’ I asked. ‘A different kind—’

  ‘There isn’t,’ she said, placing her hand on my wrist. ‘We have to do this.’

  Charlie got his line in, told me to relax and count to ten.

  I kept staring at the light. I think I made it to five.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I heard the beep-beep-beep of a monitor as Dr Heerdt leaned in to say the operation had gone well. I opened my drowsy eyes and became aware of a cocoon-like blanket around me, puffed up and filled with warm air. Another female voice asked what the pain felt like on a scale of one to ten, but I felt nothing. ‘One,’ I said. ‘Where’s Gary?’

  His hand closed around mine. ‘Right here, darling. I’m here.’

  And I must have nodded off again.

  When I next woke up, I had been moved to a room that appeared instantly dull. I turned my head on the pillow, left then right, looking around – not a single window. I glanced down at my chest and saw a thick mound of cotton wadding and bandage, and suddenly understood the first sensation that I felt: a rigid, zipped-up tightness, as if my own skin was a jacket two sizes too small. I noted the numbness in my right arm and right side of my back. I felt the crispness of the sheets beneath my hands, my mouth as dry as dust . . . and the despondency. The despondency seemed to override any other feeling – a stark sense of emptiness that I had never before experienced, one that made me wish I were still in an anaesthetic-induced oblivion. In sleep, I wouldn’t have to face the reason I was lying there, or the bleak thoughts that consciousness activated.

  How will I ever be the same woman after this? How can I feel feminine again? Will anything feel the same? Will people look at me and know? That’s what cancer does – it infiltrates the mind and whispers its negativity, and it does so when you are at your weakest, filling you with a defeatist belief that makes you wonder if you’ve got the energy for the uphill road ahead.

  Ever since Larry’s first pep talk, all I had ever asked myself was, ‘How can I fight?’ and ‘How can I get my life back?’ But now I didn’t feel like I had an ounce of fight within me; it was as though my hope had been surgically removed as well. Pessimism isn’t me, but that was cancer again, taking my half-full glass and pouring its contents down the sink, leaving it not just half-empty but completely empty. Part of me wanted to feel fear again, because at least fear motivates a fight or flight. With emptiness, there’s nowhere to go. I didn’t even seem able to muster the slightest reaction; only self-defeating thoughts existed, and they kept stacking up to make the emptiness feel heavy.

  If only someone could have pulled me out of this pit, transported me into the future and shown me how much better life would be. But I couldn’t see beyond the next hour let alone the next few weeks.

  Gary remained by my side, a nurse came in to check my vitals, and Dr Disa stopped by to see how I was doing, but my monosyllabic responses – out of character for such a chatterbox – probably said everything. I had never suffered from depression but I imagine that this was the closest I came. Admittedly, two factors didn’t help: one was the morphine that put me in a somewhat altered state; the other was the windowless room that created a boxed-in feeling that did nothing for my ruminating.

  The next forty-eight hours not only felt like forty-eight days but they would be the lowest of my life, even lower than when chemotherapy would do its worst. I wouldn’t have climbed out of bed had the nurses not insisted I attend physiotherapy to work my right arm. Every person who came into the room, including my own husband, appeared to be standing on the periphery, with distant voices. I had no interest in what anyone had to say, however gentle and compassionate. I was not only down, I was angry, too.

  In my addled mind, I mistakenly believed that no one understood what I was going through. Weeks earlier, I had a thriving company, financial security, a loving family, and a happy future, and I felt angry that my peaceful world had been disrupted. I wanted to believe again in the illusion that I was in control of my own life. I wanted everything restored to how it was, framed within the context of my comfort zone. The truth about the impermanence of life – the impossibility of things ever staying the same for anyone, cancer or no cancer – couldn’t find a way through.

  Meanwhile, in the corridor outside, Dr Disa and Gary were sharing their concerns about my low mood, agreeing that it would be best to move me to a higher floor, and a room with a window. Gary knew me well enough to know that a light-filled space was vital to my sense of well-being.

  The next morning, I was transferred on a trolley bed to a room with a view and a totally different feel. It felt like I was emerging from a tunnel as the shafts of sunlight bathed my face. Once comfortable, propped up against a nest of pillows, I could see the sky, the buildings of Rockefeller University, and the East River that cut between Manhattan and the sliver of Roosevelt Island. I could see life, not just four walls, and my gloom started to lift. I can’t say that angry, negative thoughts would stay away entirely – the journey through chemotherapy would continue to be challenging – but I was pleased to be rid of the post-surgery moroseness that had me scared for a while.

  I found strength hour by hour, day by day, in trying to empower myself in the smallest ways. Knowing my mind’s propensity to dwell, and because I didn’t wish for any kind of depressive episode to return, I set out to understand every little detail of what was happening around me. I asked the nurses to explain my vitals, my blood pressure reading, and the medical chart on the clipboard posted to the bottom of my bed. ‘Why are you taking those bloods . . .’ and ‘What’s that you’re doing now?’ or ‘Why’s that necessary?’ I wanted to preoccupy myself with knowledge because even the most rudimentary understanding of minor medical protocols made me feel more in control.

  I’d also make lists of things I needed to accomplish, less a ‘things to do’ list than a ‘things to think’ list. I’ve made lists since being young, whether it was chores to do, food to buy, or product needed, so I figured that a feel-good list would aid my recuperation and mood. ‘Think twice today of something that makes you happy,’ I wrote. ‘Ima
gine two places in the world you’d like to go on holiday when fully recovered.’

  And this list-making would continue through chemotherapy, with goals laid out for the week: ‘Go to Banana Republic and buy two wrapover dresses’ or ‘Go to Barney’s and have its sausage pasta with green peas’ or ‘Take Josh for a bagel’.

  If the task/goal was written in thick pen, it had to be done that day; if it was written in thin pen, it had to be accomplished within the week. It seemed strange to be making lists that weren’t business-oriented but it kept my mind focused and made me feel a ton better. One task written in thin pen was: ‘Look at the scar.’

  I didn’t actually confront my reflection in the bathroom mirror until the final day in hospital, when a nurse stood alongside me for moral support. Suffice it to say that once the shock had subsided and the tears had dried, I realised that the scar was less frightening than my imagination had pictured. Thanks to the meticulous work of Dr Disa, it looked like someone had used a red felt-tip pen to draw a line across one side of my chest.

  Another sight, and sensation, I needed to get used to was the tissue expander that had been inserted as a temporary replacement for my right breast. This rubber device, designed to stretch the skin and pectoral muscle, would make room for the permanent silicone implant I had chosen to have. Over twelve weeks, and in a completely painless process, it is gradually filled with saline via an injectable port, expanding like a water balloon, though it was hard to imagine any growth amid the bruising and tightness that first week.

  For me, the self-consciousness was greater than any shock. I had prepared myself for reconstructive surgery but hadn’t figured how much restorative work my self-esteem would require. I couldn’t imagine wearing a swimsuit again, or any kind of slinky outfit, or shopping at Victoria’s Secret. With my sense of femininity so bound to my own body image, my confidence was hit hard.

  But in the coming weeks, numerous people would demonstrate that a normal life can follow a mastectomy, and I received tremendous insight from the medical staff. The biggest source of strength came from a woman called Stacey, a friend of my American PR Cathy O’Brien. Stacey, who had previously survived breast cancer, was a walking example of how good a woman can look following reconstructive surgery. It became clear just by talking with her, over coffee or on the phone, why she had survived and why she was glowing – she had such a tenacious positivity. Thanks to the flashforward provided by her personal story, she made the unknown known while also empathising with my fears, tears, and insecurities. She had been there and she kept urging me to keep the faith that I’d feel confident again in the long term. Stacey was one of those rocks on whom I came to depend, and a big reason why I got my hope back. The return of hope was timely because my chemotherapy would start within five weeks. And no matter what inspirational stories you collect from others, no one else can walk the road but you.

  But I wouldn’t be walking that road alone. Gary would be alongside me for every step and stumble, to urge me on and pick me up. What I went through, he went through, too. He might not have physically taken the chemotherapy in his arm every day, and yet he did. He wouldn’t literally lose his hair, and yet he did. His unfaltering love would be the one rope I’d hold on to and, on the occasions when I’d feel too weak to maintain my grip, he’d carry me. I pinned my rediscovered hope to my husband and son – the two reasons I was determined to overcome this rotten disease.

  At Bible school, I remember it being said that all anyone needs is faith, hope and love, ‘but the greatest of these is love’. I beg to differ. At this time, the greatest force for me was hope. The love of my boys was constant and my faith in the doctors was rock-solid. But hope promised me that there would be a tomorrow, and my tomorrow with Gary and Josh was the one horizon I kept my eyes on, however distant it sometimes felt.

  I bought a calendar for the period August–December 2003. Over those sixteen weeks, I would receive the chemo every ten days in different cycles, and I wanted to chalk off those days one by one. An ‘X’, written in black marker, would chart my countdown to Christmas. I don’t think I had ever focused on a Christmas so fiercely since being a child.

  The rhythm of chemotherapy – how it works and how your body responds – took some adjusting to, but I soon learned to know the three-day pockets when my body was at its strongest, which allowed Gary the time to head back to London, do some work and return for the day my chemo started again. The poor guy bounced between time zones for the last quarter of 2003 because, with so much continuing to happen with the business, he wanted to ensure everything kept ticking along. Somehow, he managed to be the business partner, the dad, the husband, the mum, and the carer all at the same time. And despite his regular transatlantic commute, he’d be at my side for every dose of chemotherapy and each important hospital appointment.

  One bonus about being in New York was that we had friends to rely on. Steven Horn had moved to Manhattan for a new job with Swiss Army, and he would come over to cook dinner and play with Josh, even when Gary was ‘home’. ‘Uncle Steven’ would become a big part of our temporary American life, as would our dear friend Susan McCone, who knew me better than most, and would offer constant succour over coffee and lunch. With her fashion designer days behind her, she had been ordained that year as an Episcopal priest and her soothing wisdom pulled me through many a dark hour.

  But not once – not with Gary, Steven, Susan or anyone for that matter – did I talk business or fragrances. I didn’t even think about making product, although that hadn’t been my intention. I was due to tweak and finesse a collection of basil-scented candles while in New York, but the chemo put paid to those plans. As soon as the test candle arrived, I felt violently sick. I couldn’t even open the bag without retching. In fact, I began to heave at many smells, even the plastic of the shower curtain, which we had to remove, and there was certainly no more spraying of Grapefruit on duvets and linen. My nose was rendered useless. All I could smell and taste was metal – a common side effect of the treatment.

  Going through chemotherapy was the grimmest experience I had suffered. Edna, the Russian nurse who administered my every dose, would tell colourful stories and jokes in an attempt to distract me from the procedure, but it turned my stomach watching the toxic red juice leave the syringe to travel through my veins intravenously. For a long time, I couldn’t look at cranberry juice without feeling nauseous. And then there was the daily requirement of self-injecting the medication that artificially elevated my infection-fighting white cell count – an imperative to combat the depletion that the treatment causes. For someone like me, who had previously hated needles, this was a tough ask.

  ‘There’s no way I can inject myself. I’ll pass out!’ I told Karen, the sparky nurse charged with teaching me the technique. But when she explained that the alternative was to come in for daily injections at the clinic, I decided that my discomfort was preferable to that constant back and forth.

  Karen was my Florence Nightingale, on hand to deal with any ailment or side effect: the mouth ulcers, blurred vision, memory loss, and faintness. And under her patient guidance, I soon mastered how to grin and bear the self-injections, pushing the needle into the fatty tissue of my leg. But knowing how to do it didn’t mean I found it any more enjoyable, and so I set myself an incentive – I couldn’t watch an episode of Sex and the City until I had carried out each nightly jab.

  Oddly enough, that programme was the only thing I could watch. By day three of my chemo, it felt as if every muscle and bone in my body was made of lead, and I couldn’t concentrate on reading a book or watching TV without my head banging. Except, that is, for Sex and the City. The half-hour bursts of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte had unknown chemo-defying qualities, and their humour was often a great tonic, even when I felt too tired to laugh.

  Chemotherapy has a cumulative effect and brings on a gradual decline in energy, from ‘tired’ to ‘exhausted’ to ‘feeling like I’ve been hit by a ten-ton truck’. Even nipp
ing to the food emporium on the corner – no more than one hundred metres away – felt like a gruelling hike. Eventually, I relied on deliveries but, even then, I occasionally underestimated my own weakness.

  On one such day, with Gary away, I went down to meet the deliveryman in the lobby. I bent down to pick up the bags and Paul, our resident doorman, could see that I was flagging. ‘Let me take those for you, Miss Jo,’ he said. But he didn’t only take my food upstairs, he placed each item in the fridge and cupboards. It wasn’t the only time he’d come to my aid.

  In week ten, when the chemo really had me in its grip, I caught a taxi home from the hospital. ‘You’re here, ma’am!’ said the cabbie, impatiently hurrying me along. As I pushed the door open, the distance from the pavement to the main entrance seemed like a mile. The driver was going to be of no help, so I swivelled around in my seat to put my legs outside and, at that moment, Paul’s hulk of a figure leaned in and lifted up my rag doll of a body. He didn’t say a word – he simply carried me inside, into the lift, into the apartment and lay me on the bed. When people talk about the spirit of New Yorkers, I always, always think of Paul.

  I think of a lady called Mary, too.

  In the gaps between chemo, and if I felt well enough, physiotherapy was every Thursday, and this buxom lady, who enthused about her Pentecostal faith, brought the gym alive with her Gospel songs and fine voice. By the sounds of it, By the Rivers of Babylon and How Great Thou Art were her favourites.

  ‘Do you sing all the time, Mary?’

  ‘Singing is my medicine!’ she said.

  ‘So, what kind of cancer are you being treated for?’

  ‘Oh, honey, I’ve had cancer since 1962!’ She was undergoing chemo for the umpteenth time and was still fighting, still singing, and still remaining upbeat. When I said earlier that I got my hope back, what I didn’t say was that it kept being fortified by the people I came across, like Paul, with his humanity, and Mary, with her never-surrender spirit.