Luckily for me, Zoe dropped everything at work and dashed straight round. She had already been feeling anxious because Matt had called her and said, ‘I’ve had a massive fall-out with Chanelle and she’s really upset. Can you go and check on her?’
When she arrived, not long after, she started hammering on my front door but I was out cold by then. She says she could see me through the letterbox on the floor and that she was shouting at me but I didn’t stir. I’d also thrown up everywhere and was lying in my own vomit.
She called 999 and, when the ambulance arrived, the paramedics got a spare key from my neighbour Lisa and ran into my house, before rushing me to A&E at Pinderfields Hospital, in Wakefield. As she held my hand in the back of the ambulance, Zoe says I kept slurring, ‘I want it to be over.’
Once at hospital, I have hazy recollections of the nurses putting drips in me and trying to take blood samples and one said, ‘Listen, if you want us to save you, you need to lie still and let me put this in your arm.’
‘I don’t want to be saved,’ I said, thrashing wildly and trying to push her away.
A few of the staff had to pin me down to insert the drip. It makes me so sad to think of myself in such a state and I can see that my behaviour must seem totally selfish. But anyone who has ever plummeted to the depths of mental despair will probably tell you the same thing: you have no control over those black thoughts.
A little later, as the effects of the paracetamol and alcohol gradually subsided, Zoe came back to my bedside and said, ‘Matt’s here.’
‘Tell him to go away,’ I begged her. ‘He’s the one who caused this. He’s ruined my life.’
Zoe nodded. She also knew I wasn’t on good terms with Mum and Dad but said, ‘Do you want me to call them?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘They’ll only be mad with me.’
After Zoe left, I slept for the rest of the day and, when I woke early next morning, was told by a doctor that I could go home.
‘Already?’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’
It then became clear the hospital wanted me out as quickly as possible. ‘There are a lot of photographers outside, which isn’t fair on the other patients and staff,’ the doctor said coldly.
Once I’d signed the forms to check myself out, I was led to a back entrance of the hospital, where a taxi was waiting – thankfully with no paps in sight. Back at my house, there was still sick on the floor and an empty wine bottle and tablets scattered all over the place. I wearily cleaned up then went upstairs to bed. When I got up to my room on the top floor, I jumped right out of my skin. There, lying face down on the bed, fully-clothed and fast asleep, was Matt. I’d forgotten he still had a key, so he’d obviously let himself in and crashed out – very considerately choosing to ignore the mess downstairs.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I said, waking him.
He jumped up, rubbing his eyes. ‘We need to talk, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t want to see you. Get your stuff and get out.’
‘Well what do you think you were doing? That was such a nasty thing to do, Chanelle.’
‘What? How can you say that?’
‘If you’d have died, it would have been on my conscience forever.’
I didn’t have the energy to even get angry. ‘Listen, it’s not all about you. I’ve had a stressful enough time as it is. You made me not want to be alive. How can you stand there and have a go at me?’
‘What about us then?’
‘Just because I’m in a fragile state doesn’t mean I’m going to take you back. I hate you for what you’ve done.’
‘Fine,’ he said, pulling on his trainers. ‘But you really need to think about this.’
Later that day, my neighbour Lisa came round to tell me that my dog Marmite was fine and playing in her garden. Thank God she’d been around to look after him during all the drama. Becca turned up a bit later and made me fish-finger sandwiches but, as we were eating them, Lisa rushed back in. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she said. ‘But Marmite’s run off.’
I leaped up. ‘What? Oh God, where’s he gone?’
‘I don’t know. He was here one minute and then he just vanished.’
I ran out into the street, calling for him at the top of my lungs. That tiny Chihuahua meant everything to me. He even came on photo-shoots with me and was always there for cuddles when I was feeling low.
Lisa’s husband had gone out looking for him but came back a while later empty handed. I was so worried and upset. ‘I’ve lost my boyfriend and now I’ve lost my dog,’ I cried. ‘It can’t get any worse. Nobody wants to be around me.’
Becca and I were out until 3am with torches looking for him. Eventually, shattered and freezing cold, we gave up and trudged home. And there, sitting on the doorstep, waiting patiently, was my gorgeous little Marmite! He’s so tiny but somehow he’d managed to find his way back from wherever he’d wandered off to. I clung to him on the ground, almost smothering him! Seriously, I’d never been so happy to see anything in my life and I thought, ‘This is a sign that things are going to be OK.’
The next day, I got a call from Dave Read. After asking how I was, he said, ‘Right, well, the Daily Star are coming up to see you in the morning for an interview about your suicide attempt.’
I’d been worried about it leaking out to the press, as Zoe told me afterwards she’d heard one of the paramedics tell his colleague in the ambulance, ‘You know she’s the girl off Big Brother? The papers would love this.’ And sure enough, the story had appeared in the Sun the following day.
‘But, Dave, I’ve only just come out of hospital,’ I protested. ‘I can’t do it. My head’s not in the right place.’
‘Come on, it’s a quick ten grand, so it’ll be worth it.’
‘Dave, I didn’t even want to brush my teeth or comb my hair when I got up this morning. I can hardly get out of bed but you want me to do that?’
‘Er, yeah.’
I sighed. Once again, it seemed I had little choice but to go along with it. So a team from the Daily Star arrived the next morning, taking my picture and asking me all kinds of probing questions. Although I can talk about it quite openly now, it was so hard at the time, especially as I felt so ashamed. Nowadays, there is less of a taboo about depression and mental-health issues but, back then, I felt weak and stupid. I was also dreading a backlash from my interview – I’d been in the media long enough to know that people would think I was making it all up for attention.
Sure enough, when the piece hit the shelves the next day, I got abusive letters through my letterbox saying things like ‘Fame-hungry slag’ and ‘Faker.’ But I knew the truth: this hadn’t been any lie. In some ways, the suicide attempt this time around had been much more serious than when I’d done it in my teens. I guess back then it had been more like a cry for attention but, on this occasion, I really couldn’t see any future and truly felt I had nothing to live for.
As things calmed down following my hospital scare, I started having weekly counselling sessions at the Priory, in Manchester. I didn’t want to check myself in because I knew people would think it was a publicity stunt – plus I didn’t really want to spend £5,000 a week to stay there. I’m not into therapy at all and think it’s self-indulgent but I went along for about three months and I suppose it did help because they gave me anti-depressants, as well as medication for panic attacks and sleeping tablets. I had to go back every few days though because they wouldn’t give me too many pills at once, in case I overdosed.
The counsellor I saw there made me talk about everything that had happened but, in my heart of hearts, I couldn’t see how that part of the treatment was helping. Why go somewhere just to talk about yourself? The whole experience really opened my eyes to how little support there is for people with mental illness and depression. You are made to feel a bit like a crazy person and so many people must be suffering on their own without a good support network. It’s something I feel really needs to be brought to the surface.
A few days later, I went over to his house and just cried my eyes out. He was such a good listener and made me feel a lot better. ‘I’m sure you’ll get back with Matt and work it out,’ he said.
It turns out that Danny’s prediction was spot on. Over the next few weeks, Matt bombarded me with apologies. ‘I thought I was ready for commitment but I obviously wasn’t,’ he said. ‘But now that I’ve nearly lost you, I am ready. Let’s try again. I’m so sorry I’ve messed things up.’
I was far from convinced by any of his pleas but the situation had been further complicated by Matt picking up a really serious injury while playing in a match that summer. Over the past few years, he’d had a lot of trouble with his left knee and it was threatening to wreck his career. After the latest injury, a scan showed he had cruciate ligament damage, which was a real disaster.
Despondent about being side-lined from the game he so loved, he begged me, ‘I can’t deal with this on my own. I really need you.’
‘Why can’t you get one of your other girlfriends to help you?’ I replied sarcastically.
‘Look, I love you and I want you back. I know how much you love me too – I really think we can make this work. I’ll never let you down again, I promise.’
Matt was having an operation on his knee down in London, so I said I would at least visit him – but only as a friend. ‘I don’t want to be with you but I will support you,’ I told him resolutely. I just felt I couldn’t abandon him when he was so very low.
I was down for a shoot while he was recuperating at the Lister Hospital in Chelsea and, while I was out for dinner with my friend Jenny later, he phoned me.
‘Can you come and see me?’ he said.
‘OK then. I’ll be there in an hour.’
I turned up in a glam dress and heels, as we’d be been for an early dinner, and one of the first things he said was, ‘Have you been dating anyone?’
‘No,’ I shot back. ‘I’m still hurting too much for that.’
We carried on chatting for a bit and, after the initial frostiness thawed, I was surprised how nice it was to see him again. We carried on talking over the next few days and I finally agreed to give things another go. You might think I was mad but I’ve always strongly believed that people deserve second chances in life, especially because I know I’m far from perfect or easy to live with. I didn’t want to end up full of regret for throwing this relationship away because, when it was good, it had made me very happy. And I’d never had any concrete proof that Matt had actually done anything with those other girls, had I?
Still, we both knew it had to be different this time around and he voluntarily quit Facebook and MySpace and stopped going out partying. It took a while for me to trust him again but, because we hadn’t lost any of that original spark or connection, we gradually managed to get back on track.
He made more effort than ever before too, booking us a surprise trip to Center Parcs for my birthday because he knew how much I loved it there. He also filled his living room with flowers and gifts for me as part of the same celebration.
At the end of November, Matt was still suffering badly with his knee and Middlesbrough decided to send him off for rehab with one of the world’s top specialists in Vermont, New England. He asked me to go with him, offering to pay for my flights, so I jumped at the chance. It was an amazing trip and we got on fantastically well the whole time, with no arguments. We had a gorgeous log cabin and there was loads of thick snow, making it so picturesque and romantic. While Matt had his treatment during the daytime, I’d go to the gym, have spa treatments and cook for us and in the evenings we’d snuggle up by the log fire or go to the cinema in our huge American car.
But midway through our month in Vermont, I began feeling a bit off-colour. I was sleeping a lot and my boobs had got a bit bigger and were sore too and I just didn’t feel quite right. Before we’d flown out, I’d had a routine check-up for my polycystic ovaries, with blood and hormone tests, but I had absolutely no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary.
Then, in mid-December I got a call from out of nowhere on my mobile. It was my GP, who said, ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you at home.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m in the States. What’s the problem?’
‘Well, we’ve got your test results back and they’re showing a really high level of HCG, which is a pregnancy hormone.’
I froze instantly. ‘What are you saying? That’s crazy, I can’t be pregnant.’
‘Well you need to come in and have some tests done urgently.’
My heart was thumping. ‘But I’m out here until just before Christmas, so that’s going to be tricky. Can’t I just buy a pregnancy test out here?’
‘No,’ she said, explaining that it could be what’s known as an ‘incomplete pregnancy’, which happens to a lot of women. Without getting too technical, you might have a mini-miscarriage and not even know about it. And if that’s happened, a pregnancy test reading would probably still show up as positive. ‘So we need to check to see if your levels of HCG are still going up, as that’s the important indicator here,’ she said.
‘But I’m telling you, I can’t be pregnant,’ I argued. ‘I’m on the pill.’
‘Well, you still need to get checked over there if you can,’ she advised.
So while Matt was having rehab, I called the nearest hospital and explained the situation and booked an appointment for the next morning. After driving there, I was given the blood test – which cost me £250, although at least I did get the results back the same day. And the test showed that my HCG level had shot up even further – to about 40,000 units. The hormone can double every day, apparently.
I called my GP with the results and she said, ‘That sounds like you definitely are pregnant. I do think you need to come back home so we can do a dating scan.’
Suddenly, a few things clicked into place: around the time of my birthday a few weeks before, I’d had a lovely night with Matt but I got absolutely paralytic on champagne and wine. And I was so hungover the next morning that I spent all day throwing up. It was probably the worst hangover of my life but, apparently, being ill like that can make your pill completely useless.
While it was totally unexpected, I was secretly thrilled. Matt had only said a couple of nights earlier that we should buy a house together, so the timing seemed perfect. A baby was surely the icing on the cake for us.
I decided to keep it as a surprise for the time being but, when he was safely out having physio, I phoned Mum – who I was finally back on speaking terms with – and blurted out, ‘Guess what? I’m pregnant!’
She burst into tears and then I burst into tears.
‘That’s wonderful news,’ she said between sobs. ‘I’m so happy for you.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘It’s the best thing that’s happened in months. And I’ve already thought of how I’m going to break it to Matt. What do you reckon if I put a copy of the baby’s scan inside a card for him at Christmas?’
‘Sounds like a great idea. He’ll be over the moon, won’t he?’
‘Well, I hope so!’
Reigning myself in from blabbing the news to him was so difficult that I thought I might burst. But I made up an excuse about a big job offer coming in at home and said I had to go back early. He booked me a business-class flight home and, just before I took off, I said, ‘I’ll miss you loads but it’s not long to Christmas now.’
When I got back, I had the dating scan, which showed I was about five weeks gone. They also had to check my ovaries and that the pregnancy wasn’t ectopic but, in spite of a few tiny cysts, everything was fine.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. If anything, it’s amazing that you’ve
conceived so easily when you’ve got polycystic ovaries,’ the nurse said.
Feeling elated, I put the copy of the scan in a card, wrapped it up and put it under my Christmas tree along with a load of other presents. I hadn’t been this excited about Christmas since I was a little kid.
I don’t know if it was just in my head but, by now, I was feeling so sick all the time and all kinds of smells were just vile to me. It didn’t matter though – I was so ecstatic about the little baked-bean-sized life form growing in my belly, feeling like death was somehow irrelevant. Matt and I spoke every day and I was counting down the days until he got back. I literally couldn’t wait to make my big announcement.
I felt so confident that this was going to be the start of an amazing and positive time for us both. The future was shining more brightly than ever before. Or so I thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Another Betrayal
When Matt flew in from Vermont on 21 December 2009 – the same day as Mum’s birthday – he was due to go to a Christmas charity ball with his teammates that night. He’d invited me along weeks before and, though I’d initially said yes, my condition meant that going out partying with a bunch of drunken footballers was the very last thing I could have faced.
‘I’m not going to come tonight if that’s OK,’ I told him when he arrived home. ‘I’m not feeling too good.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I just feel really tired and a bit sick. I think I’ve got flu coming, which is bloody typical just before Christmas. I’ll pick you up though, so you won’t have to get a taxi.’
But Matt knew me too well. He could probably tell from 10 paces if I was telling the truth or not. He went quiet for a bit and then said, ‘Fine. Whatever.’
Much later, when I picked him up from the black-tie do, he got in the car steaming drunk and in a really odd mood. We drove in silence for a bit and I was feeling strangely apprehensive, although I didn’t know why.
Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart Page 16