Counting Sunsets

by Paul Gait

  Dedication

  The big ‘C’ affects so many people in many ways, people become patients; families become unwilling spectators; doctors become miracle workers; nurses become ‘heroes’. This story is dedicated to this myriad group of people,

  Especially to my friend Stuart who has survived the ravages of cancer; to the memory of friends, Brian and Peter who sadly succumbed to their illnesses

  This dedication also extends to their wives Jacky, Stella and Ann, and to their families, who stood by and supported Stuart, Brian and Peter during all the dark days of their illnesses. For they too have shown incredible strength of character, often frustrated at being unable to do more than sit, wait and worry.

  It is also dedicated to the army of their carers, often forgotten ‘heroes’ of these serious illnesses; who should also be applauded for their selfless dedication and kindness whilst helping others at their most vulnerable

  It would be remiss of me not to also mention my own Godchildren: Sarah, Mathew, Paul, Thomas and Jessica. To whom, just like the character in this book, I have also been an absent Godfather.

  Paul Gait

  November 2011

  Thanks

  To my wife, Helen, for allowing me to spend countless hours developing this story.

  To my family (especially to my Grand daughters’ Rose, Amy and Molly) and friends for their support and encouragement,

  To Janet for spending many hours copy editing my manuscript.

  PART ONE

  The Nightmare

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday September 1st

  Angrily he floored the accelerator and felt the immediate response from the Porsche as the ‘G’ forces pushed him back into his seat, its tyres screaming at the hot tarmac; a banshee wail echoing off the rocky outcrops of the winding mountain road. The bends were coming faster and faster as he sawed at the wheel, steering the sleek car around the switchbacks of the D63 to Monaco.

  He was angry that he had wrongly put his life on hold whilst undergoing the numerous treatments. In reality the last two years had been an expensive and painful waste of time. He was still going to die.

  His usual self-assured confidence had evaporated; his head was in a whirl. He was frightened; frightened by the death sentence he had just been given. He knew that he was driving recklessly; it was as if the devil himself was chasing him.

  But he was running away; he wanted to hurtle back through time to where he hadn’t heard the words of the dreadful diagnosis.

  He hoped the screaming tyres would erase the words from his mind; Like a child blocking out a parental admonishment by plunging their fingers into their ears. His irrational thinking led him to believe it could even change the dreadful medical prognosis he had just received.

  The devastating message had come like a bolt from the blue. It had been a mind numbing shock. He had dared to believe that his two year nightmare was finally over, for, today, he was feeling so much better. He had even driven from his home in Monaco to Nice instead of taking the usual helicopter trip which had been his routine over the last two years, whilst undergoing the tough treatment regime.

  So confident had he become, that he had even got a bottle of champagne in the car to celebrate the expected good news with Nadine. He was going to surprise her, hoping to rekindle their life together.

  But the message had been blunt. The cancer had spread. The treatment options had been exhausted. It was a mind numbing shock to realise that there were no further possible solutions. After the emotional rollercoaster of remission and re-emergence, there had always been the anticipation that the next new treatment would be the right one, but nothing had worked. His hopes were finally dashed. A chill ran through his body at the realisation. It was the end of the road.

  As Professor Santander gave him the devastating news, it was as if time had suddenly slowed. The Oncologist’s voice had become a distant noise. He watched his lips move in slow motion, saw the shaking of the head, the sadness in his eyes, felt the reassuring hand touching his.

  Today’s visit would be the last time he would ever go to the specialist’s clinic.

  He recalled the first appointment, a few years previous, when he and Nadine had gone together. They had waited, nervously holding hands, not speaking, fearful.

  He had already undergone the intrusive DRE and given a blood sample for a PSA count. His Doctor had previously done an Ultrasound check and performed a Biopsy.

  Geoffery had assumed the worse when the medic referred him directly to the Oncologist.

  It was at that initial meeting with the Professor that they were given the results of the biopsy, which had confirmed the dreadful diagnosis of prostate cancer.

  He remembered he had picked up a brochure about the clinic and tried to absorb the detail of it’s all white, super sterile consulting rooms, the air conditioning – boasting of maintaining a dust and germ free environment by a positive pressure system. Of the meticulous efforts which were made to prevent patient cross contamination, including banishing street clothes and shoes. And the regime even extended to the receptionist, who was clad in a sterile medical gown, whilst she operated a tablet computer by a touch sensitive table, with no keyboard or screen.

  ‘Here I have vulnerable people. I need to prevent anything else impacting on their already frail health – hence the disrobing room outside my ‘clean’ area,’ the Professor had told him. ‘Not all my colleagues agree with my fastidious regime but then I owe my patients the highest level of care,’ he had informed Geoffery. ‘I cannot understand the barbaric level of hygiene in some English hospitals where MRSA and C Diff are killing off so many patients. It is a fundamental hygiene requirement, not rocket science,’ he said, becoming animated. ‘Apologies. As you can see I am quite passionate about basic hygiene.’

  The Professor’s outburst had given them great confidence that Geoffery would be in safe hands. They were reassured by the professional environment. So when he said they could beat this disease no matter what, they believed him. Sadly, it had been a false hope. Even worse, the treatment regime put a strain on their relationship, eventually causing Nadine to leave him.

  The next hairpin bend came quicker than he was expecting. He had to use all his driving skills to power slide the car around it. Adding to the cacophony, the squealing tyres kicked stones from the very edge of the tarmac into a calypso tempo against the metal barrier. If he lost control here, it would be only these thin corrugated metal sheets that would save him from crashing down the steep mountainside, and certain death

  Bizarrely, he thought this must have been the way that the lovely Princess Grace had died all those years before, along this very same serpentine road.

  Perhaps that’s what he should do; just lose control of the car; at least it would be over quickly.

  In addition to the tears of frustration that blurred his vision, the mountain road was also cloaked in mist, a usual hazard for travellers at this time of the day. Suddenly through the white blanket he saw a large yellow shape emerging. A school bus was lumbering up the pass, its bulk straddling the road at the next hairpin, blocking his route.

  Instinctively he hit the brake hard, the automatic cadence braking immediately beating a hectic rhythm against the sole of his foot. The car fishtailed as he fought to maintain control. Tyres screaming on the threshold of adherence; His death wish was going to come true; he was going to die after all.

  The front of the bus was coming faster, getting nearer and nearer. He was running out of space. Above him the coach driver was wide eyed as he ‘sawed’ frantically at the steering wheel. Black smoke billowed out from the exhaust of the struggling bus.

  The Porsche had slowed to 60mph as it squeezed past the front of the coach. He caught a glimpse of the c
hildren screaming as they watched him millimetres from the coach bodywork.

  In a fraction of a second that it took for the car to traverse the length of the coach a small gap had opened and the Carrera slithered through, squeezed between the Armco metal barrier and the rear corner of the coach.

  Immediately Geoffery came off the brake and planted his foot on the accelerator and power slid the car around the hairpin, away from the jagged mountain wall. He had made it, just.

  Over the pounding of his adrenalin filled heart and squealing tyres he heard the coach driver lean on his horn to express his anger at the near miss.

  The incident made him rethink his ideas about ending his life in his car.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Back in his penthouse flat he poured himself a stiff whisky to relieve the stress of the morning. His hands were still shaky as he tipped ice into the exquisitely cut lead crystal glass. As he sipped the 25 year old single malt whisky he felt a glow course through his body. Eventually, after a second drink and feeling slightly calmer he pulled out the specialist’s report and scanned it minutely, wanting to find something to contradict what he had been told, hoping against hope that he had misheard or misunderstood what the Oncologist had told him.

  But the report confirmed the terrible message that Geoffery had been given. His hands shook as he read and reread the words.

  ‘The increased level of calcium in the bloodstream is confirmed. Bone metastases has been identified in several sites. Any form of treatment is unlikely to be successful. Life expectancy: 3 to 6 months.”

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, clutching on to the table to steady himself. ‘Three to six months!

  He slumped into an armchair his mind whirling, thinking of all the treatments he’d undergone; countless hours cocooned in the claustrophobic confines of CT and MRI scanners; undertaking innumerable sessions of chemotherapy. He remembered the first time he heard the frightening shrill of the ‘Chemo’ alarms alerting nursing staff to replace empty bags of the powerful concoctions. Then he had to be tattooed with ‘crosshairs’ to ensure the radio therapy was delivered consistently in the right place. The repetitive nature of the treatment had depressed him, knowing that it would all have to be repeated again and again until the tumour had been defeated. He had allowed himself to go through all that, for NOTHING.’

  He was distraught. Fearful for what lay ahead in the last few months of his life; he had always believed that he could beat this thing. Think positive he had told himself. That’s what had kept him going, but now what!

  The seemingly endless treatment regime hadn’t worked.

  ‘I’ve paid all this money to so called experts for nothing. Engaging the best Oncology consultants and agreeing to undertake radical leading edge treatments was a gamble that hadn’t come off. They’d all let him down.

  He was devastated by the thought that he was going to die. He was going to die before his three score years and ten. It was so unfair.

  He had worked so hard to achieve his millionaire lifestyle but now he was never going to enjoy the full fruits of his endeavours. He had steeled himself so many times over the last two years listening to negative reports on his deteriorating health, but always there had been a slender chance of hope, but not now. There were no more options. They had run out. It was all over.

  In a daze he moved out on to the penthouse balcony and gazed across the exclusive skyline of Monte Carlo to Monaco bay, his tears misting the view of his yacht bobbing at anchor in the gentle azure blue Mediterranean. Rocky fingers of the majestic Alps dipping into the sea, as if testing it for the correct temperature for its rich clientele. He had always felt at home here. The backdrop of the dominant mountain, Mont Agel, reminded him of the gentle rolling hills of his birthplace in England, the Cotswold Hills. There, the ever present escarpment gave him a sense of security; like an ever-vigilant mother, always there, holding him tight to her earthly bosom.

  He fondly recalled the many evenings that he and Nadine had been together on the balcony, watching magnificent sunsets. Standing behind her, he would enfold her soft body in his arms, Nadine placing her tiny hands on his as they stood without speaking, gazing at the kaleidoscope of colours from the setting sun. The Mediterranean sky, Mother Nature’s canvas, painted in a symphony of reds, oranges, golds and yellows.

  Now the sunsets in his life were numbered. There was a limit on how many he would ever see. Perhaps he ought to count them; an abacus of his remaining lifespan.

  He thumped the metal railing in frustration. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘I’ve wasted enough time hoping for a miracle. It’s time to move on while I can. I’ve had my life on hold for long enough.’

  He strode back into the elegant, luxurious lounge that Nadine had designed for him. Her extravagance had created a room fit for a King. She had furnished it from the most expensive shops in Fifth Avenue New York, Avenue Montaigne in Paris and La Rinascente in Milan.

  ‘I shall have a farewell party to end all farewell parties,’ he said, feeling the most positive he had for a long time. ‘I shall attend my own wake. No point being the richest man in the graveyard. It will be one of the most lavish parties ever seen in Monaco.’

  He’d make sure they would talk about his farewell party long after he had gone….well at least until the next party obliterated their memory of his existence,’ he thought cynically.

  Immediately he had second thoughts; doubts flooded his mind. Could he summon up the energy to party? He became tired so quickly these days doing even the simplest of tasks. So what would be the point if he wasn’t even there?

  Perhaps he would invite his consultant and persuade him to prescribe a stimulant or something so that he could party as he used to, at least for a few hours.

  ‘Yes he would do it,’ he decided.

  It would be two fingers to the great reaper, defiance in the face of his impending death. After all, people would expect this of him. He had been known for throwing a party at the slightest excuse, especially when Nadine was with him.

  It seemed right to celebrate all the successes he had achieved, while he could.

  It was during this planning stage that he would miss her the most. She was always so good at organising this sort of thing, had all the right contacts, knew who to invite and who was out of favour.

  He missed her so much, his heart ached at the very thought that she was no longer part of his life. The void she’d left had intensified the pain of his illness.

  She had left him, soon after he’d started the chemotherapy, nearly two years before.

  She tried hard to come to terms with his condition, but she became distant.

  Their lovemaking had ceased. She said she didn’t want to catch it…stupid, lovely, wonderful Nadine.

  She apologised endlessly about how she couldn’t get her head around it.

  She told him of her fears, recognised her irrational feelings, but couldn’t come to terms with the ugliness of his illness or the effects of the treatment; the hair loss; the lethargy; the sickness; the steroid bloating.

  His body had changed dramatically. No longer an athletic 6 footer, 13 stone with a thick mop of black hair. The hours, regularly working out at the exclusive gym had been negated by the treatment regime. He had become pale and gaunt, had lost 3 stone and all his hair.

  So he couldn’t blame her for leaving him. She was a beautiful butterfly. Sick people had no place in her perfect world.

  He soon found that even some of his long term friends couldn’t cope with the thought of him being eaten away by this cancer.

  It had taken him a long time to become one of the ‘in-crowd’ but now they didn’t want to be around him anymore. He was no longer the person they once knew.

  Initially they had been very supportive, concerned, and sympathetic but as the effects of the seemingly endless series of treatments changed him, they became less understanding, less tolerant.

  Every time he had a setback, the number of concerned callers dropped until nobody appeared t
o show any interest anymore. He had become a pariah. Sympathy fatigue had set in; to all intents and purposes he had already disappeared off the ‘scene’ and out of their shallow minds.

  A spasm of pain broke into his deliberations, reminding him of his condition; his fragility. The exertions of his manic dash down the mountain road had caught up with him.

  He walked slowly into his bedroom where he kept his medication. He quickly jammed two painkillers in his mouth and slumped down on the bed.

  The stylish bedroom that Nadine had designed still smelt of her. For although it was almost two years since she had been there, he kept a bottle of her favourite perfume on the dressing table and would spray it around occasionally just to maintain her presence in the room.

  He tortured himself again with the memories of her. Reliving the passionate nights they spent together. Imagining kissing her soft voluptuous lips, her long neck, stroking her soft gentle peach like skin. Running his fingers through her shoulder length auburn hair, he recalled how it sheened, like a halo, in the Mediterranean sun. He imagined her little button nose and her beautiful eyes that would light up with her wonderful smile.

  He reached for the photograph of her that he kept on his bedside cabinet. It was his comforter when things got bad.

  He hugged it against his chest and closed his eyes waiting for the medication to work.

  It was much kissed and cursed. The silver frame twisted and dented from many occasions where he had thrown it across the room whilst raging about the injustice of his illness and the pain of losing her.

  Always the same question. ‘Why had she left him when he needed her most?’ Her softness would help to block out the worst of the gnawing pain. Her mere presence lifted his spirits during even the blackest days of his depression.

  His fingers walked to the electronic panel and stroked the buttons that made the bed move, gyrate, caress and massage his aching body.