There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You (20 page)

The bizarre thing was that I would forget that I had cancer and address the whole deal as if, once I recovered from this operation, I would somehow be cured. It was only when Justin Stebbing’s secretary, Lesley, rang to make some appointments for my next lot of chemotherapy, that it hit me like a train. I still had to deal with all that.

Justin wanted me to meet a lady to go through the pros and cons of clinical trials. ‘Well why not?’ was our response. I had nothing to lose and a great deal to gain.

I lost two months’ chemo due to the operation and the recovery time, and in six months’ time I wanted to reverse the bag and go back to normal. I was back in the LOC by the second week of January and hooked up, yet again, for six hours every Friday morning from 8.30. The one setback was that I was on a new chemo which caused hair loss. So far I had been so lucky not to lose my hair, and it made such a difference to my state of mind that I was thrown completely by this news.

‘But you can wear a cold cap,’ advised Clare, my lovely nurse. ‘It freezes your hair follicles so the chemo can’t touch them. It is very uncomfortable for the first twenty minutes or so but then your head goes numb, and you can’t feel anything.’ Lovely!

But I took her advice and persevered. The cold cap was very uncomfortable to start with and, if you look at a photo, the hat has the effect of pulling your face down to your chest. So I reckoned I resembled a very old hunt jockey in need of a face lift – it is not great for the morale let me tell you.

I was by now getting much better at handling Furby, so my dear husband could leave that off his list of chores. I must say we did laugh at one point when he and I were assembled in the bathroom together for our bedtime ablutions. I have mentioned how unromantic it all was, and I remembered reading a book that advised young women never to reveal too much of themselves to their loved ones, that they should retain an air of mystery. Ha! Try that when you have a stoma bag. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with my lovely brown bag hanging off me, sporting my train tracks on my stomach from my operation scar, my various bruises from all the injections, and I was rinsing my mouth with salt water to help the sting of the mouth ulcers I now had, not to mention the invisible discomfort of thrush caused by the chemo. Romance?

However, a little secret, dear readers, into our fascinating private life, for which Michael will probably kill me. He dared to start to have a pee and I jumped up and down like a wild dervish and screamed, ‘NO! Please I insist we retain some mystery. We are not allowed to pee in front of each other except under extreme conditions!’

Michael just burst out laughing and replied, ‘Bloody hell, Lynda, it doesn’t get more extreme than cancer!’

Enough said, I think.

So life continued, and I did start to lose some hair, much to my dismay, but it was still there, enough to make a reasonable hairstyle work. Thank goodness for Carol Hemming, the lovely lady I keep on about who is the most incredible hairdresser. She advised me on wigs I could buy, and then when the time was drawing nigh for my visit to the Palace to collect my OBE, she showed me what she could do with a hairpiece and a blow dryer, and it was very impressive. In fact, in the end, she managed to do my own hair and make me look half decent which is no mean feat.

I did go to a fabulous wig shop in Notting Hill Gate called Trendco. Just in case I needed back-up later on. I literally walked in, picked a wig very similar in colour to my own hair, popped it on and it fitted perfectly. I don’t wear it when I am doing personal appearances because I feel the press will just go on about my hairstyle again instead of focusing on whatever it is I am doing.

I will never get used to the idea that I am of any interest to photographers or press. But can you believe this story? Michael and I had tipped up one Saturday morning to do some shopping at Waitrose in Finchley. We were outside the store at 8.30, nice and early, so we could whip round and get out quick. I never bother to wear make-up for these outings and I certainly would not bother to wear my wig unless it was doubling as a hat to keep my head warm. Anyway, I probably did look a frightful mess, but so what? Two weeks later I am on the front cover of one of those awful rags,
Bella
or
Woman
, looking terrible and the headline shouts:

‘LYNDA BATTLES HER CANCER’ or something equally lurid. Who has such a sad life that they loiter outside supermarkets to snap some ageing actress out with her shopping trolley?

A similar occurrence happened this July when I went up to Worcester University to accept a Fellowship from Lord Faulkner. In 2013 I had attended a forum on domestic violence and met an inspirational woman called Ruth Jones. She had suffered domestic abuse and violence in her marriage and was a strong campaigner for raising the issues. She is a principal lecturer, researcher and consultant specialising in domestic and sexual violence. Ruth had also received an OBE over the same period as me, and she had asked me if I would open this new National Centre for the Study and Prevention of Violence and Abuse and receive my Fellowship from Worcester University at the same time. I was supposed to have gone to the ceremony in November 2013 but was, of course, unavailable due to illness.

In July this year Michael and I travelled up to Worcester in the morning on the train, and spent a fantastic day with everyone. Before the ceremony there was a forum attended by all sorts of people from different groups and associations, and the NHS and the police, and I gave a short address about why I supported the centre. Now I have done various things for charity hostels and refuges over the years, but I never go into any details about my own situation, which was heavily covered in the press twenty years ago now. I wrote about my marriage in my autobiography
Lost and Found
, but enough is enough, and time passes. It is not pleasant for my sons to be constantly reminded of the issues we had and, to be fair, neither does my ex-husband need to be reminded all the time. Everyone deserves to be allowed to get on with their lives.

Try telling that to these people hoping to fill the pages of their vacuous mags. I went to get my week’s shopping and there is my face staring back at me from the cover of
Woman’s Own
magazine, with the headline: ‘I AM TIRED OF BEING FRIGHTENED’.

They all know I have cancer so I presumed it was about that. Oh no, it was harping back to the break-up of my marriage in 1996. What upsets me is that someone at that conference in Worcester that day taped my speech and then sold it to the magazine. Or a journalist picked up somewhere I was doing something with the Domestic Violence Centre and just cobbled it all together. It made no mention of the positive side of the day, i.e. I had received a Fellowship and how wonderful it was that this centre had been able to exist, it just rehashed old stuff.

I was so upset I actually went on Twitter and explained it was nothing to do with me, and of course lots of my followers understood that and the way these people work, but several people replied they had only bought the magazine because I was on the front and were disappointed. So there you go, the perils of a bit of fame that one never wanted in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I completely understand it is also important for my work to get the message out there, and for that I need the media. But why can’t it be kept to the subject in hand? If I have a story to tell, or a TV show to advertise, that is fine, it is just all the rubbish they then pad it out with, and if they cannot speak to you personally, they just edit things you have said in the past and call it an exclusive interview.

My next job, after restarting my chemo and sorting out my hair, was to find a suitable outfit in which to accept my OBE. It wasn’t as easy as you might think, as I now had Furby to consider, and dressing has all become about disguising him. The Investiture was on 14 March, the day before my mum’s birthday. How proud she would have been, they both would, my mum and dad. It is at times like this when you realise how much you still miss the people you love when they are gone, but that wasn’t a thought I wanted to share with my family that day for obvious reasons. To spoil the occasion by bringing in my mortality would be insensitive. Can you imagine trotting up the red carpet to HRH Prince Charles and blurting out that it was such an honour to receive an OBE, especially as I would be dead by next Christmas so it would make a memento for the family I’d leave behind! I wanted the family to be ‘up’ and out and proud. A mixed bunch we were, but we had worked hard and kept it all together.

I also wanted to indulge that ‘shopping’ moment. I did not have to feel guilt because I was there as my duty to Queen and Country (I can make up an excuse for anything and anyone!). It was my big day and much as I was embarrassed I was going to indulge myself and enjoy it. I might even let Furby have a glass of champagne! I went to all the big department stores but there was nothing. I ended up in Selfridges, which is huge but, to my mind, so badly laid out.

What used to be so lovely about going to a posh department store was that each floor had its own special feel. There was the young and trendy, the everyday, the mature woman and the really posh designer room where one could wander around and pretend to be able to afford what was on offer. Nowadays every floor is like a flea market, with rows and rows of clothes hanging squashed together. There are designer rooms but they are terrifying, manned by stick insects, both male and female, who can hardly bear to look up from their iPads or phones to serve you. It is really depressing.

I walked up and down for at least an hour and a half and only saw one coat dress that vaguely represented what I had in mind for my big day, and that had a designer label and cost £3,000! It was just not worth spending that kind of money for one day. I needed to be able to mix and match so I could wear the outfit again slightly re-arranged. I remember Joan Collins discussing the problem with me once at a charity event. Her answer was to find a dress that she really liked, and that fitted her perfectly, and then have several made in different colours. What a canny dame she is. So I was a bit stumped.

Then I turned to the font of all knowledge, Andrea Schaverein, my friend and colourist, who knows everybody in North London and would no doubt link me up to a contact who would find me a dress. She came through good, and sent me to a little shop near Marble Arch in New Quebec Street. The lady who owns the shop, and designs the outfits, is called Suzannah. What a treasure trove of frocks. Suzannah had a rail of ready-made dresses from which you could choose and then she would make it to measure. I had decided to use a fascinator I had worn only once for Helen Worth’s wedding, which was a very subtle French navy. Suzannah had a lace dress that matched exactly. Fitted, and knee length, with long sleeves, thank goodness. How difficult is it to find a lovely summer or cocktail dress with sleeves?

To go over the dress I found a white wool and silk fitted coat, with a neat little pleat in the back and turned up cuffs. It was so simple and yet so chic. I was sorted, and then Suzannah suggested I go to a shoe shop in Islington for some shoes to match my coat. Emmy shoes are located in a lovely row of shops in Cross Street, N1. Oh dear, she had some amazing shoes, mostly handmade, and completely unique. They were not cheap I will admit, but no more than the designer boys on the street. I ordered some off-white suede court shoes and a bag to match – well, it is not every day one gets an OBE – and I could wear all these items again. I was delighted and thrilled with my purchases. What I had not realised, but sister Jean pointed out to me as we left, was that the Duchess of Cambridge is a valued customer, and there was a copy of
Hello
on the seat in the shop with the Duchess sporting a pair of Emmy shoes. What can I say? She has very good taste and I expect she was thrilled when she saw me in mine in the Palace News the following week.

Underwear had become another area of interest since Furby had arrived, and it was certainly causing me more than a little grief. The trouble being, the Elastoplast effect of the bag hanging down means it gets in the way of the knicker line. OK, maybe not a Victoria’s Secret knicker line, but let’s not go there.

I can’t imagine Victoria’s Secret will ever have to consider underwear for wearers of a stoma. Though having said that, I could be very wrong, and it would be incredibly liberating and a wonderful campaign for young women who do have to cope at an early age with operations for Crohn’s disease and colitis, and diverticulitis. I recently saw an article in the paper about a very brave young woman who had to wear a stoma, and she was photographed in her bikini with her accessory. I was so impressed with her bravery, and wouldn’t it be great if an underwear company took up the cause and helped make specialised underwear for those customers?

I hadn’t yet found anyone who specialised in this kind of underwear but I had made a useful discovery. I found some all-in-ones from Rigby & Peller which are fantastic at hiding Furby. They squash him down gently and keep him in his place when I am wearing a dress. Rigby & Peller do amazing swimming costumes as well because they are made on the cross and hold and lift and, believe me, they are so tight nothing can escape. Again, they are not cheap but to know I am covered and safe is worth paying the extra.

The final touch underneath the dress and the underwear are the tights. I bought these Spanx tights which have a reinforced gusset, don’t you love that word? Gusset! If ever Furby was going to think of making a run for it (pardon the pun) these would halt the progress immediately. So I was completely covered, God willing, for every eventuality.

17

A GRAND DAY OUT

The big day was such fun.

I had received the letter from the Cabinet Office in November 2013: ‘The Prime Minister has asked me to inform you, in strict confidence . . .’ I couldn’t believe it! I was so thrilled to be recognised. I had to keep the secret until New Year’s Eve, no less. It was torture and I didn’t even tell the boys because they might inadvertently post it on Facebook or something. It never ceases to amaze me how everyone has to tell the world everything about themselves these days. I expect more from my children, who should know better, but they are all the same!