Fight For Your Dream (14 page)

Normality? Not a chance!

Every day of Merit's training I religiously went down to Smeltings to watch how he was coming along. He was making progress, but I was still a little concerned at how he would react with somebody on his back again. Although I respected Damian as a horseman, I was itching to see him ride Merit. I realised that he was trying to gain Merit's trust by working him from the ground, but at the same time I felt he needed to do that on his back. However, Damian was the expert so I decided to stay quiet and hoped Merit would come good. Four weeks into the six and I was getting frustrated; I felt it was time for me to get back on him. Damian tried to persuade me otherwise. I was still in plaster, but I'd made my decision - today was the day! ‘Does Nigel know you're getting on board?' Damian asked, as he pulled the mounting block towards me. ‘I'll be fine,' I answered, as I reached out for the reins and proceeded to put my left foot in the stirrup. My heart was beating twenty to the dozen, my mouth was dry, but I knew I had to relax. Merit would sense through my seat I was nervous, and that could be bad news for me. ‘Sit like a sack of potatoes,' I kept thinking to myself, ‘take deep breaths.' Actually, in the end, he never put a foot wrong, he was as good as gold and my optimism was renewed. If only he would have continued like that!

Towards the end of the six weeks, it was pretty obvious to me that Merit still needed a lot more work. I spoke to Vicki and Damian about my concerns but they were very non-committal. The training livery was expensive, and I just didn't see any point in throwing more money at it. To me there wasn't any considerable difference. The Smeltings' staff had been riding him in their staff lessons, which Damian normally taught, but he'd still thrown a couple of wobblys with them. These were people who had been brought up with horses all their lives. If Merit was still having tantrums with them on his back, I didn't think I had a cat in hell's chance. However, undeterred, I decided to continue to persevere with him. Around this time, I had been struggling with horrendous stomach pains. The pain was sometimes so bad I had difficulty in standing. One Saturday morning it all came to a head, but this time Nigel was around to witness it. I'd popped downstairs to our bedroom to collect a jacket from the wardrobe. We had planned to go to the local shops for a few bits and bobs, but never made it. The stomach pains returned, but this time they were so severe that they took my breath away. I couldn't help but panic. ‘Jesus, what's happening?' I thought, as I dropped to my feet holding my stomach. It felt like somebody had just punched me in the stomach and winded me. In the background I could hear Nigel calling me from upstairs, ‘Come on, bun, hurry up, let's get going.' Alarmed that I had not shouted back something sarcastic, he came to look for me. I was knelt down beside the open wardrobe door feeling sick with the pain. I couldn't catch my breath to speak to him, so instead just gripped his hand looking rather pathetic until the pain subsided.

Two days later we made the familiar journey back to Thornbury Hospital to see Mr Shorthouse. Nigel had put a call through to his private home on the Saturday, spoken to Tina, his wife, who we had got to know very well, and arranged an appointment for us to see Andrew on the Monday evening. Andrew (Mr Shorthouse, that is), gave me a thorough examination, as well as an internal examination and, although he couldn't feel anything suspicious, he suggested we see a gynaecologist whom he recommended. In fact, an appointment was made that night, and the following evening we visited a Mr T. C. Li in his consulting suites at his home in Psalter Lane. TC, as we used to refer to him, was a tiny little Chinese man. Everything was little about him. I can remember shaking his hand that first night and thinking how doll-like it was. I haven't got large hands, but they're still larger than TC's.

After nearly two hours with TC we knew that, from the pictures on the ultrasound scan, all was not well. We could see something that looked suspiciously like lumps around my ovaries. As TC moved the probe around I began to feel quite nauseous. Nigel was standing at the side of the examination table holding my left hand, and at the same time straining to determine what he was looking at on the screen. His pale face held all the same tension that I vividly remembered from three years before. ‘Why us?' I thought, as a tear trickled down my left cheek, landing on the pillow that was supporting my head. All the experts say that if you get through the first five years without a re-occurrence of the cancer, then it's looking good. I was three years into my five.

Plans were made for me to be admitted to hospital as soon as possible. I'd asked TC if I could go onto Mappin Ward again, as I could at least take some comfort from knowing all the familiar faces of the staff. After all, Thornbury Hospital was unfortunately becoming home from home!

Within a few hours of the surgery, we had the results from TC. There were in fact three lumps removed. Only one had been seen on the scan, so the other two had either not been spotted or were growing at quite an alarming rate. I was now thirty-seven years of age and Nigel was forty-one and, although we had no children, we had not totally ruled out having any, up until being diagnosed with breast cancer. Once we'd had time to get our heads around the results we were faced with yet another major decision. TC told us, in no uncertain terms, that the safest option for me was to have a full hysterectomy although, on this occasion, the lumps were benign. Obviously that would be the end of any hope of children. Up until now I hadn't really been that bothered about children and neither had Nigel, but it's amazing how you feel when the option is taken away for ever. Nigel was immediate with his decision when he said to TC, ‘There is no decision to be made for me. It's a no-brainer. I want Elaine to live and grow old with me.'

It was early December by now and Christmas was rapidly approaching. I wanted to have as normal a Christmas as possible, so the date for my hysterectomy was postponed until the 6
th
January 2000.

Principal Boy

I'd been forced out of action for a while, what with all the recent surgery and recovery time. Twelve weeks was the norm for recovery, but I knew I wasn't about to spend that amount of time doing nothing. I had my alpacas, ducks, and geese to look after at home, and Merit on DIY Livery. When I was in plaster, I'd got around the problem of wheeling a barrow by tying a makeshift scarf around my neck as substitute for a handle; hence I could push a wheelbarrow with my right arm, along with my neck doing the work of my left arm: sorted. I needed to come up with a similar solution so I could get back on board Merit. I couldn't think of one, so in the end I thought, ‘Sod it, just do it!'

Since owning Merit, I had never completed a hack. I'd only ever been in the ménage (which is a relatively safe arena), but my whole purpose of owning a horse was so that I could get pleasure in horse and rider being a partnership, spending enjoyable times together hacking round the countryside. I wasn't able to do any of this, because I kept being told by experienced people that Merit was ‘far too unpredictable to take out on the road, it would be foolish to do so'.

This was beginning to frustrate the hell out of me, and I'd had enough. If Merit and I were not compatible then I wanted to find out sooner rather than later. If there was one thing that the cancer had taught me, that was that you only get one shot at life, you don't get a dress rehearsal, so just live life to the full; and that's exactly what I was going to do, one way or the other.

The outcome of my new-found confidence ended in disappointment on this occasion. I'd come to the end of the road with Merit. I decided that Merit and me should go out on a hack together, so I persuaded one of the other liveries to accompany me with their horse. What a nightmare; Merit was all over the place. At one point during the hack we ended up in someone's back garden. The house was a new build and the entire garden had been completely landscaped. We'd seen it being built over the previous few months as we passed it on our way home to Bassett. It didn't look landscaped when we'd finished with it. It looked more like a ploughed field waiting to be landscaped!!!

I was so embarrassed with the whole situation - what a disaster! We'd jumped into the horsey world with both feet first, and we were now paying for our impatience and inexperience. I didn't blame Merit though. In many ways I felt sorry for him. We were just the wrong combination at the wrong time. He was green, I was green, but we both needed to move on to pastures new (pardon the pun).

The following few weeks I put to good use. I spent a great deal of time at Smeltings farm learning my trade, as it were. Merit had been bought by Jason, one of the male staff at Smeltings who thought, ‘Merit needed a man on his back,' and I was happy with the outcome. I was having three lessons a week, and had even progressed to jumping over small poles. I was feeling more and more confident as the weeks went by. I was riding a different horse each lesson, which was really good, as it gave me new experiences on how to handle different horses. I'd got the bit between my teeth now, and my thoughts turned towards looking to buy another horse. As with everything I do, I give it 100%. I'd read a lot and I learned a lot and I felt I was ready for the next step. On this occasion I was well prepared.

Every week Nigel's mum and dad took delivery of the Yorkshire Post newspaper, which they usually brought up to Bassett on Saturdays. It had an equestrian section, which advertised anything and everything equestrian as well as horses for sale. This week was the first week since selling Merit that I was keen to take a look. A colour photograph caught my eye, of a dapple grey horse with a beautiful outline. I was instantly drawn to it and read on eagerly. The advert finished with the caption, ‘A real stamp of a horse.'

Three days later, we were on our way to York to take a look. The racing yard we were looking for was right next to York racecourse, and it looked very impressive as we approached down a long driveway. ‘Enter through the main roller-shutter door, take a right turn and an immediate left, and Prince's stable is right at the end.' Those were the directions I'd written down from Ginny's mum on the phone two days previous. As we took the left turn I spotted a dapple grey horse tied up outside a stable. A teenager was grooming his mane, chatting away to an older lady.

‘Wow,' I said, as I nudged Nigel, ‘He looks fantastic.'

Just four days after visiting Prince for the first time we repeated the same journey. This time he would be returning home with us, and this time I knew it was right.

Ginny and her mum were very tearful as we loaded Prince into the horse trailer. We'd said our goodbyes, and promised to keep in touch, and wished each other well as we waved goodbye.

I'd secured a stable at Vicki's yard for Prince, and this time I felt I was on the right track - bring it on!

Although horses had been very much at the forefront of my mind and day-to-day life for the past few months, I still spent hours and hours in the paddocks at home with my other four-legged friends. They still fascinated me equally as much as when we first bought them. With each day, week and month that passed by I came to love them more than ever. I was experiencing a peace and tranquillity within my heart that I had never experienced before. The deep love and affection towards another human, be it a husband, parent or even friend, bears no comparisons or resemblance to that of an animal, and should not be mistaken for that. The two types of love are immensely different.

When I see on the television, or read in a newspaper the appalling atrocities that some humans can inflict on innocent animals, it makes me physically sick. In the supposedly civilised society we live in, there is no place for these evil, wicked humans. I am not a practising Christian (although I would say I have Christian beliefs), but on hearing such horrific acts of cruelty I could not and would not ‘turn the other Cheek'.