Fight For Your Dream (3 page)

The Waiting Room

3
rd
November 1997

Over the past few years, the interior of the consulting suite at Thornbury Hospital had become so very familiar. The water dispenser still stood in the same place, as did the reception desk; even the décor was still the same, albeit except for a lick of paint. In 1993, following two years of chronic back pain, I'd had a laminectomy (disc removal from the back), then three weeks on traction and six months in a plastic jacket. Following the surgery I had around three years of day surgery, starting out at six week intervals, extending to intervals of several months; and here I was again with something new!

Had I done something really bad in a former life?

Oh, well, here we go again!

The previous week we'd had our first consultation with Mr Andrew Shorthouse, a general surgeon. He said he wasn't unduly worried when he examined me but, just as a precaution, he was going to take a needle biopsy. ‘Most lumps of this nature usually disappear over a period of a week. It could even be a little cyst of some sort. Let's give it a week and see what happens; in the meantime we'll get you an appointment for a mammogram next week, and we'll take another look next Monday'.

Nigel and myself left his office and, as we approached the lifts, Nigel turned towards me and stated, ‘Well, that all sounds reassuring doesn't it? I feel better about that now, don't you?' ‘Yeah,' I answered. ‘What's wrong?' Nigel said, ‘You should feel pleased.'

‘Hmm,' I thought, ‘then why don't I?' I just had this awful niggling feeling in my gut that it was going to be bad news, even after the positive feedback from Mr Shorthouse. I still felt I was in deep trouble; call it a woman's intuition, but I just didn't feel convinced.

6.45pm: still waiting, Mr Shorthouse was running 30 minutes late. ‘Great, just our luck,' I whispered in Nigel's ear, trying to be discreet. Nigel was looking more anxious than me, I thought. He was dressed smartly in a dark grey suit and tie, having been at work all day. I was wearing a pair of grey slacks and a black blazer with the Olympic brooch, that dad had given me, pinned onto the left lapel. It somehow gave me support in a strange way. Nigel was beginning to make me dizzy; he was up and down so many times to the water dispenser that he'd virtually drunk it dry.

The consultation suite was packed full of patients waiting to see their consultants, and I couldn't help people-watching and trying to decide what might be wrong with them. Was there anyone else in this room that had found a breast lump? The funny thing was that nearly everybody looked perfectly healthy, but who would know if they might be walking round with some horrible disease that lay undetected? We were sitting next to the reception desk, so we were within earshot of most conversations that were taking place. Eventually, a nurse came through the double doors and said to the lady on reception, ‘Is Mr Sharp with Mrs Sharp?' We'd both witnessed the comment, but said nothing apart from turning towards each other with a knowing look. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled as Nigel squeezed my hand. Surely we would be put out of our misery soon, I thought. I just wanted to know what was going on.

Another lady appeared, whom I'd not seen that evening; ‘Mrs Elaine Sharp?' she asked, as she held the door open with one hand. Nigel jumped up and took the door-holding duty off the friendly, plump lady, who proceeded down a corridor into a room on the left. I felt like I was on autopilot, as the grey-haired man stood up from behind his desk and held out his hand to me. I shook his hand and sat down facing him. Nigel did the same. The same familiar grey desk stood in front of us, with Mr Shorthouse behind it opening up a file, which I presumed had something to do with me.

‘Well,' said Mr Shorthouse, ‘the mammogram was clear.'

Nigel and I turned to face each other, but said nothing.

‘But,' said Mr Shorthouse, ‘the needle biopsy showed up a bunch of suspicious cells.' Like clockwork, we again turned to look at each other. The sound of Andrew Shorthouse' voice was resonating in my head, until the silence was broken by Nigel.

‘Suspicious cells,' uttered Nigel. ‘What exactly does that mean?' looking at Mr Shorthouse.

‘Well, it doesn't necessarily mean that it's cancer. The lab report still states that it is probably benign, but I will need you back in tomorrow to remove the lump, to see what we are dealing with'.

By now I was oblivious to the words that were coming out of my consultant's mouth. It was almost as though the volume had been turned down, but the conversation was still going on.

Nigel, as usual, was bombarding Mr Shorthouse with questions, which he promptly answered as best he could, with fairly brief and limited information.

‘If it is cancer, how do we need to deal with this? What will the treatment be? Will she need further surgery? Chemotherapy: will she need that? What if it's spread?'

Nigel was doing what he does best; like most engineers he looks at everything from first principles, gathering as much information as possible before he finds the best way forward; only this time he was out of his depth, and out of his comfort zone.

Mr Shorthouse did his best to reassure us both. ‘Look, let's not pre-empt problems before we know exactly what are are dealing with'. He reinforced, ‘I realise that this is a worry, but we need to remove the lump first, and then formulate where we go when we have firm results.'

Likened to zombies, we reversed the procedure that had taken place twenty minutes earlier. We stood up, shook hands, and the friendly, plump lady, whom we now knew as Brenda, showed us out of the office and back down the corridor.

‘I'll be here to meet you tomorrow evening,' she smiled. Brenda put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a reassuring hug. ‘It'll be okay,' she added.

I nodded, smiled, and turned to Nigel, who was doing his best to keep positive for me. The return journey back in the car seemed a long one, although in reality the distance was very short. Thinking back to that evening, my mind was so full of questions, but my brain couldn't articulate them in any sort of order to make sense. It was as though the playback button had got stuck in one place.

Surgery

Making visits to Thornbury hospital was becoming more of a ritual than I cared for.

We'd been back and forth so many times in the past two weeks, that I was beginning to think that the car would be able to drive itself there. As arranged, Brenda was there to meet us. ‘Are we alright?' she asked, looking at us both. ‘Yes, thanks: fine,' I answered, trying to sound very casual. Although now a hospital, the building is a very grand one, and not at all what you would imagine a hospital to be like. Thornbury was originally built between 1864 and 1865, when Frederick Mappin, the cutlery and steel magnate, commissioned architects to design him a new house. Mappin had previously been a master cutler in 1855 and went on to become Mayor of Sheffield in 1877/8, and a liberal MP in 1880. During World War Two, the house was used for storage by the Admiralty; until, in 1947 it was purchased by the newly formed NHS for £11,500, and subsequently used as an annexe for the Sheffield Children's Hospital.

A few feet into the entrance lobby is the reception desk, where you are first met by Thornbury staff, who try their very best to put you at ease. Immediately behind you is a very grand, mahogany staircase, which wouldn't look out of place on a film set. You could just imagine Lady Mary, from the cast of Downton Abbey, sweeping her way down the staircase into the arms of Cousin Matthew, and living happily ever after.

‘You're on Mappin Ward. Do you want to walk, or take the lift?' Brenda questioned. ‘It's on the first floor: not far to go'. ‘Oh, we'll walk: no problem,' I answered.

Mappin Ward was familiar. I'd been on Mappin four years ago, when I was admitted for my laminectomy: room eleven, as I recall. As we followed Brenda up and onto the ward, I realised that some of the staff had familiar faces, and I wondered if some of them might remember me. Why would they, though? Right at the bottom of the corridor was my room for the overnight stay. We entered the room, which had my name printed on it and another sign saying, ‘nil by mouth'. Ugh, I thought, that sounds familiar. (When you are admitted into hospital, and are due to have surgery the same day, you are unable to eat or drink anything because of the general anaesthetic. Hence the ‘nil by mouth'.)

I was surprised at how large it was inside; it was more like a suite than a room. I didn't remember the other rooms being as large as this, previously. There was a two-seater settee to the left, which was covered in a denim-type material, with a matching chair just to the right of that. The bathroom was set back, and again I was surprised at how large it was. I can remember thinking that most hotel bedrooms would struggle to be as airy and nicely decorated as this. It was a shame that I might be a resident for sinister reasons. Nigel was unpacking my bag when a young nurse wearing glasses entered the room. It was difficult to guess her age; she was quite wiry, about my height (5'5”), and her hair was tied back neatly in a bun, with a white lacy head-dress on top. She reminded me of one of the kitchen maids from the 70's TV series ‘Upstairs Downstairs'.

‘Hello. Are you Elaine Sharp?' she asked, as she glanced down to look at the A4 sheet of paper she unfolded from her uniform pocket.

‘Mmm, I am,' I answered.

‘Well, I'm Claire, and I'm going to be looking after you while you're here,' she said.

‘Okay, that's fine, thank you,' I replied.

By now it was about 5pm. We'd only been in the hospital for thirty minutes but it seemed much longer. We'd been told by Brenda that Mr Shorthouse would be in to see me before I was taken down to theatre, which would be around 7.30pm; so we had a few hours to pass before then. Nigel insisted that he was going to stay with me until I went down to theatre, although I tried to persuade him that I would be fine, and that I thought he ought to go to his mum and dad's for a bite to eat. I had a feeling it might be a long evening. ‘Not a chance,' he exclaimed, and pushed the ‘on' button on the TV remote handset. Countdown was on, with Richard Whiteley. It was quite a hit in the 90's. He was teamed with Carol Vorderman, the mathematical genius, who produced the consonants or vowels for the two contestants who were competing against each other. Nigel didn't care for it much. I enjoyed it, but I knew how much Nigel disliked Game Shows (and still does), so I didn't complain when he immediately changed channels. Nigel was looking more stressed than me, so I thought it better that he watched something that would distract him from the job in hand. Eventually the door opened and in walked Mr Shorthouse. By this time I had already been given my Nora Batty stockings to wear (anti-thrombosis), and my hospital gown; so I was laid on the bed, with Nigel sitting on a chair at the side of me. We did the usual pleasantries, and Mr Shorthouse asked if the anaesthetist had been in to see me, to explain what would happen when I got down to theatre. We told him he had, and that we understood what the procedure would be.

‘Okay, any questions?' he asked.

I shook my head and turned to look at Nigel.

‘How long will Elaine be in theatre?'

‘Well, not too long,' answered Mr Shorthouse. ‘Were you thinking of coming back tonight to see Elaine? Because, to be honest, she'll be very sleepy, and it's probably best if she rests as much as she can. I'm happy to ring you at home, though, to let you know how surgery goes'.

‘Honestly, love, do that; I'll be fine,' I quickly added.

Decision made, Mr Shorthouse nodded to Nigel, then me, patted my leg, smiled, and said, ‘See you in theatre.'

Shortly afterwards, the doors were opened by two members of the theatre staff (one man and one lady). Looking down at the folder he had in his hand he said, ‘Elaine Sharp?' ‘Yes, that's me,' I answered, as I shuffled off the bed towards the trolley that they had brought with them. ‘Your carriage awaits,' he quipped. I hopped up and onto the trolley, where I was covered with a blanket, and reversed out of my room, and down the corridor towards the lifts to take me down to theatre. The theatre staff are lovely in Thornbury and try to put you at ease, making conversation about anything other than your impending surgery. Tonight was no exception.

Nigel, the two staff and me on the trolley squeezed into the lift, and descended down two floors. Nigel held my hand as I smiled to reassure him, but this was the end of the road for him. This is where he got off, but I had to go on. He squeezed my hand, leaned towards me, and gave me a gentle kiss. ‘I love you,' he said quietly, looking into my eyes. ‘I love you too,' I whispered, trying to keep a stiff upper lip. Then he was gone.

Diagnosis

The next thing I became aware of was opening my eyes onto a dimly lit room, where I could just make out an outline of a person stood next to my bedside.

‘Hello, how are you feeling?' said a voice that I recognised as Mr Shorthouse.

My eyes felt heavy, and I struggled to get my mouth to work. ‘I'm okay, thanks,' I burbled. ‘Do we know anything yet?'

‘No, not yet,' he answered. ‘We need to wait for the lab results. It'll be a few days'.

The quietness was broken by the sound of the phone ringing on my bedside cabinet.

Mr Shorthouse picked up the phone, and to my surprise put the receiver to my ear.

‘Hello,' I slurred.

‘Hello, duck,' answered a surprised voice on the other end of the line, which I had now recognised as dad's, that is Nigel's dad; but ever since the day we were married I've always called Nigel's parents mum and dad.

‘Ah, Dad,' I muttered.

Dad was obviously shocked to have been put through to my room, and clearly was disturbed by the sound of my seemingly drunken tone. ‘See you tomorrow, duck, and love you forever.'

‘Bye, Dad, love you'.

Mr Shorthouse took the phone from my ear, placed the receiver back on its hook, and I went back to the land of nod.

The following day was Wednesday 5
th
November, bonfire night, not that I'd be going to a bonfire. Neither was I bothered. I was told that I could have a light breakfast, which consisted of fruit juice and toast. The morning after night surgery usually results in light food, which was fine by me. I can't say that I had much of an appetite. My left boob felt quite sore. Naturally, I expected that, but I didn't expect to feel quite as groggy as I did. Mr Shorthouse had left instructions that I could be released mid morning, and that an appointment had been made for me to see him the following Monday evening, when I would be given the results. ‘More waiting,' I thought, as I picked up the phone to ring Nigel. He wasn't going to like that any more than I did, but what could we do? We had no choice but to be patient, although I must admit that patience is not one of my virtues. I'm quite an impulsive person, and when I want something I want it yesterday. Nigel is a much more of a thinking person, and usually thinks things through methodically before he makes a decision, but very rarely does he change his mind once a decision has been made. However, I have been known to be able to persuade him to change his mind on occasions when it suits me! He's a big softy really when it comes to me!

Nigel came to collect me around elevenish, and straight away I could tell he was very agitated about something. Nigel has a very calm persona normally, but this morning was different. He was eager to know what Mr Shorthouse had said the previous evening; if anything had been said that morning. Had I seen Mr Shorthouse that morning? Why wouldn't we know any results before next Monday? Why weren't we going to get a phone call? I didn't know the answers, and I found Nigel's agitation starting to affect me. When we arrived home Nigel was like a cat on hot bricks. I'd never seen him so seemingly stressed before.

‘I'm going to ring Mr. Shorthouse,' he sighed, pacing across the lounge.

‘I just need to know what's going on. I can't stand this waiting. I just need to know what's happening,' he kept repeating.

By now I was feeling quite tense, my tummy was beginning to churn, and I had a headache coming on.

Nigel picked up the phone as I wandered in to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Why is it that everybody thinks a cup of tea will solve a problem?

‘Hello, Mrs Shorthouse, Nigel Sharp speaking'.

By now I didn't want to hear any more. I switched on the TV and turned up the volume.

It turned out that Mrs Shorthouse had been quite sympathetic, and had promised to pass on the message to her husband, to explain our anxieties. She assured us that, if they had any results before the weekend, Mr Shorthouse would ring us with the news, whatever it was: good or bad.

Nigel explained that we were not the sort of people to fall into a heap, but we just needed to know: one way or the other. Placing the receiver back on the phone, he looked skyward and sighed. He looked totally drained. I put my arms around his waist, and held him tightly. He reciprocated, and wrapped his strong shoulders around my body. I closed my eyes and whispered quietly, ‘I love you so much. Just hold me.'

Friday 7
th
November, 7.40pm

It was just something about Coronation Street. We'd decided to pop out for a Burger. In those days ‘Yankees' in Sheffield produced fantastic home-made burgers, with a really delicious, gooey cheese sauce. We always asked for the burgers to be served on brown buns, with a side order of chilli and coleslaw and, of course, fries. We frequented the American Diner at least once a fortnight, due to the necessity for our burger/cheese fix. I wouldn't have exactly called it junk food, but I suppose neither would you call it healthy eating; but it didn't half get the taste buds salivating!

As Nigel grabbed the car keys from the key box next to the front door, I was hurriedly tying up the laces on my boots. Due to the renovation work still on going, I was sat on the small nursing chair, which was then situated in our dining room. This was open plan to the lounge, separated only by a six-tread staircase. Even now, sixteen years on, I can still vividly remember the sequence of events that took place immediately after. The phone rang, and for a few seconds neither of us moved from where we were. The TV was still on, and once again Coronation Street was nearing the commercial break. What was it with that programme anyway? The fast forward button must have kicked into action next, because I remember Nigel appearing from the hallway in a bit of a panic, up the staircase to the lounge, and picked up the phone. Normally, on answering the phone, he would repeat our telephone number. But tonight he didn't. Instead, he just said, ‘Hello.'

‘Oh, hello Mr Shorthouse,' he said, glancing down to the dining room, where I was still sat on the nursing chair. Silence followed for a few seconds. But it felt like an eternity.

‘Okay, right, right, I see, okay'. I instantly knew something was very wrong. I continued to look at Nigel until he raised his head and pointed his thumb down, towards the floor. ‘Oh, my God,' I said to myself, ‘it's Cancer.' I had to support Nigel; this wasn't going to be easy on him. I stood up slowly, and walked up, and into the lounge. Nigel reached out for a pen to write something down, but his hand was shaking so much he was struggling to make sense of what he was writing. ‘It's okay,' I muttered stroking his back. ‘It's okay'. After several minutes he put the phone back on the hook, looking in my direction. He looked drained and ashen-faced. I had to say something but I couldn't think what, eventually blurting out, ‘I know, I know. It's Cancer isn't it?'

His eyes looked sad and watery as he opened his arms and said, ‘Oh, love!'

We held each other tightly, each with our own thoughts, struggling to make sense of what we had just been told. How on earth can I tell my mum and dad, I thought: Nigel's mum and dad: Denise: Sylv. In hindsight, I bitterly regret the way in which we broke the news to my parents. I rang them and told them via a phone conversation, which I regret to this day. We should have driven down to their home, and broken the news in person. After all, for a parent, I suppose you never envisage the possibility of losing a child in your own lifetime. What a bloody mess! Just to break the news and leave them with their own thoughts was bad, very bad. Dad is always the one on the surface who appears to cope, but inwardly I knew he would be hurting. Mum wears her heart much more on her sleeve, and so she was able to show her grief freely; although I know now that dad gave mum a pep talk, to tell her to try not to cry in front of me. I must say she did extremely well, most of the time.

Mr Shorthouse had explained to Nigel that I needed to have further surgery, because he couldn't be totally certain that he had got all the primary Cancer away. He wanted us to see him the following Monday evening, and the surgery would take place the day after: once again on a Tuesday. We were given the weekend to get our head around the situation, and then it would be back to business. Mrs Shorthouse was great through it all. She rang us on the Saturday, the day after we'd had the bad news, to see how we were coping, and I must say has continued to be of great support throughout my more recent health problems. We saw Mr and Mrs Shorthouse on the Monday evening (Tina Shorthouse is her husband's secretary). It was decided that, to do a belt and braces job, all the lymph glands underneath my left armpit should be taken. In medical terms ‘a full clearance'. It's quite amazing just how quickly the human brain accepts the unacceptable in such a short space of time. It had only been 72 hours since we had been given the cancer diagnosis and here I was being so business like about the whole thing. I even made a joke of the fact that it had just taken so long to grow my hair and now I might lose it. ‘Bloody marvellous,' I quipped, ‘just my luck!'