Fight For Your Dream (4 page)

Here we go again

The following twenty-four hours seemed to pass by in a bit of a daze. We acted out normal life on auto-pilot, trying not to contemplate what the outcome of the next lot of surgery might reveal. We had been told that it seemed likely that the breast lump was the primary cancer but, having said that, we were originally told that the lump ‘didn't appear sinister', so we lacked confidence. We would just have to wait and see.

By now I was becoming familiar with the drill: the same ward (Mappin), the same nurses, the same theatre staff, all bar one or two, and of course Mr Shorthouse.

‘We must stop meeting like this,' I said, smiling at Mr Shorthouse as he walked out from behind the theatre door. I was located in the little ante-room adjacent to the theatre, where heart probes were being attached to my chest. Mr Shorthouse was gowned up ready for business, and I felt a little bit like a lamb to the slaughter.

‘Are we okay?' he said, squeezing my arm.

‘Yes, I'm fine,' I replied. ‘Is it Gin and Tonic time?' I grinned, as the anaesthetist tapped the back of my hand to try and find a vein to insert the cannula.

I know it probably sounds quite bizarre, but it's rather a relaxing feeling once the sedative starts taking effect: I would describe it as the ‘Gin and Tonic' effect without the hangover. The sedative was taking its effect. Lying prostrate, the same faces I had been talking to earlier were now looking like something out of a comedy sketch: enlarged heads, rubber lips, bodies dancing like flames in a fire. Their voices became stuttered and distant. Taking a deep sigh, I decided to just accept my fate, close my eyes and disappear into another existence.

The peacefulness seemed very short.

‘Elaine, Elaine, can you hear me?' a voice said.

I tried to open my eyes but they felt very heavy. I swallowed, and was surprised at how sore my throat was. It felt like somebody had been using an emery board on my tonsils (although I did have my tonsils removed when I was ten years old). My mouth was dry, and I really just wanted to be left alone.

‘Okay, Elaine, have you any pain?' said the voice again.

I can remember thinking what a stupid question to ask somebody who had just had surgery; I was hardly going to feel full of beans!

Having said that, as usual I didn't want to sound like a wimp, so I answered ‘No, I'm okay.'

My next recollection was waking up back in my room, where I had been just a few hours earlier. A night light was on and I could hear voices in the distance. My chest and armpit were hurting and, me being me, I just couldn't resist putting my hand underneath my gown to have a feel. ‘Ouch!' Probably not a good idea, I was making matters worse. I was contemplating ringing my bell, when a familiar voice in a soft Geordie accent said, ‘Now then, Elaine, how are you feeling, my love?' It was the ward sister, a lovely lady whom I was getting to know, ‘Now, is there anything I can get for you?' she said, with a warm smile.

‘Oh, I'd love a cup of tea, please, if that's okay?'

‘Okay, I think you'll be okay to have one now,' she said, as she glanced at her watch, and back to my Ob's chart (observation chart where blood pressure, temperature etc. are recorded). ‘I'll see what I can do'.

Ecstasy: the warm tea felt so good, and I savoured every mouthful. It was only 1.30am and, although I had some discomfort around my wound, the tea had been a welcome relief, and I did manage to doze on and off for the rest of the night.

The following morning, my first visitor of the day was Mr Shorthouse. It was only 8.00am, but the ward was already in full swing. Trolleys were being trundled up and down the corridors by nurses handing out pain killers, or by Thornbury staff serving breakfasts on neatly prepared trays. I was only allowed breakfast from the light diet menu because of the previous night's surgery, but I can't say I was bothered, as my stomach was churning somewhat, and I was already contemplating just having a drink.

Mr Shorthouse was keen to see how I was feeling. We talked through the op., and he told me he was happy with how the surgery had gone. He was fairly confident that he had been successful in removing all the diseased tissue, along with around 15/20 lymph nodes; the exact figure I cannot recall. Now all we had to wait for was the result of the lymph nodes: were they infected or not? Mr Shorthouse thought that they might be clear, but we would have to wait for the results from the lab. The lab results would prove quite significant on whether I would require chemotherapy or not. If the lymph nodes were clear then I would not, but if they were infected with cancer then chemotherapy would be essential.

How I hoped they would be clear! But it would be several days before we would know. The following few days seemed to be filled with twice-daily visits from Mr Shorthouse charting my recovery process, and a permanent influx of family and friends wishing me well. Although I had all the time in the world to rest, I felt completely shattered; and although family and friends meant well by keeping visiting times full, I was beginning to feel quite weary. I found myself glancing at the clock on the wall to see when I would be alone again. I guess, looking back, the fatigue was probably a combination of a number of different events. The shock of the diagnosis, several bouts of surgery, and once again waiting on results. In all, the length of time from discovering the lump to surgery was four weeks. I suppose it was beginning to take its toll, and it wasn't even over.

I can remember it was the Saturday evening, four days after surgery. It was around 6.00pm. Nigel was about to leave Thornbury to go to my mum and dad's for tea, before returning to see me for the evening, when Mr Shorthouse wandered into my room. I noticed instantly that his smile was not as bright as it had been over the previous few days. Nigel reached out to shake Mr Shorthouse's hand, and said ‘Evening, Andrew, how are you?'

‘Good, thank you,' he replied.

My evening meal had just arrived. I was sat up in bed, bolstered by an array of pillows. Knife and fork in hand, I was poised to tuck in to the delicious lamb roast that lay before me, when I realised that the paperwork Andrew held in his hand looked suspiciously like lab results.

‘How are we today?' he questioned. ‘Sorry: looks like bad timing,' as he glanced at my tea tray.

‘Oh no, it's fine,' I said, smiling.

As usual, Nigel's quick thinking meant that he'd asked the service staff to keep my meal warm for me, before she exited my room. ‘Of course: just give me a call when you're ready'.

Mr Shorthouse wandered around to the side of the bed where Nigel was stood, and waved the piece of paper towards us.

‘I've got the lab results of the Lymph nodes. Unfortunately it's not what we'd expected but, having said that, it could be a lot worse'.

Again, the familiar feeling of déjà vu floated around my head. ‘Here we go again,' I mused, as Nigel reached out for my hand.

The glands were infected, but only slightly. The prognosis looked fairly promising, so we had no choice but to get on and deal with the new situation we now found ourselves in. Chemotherapy was decided to be the best way forward, followed by 6 weeks of radiotherapy. It would be a belt and braces job but, if the outcome was successful, then so be it. Once again we had to try to be business-like; it was a means to an end, hopefully!

Somehow my roast lamb dinner no longer seemed appetising.

Nigel and Beyond

I was just 17 when Nigel walked into my life: he was 20, soon to be 21. I was very much a girl when we met but, unlike most boys I'd met, Nigel was not a boy, he was a man. He was tall, dark and handsome, and that's not a cliché, he really was. He was the double of my athletics hero Sebastian Coe. Needless to say, that was a massive attraction, the only difference being that Nigel was 6 foot 3 inches and chunkier. The very first time I laid eyes on him, I knew he was someone special. Over the following few months we became a couple but, more than anything, very good friends. We laughed a lot, and we were never short of subjects to discuss, which is quite amazing because Nigel was not the least bit interested in athletics, or any sport for that matter, apart from motor sport which he actively pursued. In fact, in his first road rally as driver, he took 3
rd
place in his Mark 1 Escort, and he was still on L-Plates! We took things slowly to begin with. There was no rush; we were young, and time was on our side.

Nigel's parents were both teachers: dad a headmaster and mum a primary school teacher. I can still remember, quite vividly, the panic which I felt when Nigel suggested that it was about time I met them. As a young, shy seventeen-year-old, it wasn't that long since I'd left school and, for some reason, I'd got this pre-conceived idea that meeting them would be similar to a pupil/teacher relationship. When I was at school, teachers were still very much held in high regard and well-respected. Sadly, today that is no longer the case. I couldn't have been more wrong. They were lovely, lovely people, warm and welcoming, and that has never changed. My dad always had a lot of respect for Nigel's dad and, after meeting them for the first time, my dad said ‘He's a true gentleman.'

From the very early stages of Nigel and myself being together, I began to form a very solid relationship with both his mum and dad. Nigel was an only child and, as time went by, I very much felt like the daughter that they'd never had. Nigel's mum had had some complications throughout her pregnancy whilst carrying Nigel, and it was deemed fairly risky to become pregnant again; so, after much deliberation, they decided to be content with him.

From a very young age, Nigel has always been extremely sure and single minded about what he ultimately wanted to achieve in his life. I remember listening to stories from his mum and dad about when he was young. His practical talent for building and designing things was incredible, even at the age of eight years old. In a competition he entered at school, he made a model of a lighthouse. At the base of the lighthouse was a wooden wheel with four drawing pins in it. As you turned the wheel the drawing pins came past the wires, which made a connection, which in turn made the light flash inside the glass dome of the lighthouse. This was made out of a potted meat jar; the lighthouse itself was made from a kitchen roll inner. The sad thing about this story is that he was disqualified from the competition, because the teachers/judges deemed the project to be too advanced for his years; therefore his parents must have completed the project for him!

However, for sometime Nigel had expressed his wish that one day he would build our home. Both of us were convinced that we would be together for ever, so looking for a building plot seemed the next natural progression. So, I set about trawling through what seemed like every Estate Agent in Sheffield for plots. Some were available, but were either too expensive for what we could afford, or in the wrong area. Nigel's mum and dad had always lived in the Ecclesall area and, after spending much time there, I had decided that this was the area in which I wanted to live. Nigel agreed, but there was just the small matter of money. Properties were expensive to buy outright, hence another good reason for building our own.

In early March 1986, I was just about to set off for work when the mail dropped through our letterbox. Judy, our little black and tan dog, had a nasty habit of attacking whatever came through the letterbox but, as luck would have it, this particular morning she was still upstairs snoozing on my bed. On hearing the clatter of the letterbox, I heard the familiar sound of paws jumping off my bed, followed by growls hurriedly approaching, as she scrambled downstairs for a letter breakfast!

‘Ah, beat you to it this morning, Jude,' I laughed, as she slid to a halt on the vinyl kitchen floor. ‘Better luck next time,' I smiled, as I bent down to give her a tickle underneath her chin. Defeated, she jumped back up the kitchen step, across the dining room carpet, and took a left turn: no doubt back up to my bed.

I flicked through the post I was holding, like shuffling a pack of cards, until I arrived at a brown envelope addressed to Miss E.H. Allen. ‘Mmm, looks interesting,' I thought, as I turned it over to open. The letter was from the estate agents, advertising a building plot that was for sale on Dobcroft Road, Sheffield 11. I didn't know where Dobcroft Road was, but I realised that it was in the Ecclesall Area, because the postcode stated Sheffield 11. ‘Oh, brilliant,' I thought. After ten months of unsuitable plots advertised, this one was just where we wanted, and it was up for sale at offers around £15,000. I wanted to ring Nigel straight away but, as I glanced up at the clock, I decided that I would be late for work if I did; so I would just have to contain myself for a short while longer until I got to work. Anyway, I knew that Nigel would be working by now, as he had an early morning run in his truck, to pick up 10 tonnes of limestone from one of the quarries for a customer. Mobile phones had not been invented in those days!

Several conversations later that morning with Nigel, we decided that we needed to act quickly, and have a look at the proposed building plot. First, I had to get the afternoon off work. Wednesdays were not one of the really busy days in the Fines & Fees Department, where I worked at the Court House, so it wasn't a problem asking for the afternoon off at short notice. Nigel has never been employed by anyone to this day; he's always worked for himself, so getting time off wasn't a problem for him. With living in the Ecclesall area all his life, Nigel knew exactly where Dobcroft Road was, but couldn't think where the plot could possibly be.

‘Oh, I'm so exited Nigel, I hope this one's for us,' I said, as I jumped in the car beside him. Nigel always used to wait in the same spot whenever he picked me up from work. At the very top of Snig Hill in Sheffield town centre stood the South Yorkshire Police Headquarters. Adjacent to that stood the Sheffield Magistrates Court, which you approached via a steel and brick bridge. Invariably, I would run over the bridge and up the rest of the driveway towards where Nigel would park. This particular day I must have floated up there in blissful anticipation. On the drive over we chatted together about the prospect of finally finding a suitable plot for our first home together. Even Nigel was struggling to contain his excitement, which was out of character for him as he is usually very level-headed and calm in any given situation.

Eventually, we arrived at our destination. Nigel grabbed my hand as we strode over towards the ‘For Sale' sign. We stood quietly together for a moment as though trying to absorb how the next decision might change our life for ever; it was quite surreal. We turned towards each other and smiled, just a boy and a girl in quiet contemplation of what might be.

Six days later, I received the phone call that I'd been waiting for. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I'd been on tenterhooks all day. Our first offer had been rejected, and today we had increased our bid; but this would have to be our last and final offer. A mutual friend of ours was a solicitor who specialised in conveyancing, and he was acting on our behalf.

‘I've got it for you,' announced the soft voice on the other end of the phone. I paused, and then let out an almighty ‘YEAH!' across the office. I was ecstatic, we'd got it, we'd got it! I couldn't believe it; I was so happy!

April 1986

After a few weeks of all the legal stuff being sorted out, we finally got the nod to say we were allowed to start work on our newly acquired plot. It felt odd that, after several weeks of just looking at the land, we were now the proud new owners of a small piece of land which, at this time, was still attached to Mr Fitzwilliam's garden.

Mr Fitz, as we called him, was an old chap who had been widowed for many year and, eventually, he had decided that his huge garden was of no use to him as just a garden any more. By selling off a portion as building land, he would be able to recoup some cash and still have more than enough garden for his own use. In fact, his remaining garden was larger than the plot we purchased! That gives you an idea of just how small our plot was. It was ours though: Nigel's and mine. It was the first time we had ever been joint owners of anything together, and it felt fantastic. In the previous weeks we had made Mr Fitz's acquaintance. We'd sat in his very large, but dated, kitchen, at the side of the Aga, on a window seat where we spent many an hour getting to know him. As it turned out, we became great friends over the coming months and years, and I do believe that he became as very fond of us as we did of him.

The day finally came when we could start work. It was a Saturday morning. We unloaded the car: full of shovels, picks, buckets and loads of enthusiasm. Nigel hopped over the small wall, whilst I handed the tools to him, and then jumped over beside him. It felt really strange; we almost felt like we were trespassing on somebody else's property.

I can still clearly remember the black and red jumper that I was wearing that day; Nigel was in his overalls. He'd ordered a pair for me, but they didn't stock ladies extra small overalls, so they were on special order!

We wandered the length and breadth of our plot, just familiarising ourselves with what we had to demolish, before starting the real building work. There was a small gazebo (greenhouse) with a few remaining panes of glass still intact. Loads of brambles and shrubs, which over the years had just run riot, blackberry bushes, old bricks (which had probably once been put there for the children to play build with); it was a mess and needed a good sorting.

I remember my mind feeling boggled at the work we had in front of us; only now did the reality of the mammoth task ahead hit home.

‘Crikey, Nigel, there's so much to do. Where do we start?' I gasped.

Nigel, as calm as ever, just turned to look at me and said, ‘How about here?' as he stuck his spade into soil surrounding a massive tree root.

So here it was!!!

It was certainly a day to remember, in more ways than one, I suppose you could say. This day I had a marriage proposal in a very typical Nigel way.

After the euphoria of removing the troublesome tree roots, and a very fruitful day's work, we started to load the tools into the back of the car, when Nigel said to me, ‘Well, actually, I suppose we need to think about getting married.'

How romantic, I thought!!!