Fight For Your Dream (8 page)

The New Bassett House

By January 1997, the new build was very much in evidence - Bassett House was very much the Sharps' place. Walls, doors, fireplaces and new rooms were beginning to take shape, and it felt good to finally be seeing the fruits of our labour.

On the twenty-first day of March my mum and dad celebrated their golden wedding anniversary, fifty whole years of marriage. I dare say that during those fifty years they'd had many highs and many lows; that's life, I suppose you could say. On many occasions I still hear my dad's echoing voice saying to me, ‘Aye lass, life's not a bed of roses. It can be very hard sometimes, but time's a big healer.' I've often thought how very true those words are.

We all celebrated with them at their local club. Many friends joined them to toast their achievement, and a good night was had by all. Little did we know how soon we would be experiencing life being hard!

Throughout the summer of ‘97 we pressed on in earnest with the renovation. The harder we worked the better it looked; the better it looked the harder we worked. We have been blessed with parents who have always taken an active role in supporting whatever project we have taken on, and Bassett was no exception.

Mums and dads came up at the weekend as usual. Saturdays were always a family day. Mums would sit and chat about anything and everything, and Nigel, his dad and me and my dad would always have some sort of project on: whether it be renovating Bassett, building a workshop for Nigel, digging out a fish pond or sorting the garden. Nigel and I were certainly not the gardening type, but both our dads were very keen gardeners, so we always turned to them for help and advice - in fact, for pretty much everything in those days.

Mums would make sandwiches at lunchtime, and give us a ten-minute warning so we could nip to the loo, wash our hands, and take our boots off. Then we'd sit around our large country kitchen table and put the world to rights. Invariably my dad used to leave the table first, as he never sat still for long, then the rest of us would follow. ‘What's next on the agenda then, Bill?' my dad would say. Very early on with my relationship with Nigel, it was very clear that I was building a very close bond with Nigel's mum and dad. Over the years, they became like a second mum and dad to me, always treating me like a true daughter and never a daughter-in-law. They have always been there for me, they have looked after me throughout my various illnesses (boy there have been a few!), and they have been a shoulder to cry on at every hurdle. More importantly, they have always given me unconditional love.

Probably the most exciting part of the new build for me was one of the extensions that we had been fortunate enough to gain planning permission for: this was for our indoor swimming pool. Because of the ongoing problems with my back, I had found one sport that I could enjoy without too much discomfort, and swimming was also suggested by my consultant as helpful therapy.

The problem with me was that I couldn't just get into the pool and swim a gentle few lengths. Oh no, that wasn't my way; I had to swim as though I was training for a competition. I would put on my cap and goggles and set my stopwatch to time the session. Nigel used to get very irritated with me because I would just keep ploughing up and down the pool, and he'd want to stop every so often and have a chat. Consequently he used to say, ‘Well, there's not much point me coming in with you, because you won't stop and I just get bored.'

I'd always been a decent swimmer, but I couldn't swim front crawl. Apparently front crawl is one of the best strokes for people with back problems, so Denise and I decided that we would enrol for swimming lessons to be taught front crawl. After 12 weeks my front crawl was pretty good, and so was Denise's: success! A very worthwhile exercise completed.

By completing much of the building work ourselves, the renovations and extensions became very laborious and time consuming. Nigel was determined to have the pool completed for my thirty-fourth birthday in October, which was looming up rapidly. Three weeks to spare, and we'd managed it. All we needed to do was to turn the tap on and start filling the pool with water. I can vividly remember the excitement and anticipation of nearing completion of the pool.

At last: I wouldn't have to drive to the leisure centre for my daily swim. What a luxury!

My mum and Nigel's mum both have September birthdays, the ninth and sixth respectively; so, as a joint celebration we invited them for tea, and thought it would be nice to celebrate the ‘Official pool opening ceremony'.

It was a lovely day, the sun was shining, and as we all stood at the side of the pool, Nigel entered with a tray of six fluted glasses and a bottle of Champagne. The cork was popped open and we all cheered as we raised our glasses.

‘Come on, Elaine, you can do the honours and turn on the tap,' Nigel smiled, ‘after all, it's been done for you.'

I grinned, and happily strolled over to the tap. As I turned it on, Nigel quipped, ‘We officially declare the pool open.'

Mums and dads clapped and we raised our glasses a second time.

The following morning, I was keen to see how much water was in the pool. Our bedroom is downstairs, so I nipped through the connecting door to take a look.

‘Oh heck, it's not filling very quickly,' I shouted back to Nigel, who was still half asleep.

‘How long will it take?' I shouted again. No answer.

‘I say, Bun, (Bun is my pet name for Nigel), how long will it take?'

Still no answer: I tutted and climbed back into bed for another hour; after all, it was only 5.30am!

Thirty-six hours later, and I couldn't wait any longer. It was around 2.30pm on Sunday afternoon, and I was itching to get in the pool to test it out.

‘Look, love,' Nigel sighed, ‘there's barely enough water for you to swim in and, besides, it's going to be freezing. Remember, the water's coming straight from the tap; its cold water, you'll never swim in that.'

‘Well, just how cold is it? I complained.

‘Too cold!' he stated.

‘Well, can't we take the temperature and just see how cold?' I replied.

‘Oh, Elaine, can't you just wait for a few days until we can warm it up? You've waited this long, a few more days is not going to make any difference'.

‘No, I can't. I want to swim today'.

‘Ok, ok, you win, try it then. But it will be bloody cold!'

In no time at all I had changed into my swimming costume, and eagerly walked over to the steps which lowered into the pool. As I held onto the top of the handrail I looked towards Nigel, who had a knowing smile on his face.

My toes hit the water to an icy cold reception, and I mean ICY COLD!

‘Ohhhhh, crikey,' I gasped.

‘What was that?' shouted Nigel sarcastically. ‘In you go then'.

‘Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,' I thought.

I couldn't lose face now, though, not after all I'd said. I would just have to put up and shut up and get on with it.

‘How's the water?' laughed Nigel. ‘Having second thoughts yet?'

‘Absolutely not,' I replied, ‘no question of that!'

‘Oh well, here goes,' I thought, as the competitive spirit in me took over. I wasn't going to be beaten, not now!

With a deep breath, I plunged my shoulders beneath the water. For a second or two it felt like the air was being pumped out of me, but I soon realised it was just my body in shock from the coldness of the water. I struggled for a while to catch my breath, but eventually my body adjusted to the temperature. Two lengths, two lengths, I thought, just manage two lengths! Towards the end of the second length, I could no longer feel my fingertips or my toes, but it didn't matter, because I'd beaten the challenge.

Depression

I had never been very sympathetic when people discussed depression, probably because I'd never experienced it - or so I thought!

However, throughout periods of my teenage years I experienced spells of feeling very sad inside, my heart would feel heavy and I found myself feeling really tearful. I didn't like this feeling, but there again I didn't understand it. Why did I feel like this? I felt bad, I felt like I'd done something wrong, but what? Why?

Three weeks after we'd received the news that I would need Chemotherapy, I hit the brick wall as I refer to it.

I'd been so brave up to this point, being strong for everybody else. Now I felt like I was letting myself down. All the English stiff upper lip rubbish, and I was about to fall to pieces. The truth is though, that I wasn't worrying about the cancer; I certainly didn't feel I was. I could feel myself becoming more and more insular. I didn't want to see anybody, let alone talk to anyone. I just wanted Nigel to hold me and tell me I was going to be okay. The tension was unbearable. My head felt like it was about to explode. Voices in my head were constantly picking at me but I was so, so tired. I just wanted to rest, I just wanted to sleep and find peace. Oh, just to rest, I wanted it more than anything. I was constantly asking Nigel for reassurance, not about the cancer, just about me!

It's strange, but looking back at my teenage years, I knew in my heart of hearts that one day it would all come to a head. Just how it would come to a head is what I didn't know, and actually I didn't realise when the trigger was finally pulled until some months later. Nigel had always coped remarkably well with my many issues with ill health up to this point, but I don't think even Nigel could have anticipated just what was going to be required of him to pull us through this one. Much lesser men would have walked away before now, but it is with his unconditional love for me that he held my hand every step of the way.

Nigel had realised, after a few days, that this seemingly ‘low period' was much more serious than that. My appetite reduced dramatically, and with that so did my energy resources. My weight plummeted and I was permanently tired. I didn't want to go out of the house, I didn't want to talk, and I spent so much time just staring into space, as though I was in a trance. Nigel would try to end the silence by snapping his fingers in front of my face and nudging me. He'd shout my name out of frustration, just to try to get a response from me; but there was none. I know he felt helpless and desperately wanted to help me, but he was struggling to know who to ask for advice. In previous years when Nigel had suggested perhaps seeing a doctor I'd broken down in tears and said, ‘How can I tell a doctor what's inside my head? I can't, I just can't, he'll think I'm insane.' I'd always made Nigel promise that he would never force me to see a doctor, and so with all this in mind you can imagine his predicament. He tried everything he could with me, talking through my worries, trying to reason through the issues, trying to understand how I felt, but by this stage I was struggling to put a sentence together, let alone hold a reasonable conversation.

Nigel came to the conclusion that he needed to take action, and so he rang Mr Shorthouse, who put him in touch with a psychologist. An appointment was organised for her to visit me, and she made a home visit to Bassett the following day. In hindsight, this was the beginning of a very slow and painful black tunnel with no chink of daylight for weeks and months to follow. I know it sounds a little bit like a cliché but, probably the best way to explain it, is like trying to climb a mountain without any equipment. When I'd almost got my fingertips gripping the top, it felt like someone just kicked me right back down to the bottom. Again I was back to square one and had to start all over again. For several months Nigel would take me to see Louise (psychologist) at her home, in the hope that my depression would ease and lift, but it didn't. At times it was just static, but at times it worsened.

Between Christmas and New Year of 1997 Nigel had, after much persuasion, got me to agree to travel with him to the Isle of Dogs on the Thames. He had been looking to buy a small John Deere 755 tractor for some time, to help him with the ongoing renovations we were doing at Bassett. He had placed a ‘wanted ad' in one of the agricultural magazines, and was contacted by this chap based on the Isle of Dogs. The only problem was, he wanted us to go to look at the tractor, and possibly collect it, before he and his family went away on holiday on New Year's Eve. The seller had had a great deal of interest in the tractor, and was eager to have it collected ASAP. Nigel tried his best to express to me what a good buy it seemed. The working hours were low, and from all the photos that he had of the tractor, it seemed to be just what he was looking for. In the end I agreed to go, but it was a bit of a disaster, apart from Nigel coming home with his tractor. I had severe bouts of sobbing whilst travelling in the car, I felt so desperately sad. I was like a little girl who couldn't be consoled; if only I could find some peace in a different place. When people talk about feeling suicidal, I think I can honestly say I've been there. I wanted out, and I felt the time bomb was ticking!

We returned home on a Friday evening to another difficult situation. Whilst we had been away, the weather had been bitterly cold, and as soon as we entered Bassett we were greeted by the sound of running water. We'd had a pipe burst!

What you first have to understand is that three of our bedrooms are downstairs, one of which is ours. We had completed the refurb. of our bedroom and en suite, and two months previously had had a brand new pale green carpet fitted. The carpet was no longer fitted..., it was afloat, along with our bed!

I was stood at the top of the staircase in the dining room, just stunned with what I saw.

What a mess! It looked like a scene from the comedy film, ‘The Money Pit' (starring Tom Hanks, it's the story of a magnificent house purchased by a young couple that begins to fall to pieces as soon as they move in).

I was horrified. All the work we had done, and now this. My legs went to jelly, my head began to spin, and I collapsed on the spot.

Nigel picked me up and sat me on a chair in the kitchen. With my head in my hands, resting on the table, I began to sob uncontrollably. Nigel rang his parents and my parents, who immediately said they were on there way up to Bassett. Under any normal circumstances I would have been in there working alongside Nigel and our dads in the clean up, but not this time. I was mentally and physically incapable. Our mums did their best to console me, but to be honest I think they felt totally helpless to know what to do with me. Looking back, it must have been horrendous for my loved ones. I don't suppose as a parent you ever expect to have to face the possibility of losing a daughter or a son to a cancer, but not only were all four parents having to face that thought, they were also having to deal with all the other crap that was happening.

As for Nigel: well, does anyone imagine losing their thirty-four year old wife? To this day I am still in absolute awe of how he stood by me. To have coped with what he has, is of immense credit to him. People talk about ‘Love' so flippantly. Nigel's love has shown ‘Love' beyond comprehension; how much can one man take before he himself breaks?

Throughout all of this Nigel has never ever wavered in front of me; maybe in his quiet moments quite possibly, but I never was in any doubt that he would be by my side for the long haul and, my God, what a long haul it's been!