There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You
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Authors: Lynda Bellingham
There’s Something I’ve Been Dying To Tell You
Lynda Bellingham
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Coronet
An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Lynda Bellingham 2014
The right of Lynda Bellingham to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781473608559
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Words will never express my love for my husband, Michael, nor my sons Michael and Robbie, nor indeed my stepson Bradley who has arrived at a strange time in his life and mine. I love you so much and just want you to be happy. You will be and I will be cheering you on. Take no notice of the tears, they are just a girl thing, and I am saluting the boy thing.
Forever and always.
Respect and don’t take shit from anyone.
x
CONTENTS
2 Pantoland and Other Adventures
13 Holding On to the Festive Spirit
14 The Best-Laid Plans Go To Waste
16 Adjustments in the Underwear Department
18 Center Parcs with the Family
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are so many people involved in the story within this book and I am so moved by how much work and care they have for patients and people in general. I guess I should start at the top of the tree with Professor Justin Stebbing and his team headed up by Lesley Bedford. Then all the wonderful nurses at the London Clinic and the two stars at Leaders in Oncology Care: Clare Cobbett and Ani Ransley.
My thanks go to dear Dr di Cesare and all the Macmillan Cancer care team. Thank you to my dear sister Jean for all her love and care and to Kathryn Peel at Ophir Travel who has managed to bring sunshine into my life through places like Marbella and Corfu. Finally to the wonderful Charlotte Hardman and her team at Hodder and Stoughton for believing in me and publishing this book. I do hope it brings some enlightenment to those who are still asking the question ‘Why?’!
Keep your friends close and love them dearly – they are the best acknowledgements one can ever have. Life affirming.
‘The most stupid cancer cell
is cleverer than the brightest oncologist.’
PROLOGUE
‘Cancer, what do you mean cancer?’ I asked in amazement.
The very pleasant gentleman in front of my husband and me visibly crumpled in his seat. He stared at his computer for a few seconds and then seemed to pull himself up and looked me straight in the eye.
‘I am so terribly sorry I thought you had already been informed of your position. You have cancer of the colon, and lesions on your lungs and your liver.’
I cannot write what this moment was like effectively. I have tried so many different ways to put it into words and it is just not possible. Anyone in this position, as I was at that moment, might possibly agree with me when I say I felt nothing except disbelief. Me? Cancer? Never.
It had never occurred to me I would die of cancer. Heart failure, maybe, liver damage quite possibly, but not cancer. How stupid is that? The statistics suggest that one in three people die of cancer . . .
My mind was starting to wander. I was suddenly aware of Michael, my dear darling husband, sobbing in the chair next to me. I put my hand on his arm and said, ‘Don’t cry, darling, it is going to be alright.’ I turned back to the doctor and switched into actress mode. It was ridiculous!
‘Well, there’s a turn up for the books. Cancer? That bloody private doctor didn’t tell us a thing. I even asked him, didn’t I, Michael? “Is it cancer?” I said. “Oh no I am sure it is nothing like that,” he said. Why didn’t he tell us there and then?’
Mr Richard Cohen, the surgeon in front of us, looked uncomfortable and replied, ‘Well, I am sure he had his reasons. The point is, Lynda, we need to get on and do something about your state of health pretty quickly.’
‘Can’t you operate?’ said Michael, who had composed himself and was back to being supportive. Thank God, because everything that was discussed in the next twenty minutes went in one ear and out the other as far as I was concerned.
‘Well yes and no,’ came the reply. ‘I am a surgeon and it is my job to remove tumours. I am a bit like a glorified plumber,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘But in your case, Lynda, it is imperative that you see an oncologist first, and see one as soon as possible. I have made an appointment for you to go and see Professor Justin Stebbing when we are finished here. He is at the London Oncology Clinic at number 95, just down the road. You are very fortunate he is around because I consider him to be one of the best in his field.’
Mr Cohen then introduced us to his team, and a lovely lady went through some of the basic questions. Weirdly, perhaps, the one thing we didn’t ask at the time was ‘Is it terminal?’ I think we just assumed it was; like everyone does, don’t they? Cancer = death.
We found ourselves out on the street, Harley Street to be precise. This world-famous street lined with gorgeous rows of elegant houses with glossy front doors and sparkling brass knockers, behind which some of the greatest doctors in the world are gathered, practising every kind of medicine. As we walked from number 116 to number 95 we held each other and tried so hard to stop the tears from flowing. All around us people were hurrying to and fro and horns blared. Life goes on. We bowed our heads and turned into each other as though protecting ourselves from a storm.
We arrived at the clinic and presented ourselves at the desk. There were beautiful flowers on display and a big bowl of sweets on the desk. I took one automatically and the receptionist gave me a big smile, ‘Can’t resist them? Neither can I.’ She indicated two seats and explained the professor would be with us shortly.
We sat down and I looked around the quiet room. Everywhere I looked there was evidence of this dreadful disease. Heads shaved or covered in colourful scarves. Faces drawn and hollow. Husbands and wives holding hands tightly and smiling bravely at each other. Others sitting alone, erect and defiant. I felt nothing. Just empty and still disbelieving. What was I doing here? I cast a sideways glance at Michael, who was staring at his phone, pushing buttons.
I suddenly wanted to curl up and go to sleep. Always my way of dealing with things, and I would probably have nodded off right there had the receptionist not called us to go up to the second floor. We climbed a beautiful oak staircase sheathed in thick expensive carpet and found ourselves in front of a huge door. It was like being summoned to the headmaster’s study – but then the door was opened by someone who looked more like the head boy, he seemed so young!
‘Hi! I am Justin, please come in and take a seat. May I call you Lynda?’ he asked, as he sat down opposite us behind a huge desk with a computer screen inlaid in the top. I was very impressed.
‘Can I just say before we go through all the details that this must be a terrible shock for you both and nothing will make sense, but it is important you understand that having cancer does not mean you are going to die, Lynda.’
Michael sat back in his chair and put his head in his hands and let out a gasp. I just turned into a diva and declared, ‘Well, you are bound to say that, but can I just tell you I don’t want to spend years wandering round with no hair feeling like shit and upsetting my family just to prolong the agony for a couple of years.’
Michael was crying again now and I wanted to scream at them to stop it. I could not let the professor give me all the usual placatory bullshit and I did not want Michael crying because of me, that was accepting the inevitable and at that point in time I was not prepared to accept anything. I just did not want to think about it. I just could not keep a coherent thought in my head.
Professor Stebbing was not amused by my outburst. ‘Stop it immediately, Lynda. That is not what I want to be hearing and I am sure Michael doesn’t either. I am the expert and I am telling you now that the advance in the treatment of certain cancers has moved so fast that unless you are in the centre of it, as I am, you cannot possibly appreciate how far we have come. Now let me tell you what we are going to do with you.’
He then explained he was going to blast me with the strongest chemotherapy they had. A mixture of Avastin and Oxaliplatin and the fabulous fluorouracil, also gloriously known as ‘FU2’.
How wonderful is that? From that moment on I christened my cancer FU2.
Justin explained that it seemed likely I had had the tumour for at least eighteen months. So much for the stool test I religiously take every year. As Richard Cohen had anticipated, instead of operating, Justin thought I needed to start the chemotherapy as soon as possible as there were secondaries on the lungs and the liver.
‘Maybe a few months down the line we can reconsider your options, but at this time I want to get on and attack the problem.’
Justin was speaking into a microphone, recording everything as if I was not in the room. Things seemed to be moving so fast and I had a horrible sense of losing control of my life. He explained that I would go in to the clinic on the following day and I would have a colonoscopy. They would also insert a port in my chest to take the drip for chemo and I would be having a scan. Then on the Friday I would start my first chemotherapy session.
I smiled and nodded inanely at everything I was told, and poor Michael tried very hard to make sure he had all the facts. God knows what I would have been like if he hadn’t been there to pay attention.
I had this huge lump in my throat and a desire to burst into tears, but somehow did not want to be embarrassing. I wanted this man in front of me to know that I was strong and could take anything he threw at me. I was not going to succumb to actressy wobbles and tantrums. I was a proper person who could cope with anything. I thought, being there in that room was like getting the acting job of the century. How deluded can a girl be?
We found ourselves back out on the street once more. The sun was shining, and as I looked towards Cavendish Square I could see that bastion of middle-class comfort and joy: John Lewis. Whenever I walked into that store as a young woman I felt I was somehow starting life on a rung of a ladder that only went up, and things would get better and better. I did not expect to arrive at the Harrods level of retail, nor did I want that, but John Lewis has always had aspirations. I know I must sound very middle class but then I am! My mother came from a lowly background but always aspired to do better, to have a lovely home, and where back in the day she would go to Marks and Spencer for her clothing, she would take trips up West to see what John Lewis was suggesting in the china and soft furnishings. It must have been incredible in those early years of the fifties when fridges and gadgets started to arrive. What extravagance.
How many times in the last forty years had I walked down this yellow brick road to happiness and shopping! I used to live around the corner when I was at drama school, and loved the elegance of my surroundings, even if I couldn’t really afford any of it. I would wander down this road, eyes straight ahead to my goal: Oxford Street!
