Experiences

Margaret Hunt’s story

written by her husband

My wife, Margaret, has ovarian cancer. At the end of 1995 she had a major operation which removed a secondary tumour: the position of the primary tumour made it impossible to remove. Chemotherapy at the beginning of 1996 shrunk this primary tumour, which is now "in remission".

There is no need to describe to the readers what Margaret has gone through, and is continuing to go through on a daily basis. For my part, I stand in awe of her strength, resilience and faith. I am not a religious person, but am aware of the power to heal that such faith brings. Every night before going to sleep she reads a day’s prayer from the Church of Scotland’s booklet Pray Now. She supports that faith with a controlled life-style, which includes a careful diet, daily rest periods and an iron determination to continue leading a normal life.

Not knowing what the future held for us, I retired early from my work to be with her. Now we are getting on with our lives, have plenty of laughs, plan for the future, have quarrels and keep close touch with our boys (two in England and have managed a trip to Australia to see the third one and our only two grandchildren!). Margaret likes to sing, has one of the most tuneless, off-key voices I have ever heard and we get a lot of fun from her rendering old Frank Sinatra favourites. We do have black moments, and very occasionally Margaret’s courage deserts her, but for the most part we live the life of a happily married couple.
Margaret has a close medical examination at Crosshill Hospital every three months and, although the report continues to be good, there is always tension associated with these visits. On her last trip her doctor, Dr Walker, asked her to wait in his room while he discussed her case with the region’s top consultant, who had come down from Glasgow on one of his periodic visits.

You can understand what was going through Margaret’s mind, hearing that he needed to speak to such an authority about her condition. She did not have to wait long.
Coming back into the room her doctor looked somehow elated: "I really enjoyed telling him of a good success story," he said, "yours, of course, Margaret. You are doing just great and we are all delighted with you."

That night I noticed Margaret’s emotion as she read her day’s prayer, Day 29 in Pray Now entitled "Jewels in the Crown". I shared that emotion as I read:

Does this mean, Lord
that I am part of your success story?
That all my attempts to live the Gospel
have actually added up to something?
That my faltering love,
my intermittent concern for social justice,
my fumbling concern to share my faith,
my tuneless song and my stilted prayer,
even my honest doubts,
have somehow brought the Kingdom closer?
Will I be a jewel in your crown today?

Stewart MS Hunt
South Ayrshire

The Wicked Woman’s Cancer

Innocence Lost

April Fool’s Day 1997. Coming from a family of practical jokers I’ve had to endure some pretty tough ones in my time. But this one! I am in the gynae ward of my local hospital, whisked into an unknown world of major scans and blood tests. A world of cancer. There are large suspect masses on my ovaries. It was as if life had played its cruellest joke on me and no one is going to shout those comforting words, "April Fool, only joking".

Only two hours ago I was at my GP’s surgery. As he examined me, he did not have a flicker of his usual what-does-she-think-she’s-got-wrong-with-her-now-look. There was none of the usual "everything’s fine" routine either. "Straight to hospital," he was saying. I suddenly and dramatically knew that something was terribly wrong. Emergency admission to my hard pressed local hospital?!

Was it only yesterday I had a life? My children are still young. Yesterday I was a working mum, today I’m reduced to a wobbling jelly, popping tranquillisers like sweets. I glance at my Filofax, my life-support system in my former life. Meetings, appointments, suppers with friends - it had all become irrelevant. In the past I would wake up and think, thank heavens that was a dream - now I am waking up to a nightmare.

Had I noticed any symptoms? At Christmas when I was about to buy a "little black number" that I had promised myself for years, the short beautiful beaded dress I had set my heart on made me look like an over-stuffed Christmas turkey. Then, as I was making a hurried exit from my younger daughter’s Christmas concert, to avoid being accosted by evangelicals from the Parent Staff Association to sell the school Christmas cards, I was stopped in my tracks by a woman I scarcely knew. "When is your baby due?." she asked. I made a thinly disguised effort to hide my horror and rushed out to M&S to buy a stomach reducer or "minimiser" as it is euphemistically called. Middle-age spread, I thought. How was I to know I was growing "things" inside my abdomen that certainly weren’t babies?

Three days later I am waking up in the recovery room after major surgery. I have at least six tubes coming out of my body. I have become a screaming wild woman, yelling at anyone and everyone to tell me what they have found. I know I have cancer because no one has told me I haven’t. Hospitals, I have discovered, are not places where "no news is good news".

"Yes, it is cancer, with tumours as big as an orange and a grapefruit," my surgeon tells me the next day. (No wonder I needed the stomach reducer!) "What were they like: can I see them?" I am vaguely aware of having said something indecent. "You really wouldn’t want to," he says with the air of one who has my best interests at heart. I later find out he is one of the top men in his field. Unless you know about these things you don’t choose your surgeon like you do a new coat, shopping around for the best. I now know that you should. He has found a lot of disease. Chemotherapy is the next step, not an optional extra.

I’m a bit of a freak case. Ovarian cancer is most common among women over 45 who haven’t had children. Doctors have no clue what causes it and it’s usually diagnosed late because there’s no test like a smear, although it’s more common than cervical cancer. In fact it is the most common of all the gynaecological cancers. with nearly 5,700 cases a year diagnosed in the UK.

I say nothing but seethe inside. I get the picture. Until recently this cancer has been viewed as a disease of old ladies who were grateful for their NHS surgery, chemotherapy and nylon NHS wigs. They rarely had stroppy daughters to make a fuss on their behalf, so why bother when they were going to die anyway? Not this lady though: I might go, but not quietly.

My elder daughter comes to see me on her way back from school. I’m delighted to see her, in spite of all the tubes poking out of me. "Oh, you don’t look as bad as I thought you would," she says, "hair’s a bit of a mess though." "Sorry," I retort, "I couldn’t get to the hairdressers with my new fashion accessories - the drips and the stomach drain."

So what am I to do? Nothing like a serious illness to bring out the bitch in me. Devil woman is emerging. Not for me the "cancer made me a better person" scenario. It feels like a loss of innocence. Yes please, I’ll tell the doctors, I’ll take anything that’s going. Of course, I’ll have the gruesome chemotherapy. This wicked woman has to carry on.
Rachel Solemani
London

Good News from Anne Coyle

In February 1976 I discovered a lump in my groin and, even though I didn’t feel ill, I went to the doctor. Within three days I was in hospital having a cyst removed from my ovary. Three weeks later I was having a hysterectomy and my ovaries removed. I had just turned 29. The doctor said it was a malignant cyst, a very serious condition, and the outlook was very bleak indeed. I think I was perhaps one of the first people to be treated with chemotherapy, a drug called Endoxana. I had ten injections, two tablets each day for one year and then one tablet a day for another year. I asked questions, as anyone would, but I was a patient then and not a customer and the doctors just put me off.

I know I have been very fortunate indeed but I was no different from anybody else when diagnosed: the outlook bleak, future uncertain. But it is all in the past now. I have lived a full and active life, have never taken a vitamin supplement, had HRT (even though I have been on a premature change for 22 years), changed my diet and, to my shame, still smoke. I have seen my son grow up and a fair amount of the world. Although my treatment may appear basic it was the best available at the time and worked for me.

Three weeks ago I went to my GP to ask for the medical term for my condition. Well, finally after all these years I was told I had "a well differentiated adenocarcinoma of the ovary" I’m none the wiser as to what it is exactly, but it looks like I must be a customer now because I got the answer. I cannot pretend it has all been plain sailing. I had some fairly nasty side effects from the chemotherapy in the early days and, since alcohol no longer agrees with me, I haven’t had a drink since 1978 ( it started to disagree with me in 1976 but I persevered for another two years).

I was discharged from hospital 12 years ago, probably because they needed a forklift truck to lift my notes. I have always been an optimist, tried to look on the bright side of life and carried much of the trauma of the diagnosis inside because other people, as I’m sure you’ll agree, find it difficult to deal with.

Times have changed and people do live longer than five years. I have survived for 23 years and I’m sure that I’m not the only one.
Anne Coyle
Bolton