Waking up on 12 August is always a bit upsetting these days - it's my Mum's birthday, and each year the day is just a reminder that she isn't here any more (she died in 2003). Dad always takes us out for dinner and we spend the evening together and toast Mum in a quiet moment. But today I also knew that we were going to see the consultant about the results of the CAT scan C had done last Thursday (while I was in France - see, I go away for the first time in ages, leave them all to it for a week and this is what happens.....)
Feeling fed up and missing choir people, I duly accompany C to the clinic, still wallowing in my own lowness - serves me bloody right in a way, I needed a wake up call but this was on a par with being blown clear out of the water. Mr O, the consultant, who reminded me somewhat of Trevor McDonald, sits us down and shows us the scan pictures. My head starts to buzz a little when he starts by saying "I'm sorry I don't have any better news for you..." and things after that are a bit of a blur. I daren't look at C straight away; the shock of what I'm being told means that holding it together, not panicking, breathing regularly and not screaming the place down is using up all my energy. I hear the words "large cancerous tumour...may have spread to liver...lung...chemotherapy....surgery...." etc and am scared, shit scared, and then I look over at this husband of mine.
C generally is not an emotional person; he's a bit 'old school' as far at that's concerned and usually keeps a 'stiff upper lip' and carries on - he's had plenty of experience of this as he's been through a lot in his life; losing his Dad at age 7, his younger son being born with serious heart problems, his own Mum's cancer battles, divorce etc etc. He always comes through with quiet dignity and stoicism, shedding barely a tear in the process, although you (or I really I suppose) know that inside he's falling apart a little bit. When I looked across at him in Mr O's consulting room I felt more scared than I ever have in my life - this man, this rock for me and our kids, the one that colleagues rely on the sort things out, the nicest neighbour, friend and ally, was openly and frighteningly sobbing in front of me and two complete strangers....readers I kid you not, that was the moment that I knew what we were up against; whatever else this cancer throws at us, the moment I saw C cry like that was a defining moment in this whole nightmare scenario.
And so we left the clinic. C now has a cancer nurse he can speak to, he has an MRI scan booked and his treatment will be discussed next Wednesday...and we will know the next step next Thursday afternoon. Depending on how 'attached' to the liver this cancerous kidney is will dictate whether he has surgery to remove it; whatever happens there will be chemotherapy. It's a scary prospect; I daren't even remember the statistics and percentages Mr O quoted at us...in my head this is a fight we CANNOT lose.
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