Читать книгу From Medicine to Miracle: How My Faith Overcame Cancer - Dr. Self Mary - Страница 9

My tests have started. They are looking for secondaries. And I must learn to fight this death to the death. I now understand a little more about what is happening inside my body. The cancer is spreading. The cells are in my blood, waiting to find a place to rest. They may even have settled down to suck out my life already. Perhaps at this very second they are getting tired of whizzing round my veins and arteries and are deciding to put down roots. If I have any other tumours then I will die. If I pray hard enough then maybe the cancer will not spread and the secondaries will die and I will live. Maybe I will escape the chemotherapy, too. This is the third miracle. The first two miracles failed, keeping my leg and then my leg growing back. I am sure this one will work; it has to. I cannot imagine God wants me to die. What would be the sense in that? I have so much to do with my life. I have the message to spread and people to convert. I cannot do that if I am dead. I guess this miracle is a bit easier than the other two. Getting rid of the Limpet and growing a leg back – well, they were pretty difficult miracles. Killing the other tumours should be a lot easier.

Over the weekend I practised getting around in my wheelchair and learnt how to get in and out of it myself. This is called a wheelchair transfer and it is exhausting. I need to lift my entire weight with my arms, which leaves my muscles quivering. But I feel proud to have regained this little bit of independence. I can do things like go and chat to the nurses and wheel up and down the corridor. It will be great when I am allowed to go and visit Ward Six on my own! Barry is back on his splint because he has re-fractured his leg. Just Peter and Steve come to see me now, and they make me laugh, but it is not the same without Barry. I miss him a lot.

Franny came to see me on Sunday with Pastor Tony. I haven’t seen her since the operation. We both cried a lot at first. Then, as she’s a physiotherapist, I asked her a lot of questions about getting an artificial leg. I was wondering how real they look, and she told me they look very much like proper legs and I will be able to wear normal clothes and shoes. I felt a lot better, knowing they look realistic. I had imagined going round with a wooden peg and looking really peculiar.

We all prayed together and Pastor Tony gave me some little cards with scripture verses on them so I don’t have to spend hours looking for them in my Bible. They helped me. They said not to be afraid because Jesus is looking after me and, for a moment, I could almost remember how I felt before the Limpet struck. Back then it was easy to believe Jesus was looking out for me. Now I am not quite so sure. I mean, Jesus never had a problem doing miracles in His day but now it seems to be taking for ever. In the small hours of the morning, when I am alone, sometimes I think the miracle will not happen at all.

On Monday I went for my chest X-rays. Mr Peach seemed quite worried about my lungs. I asked Dr Jimmy why this was and he explained that if the cancer spreads it would go there first. It was very important that this first test was clear. A nurse took me down in my wheelchair and I felt absolutely free! It was also the first time, with my new and ungainly body, that I was meeting people I didn’t know. The nurse pushed me along the corridor and I passed a lady with a small child. The pretty girl looked at me with wide puzzled eyes and I overheard the mother telling her not to stare. With a shock I realized she was talking about me. I cringed, not so much at the curiosity of a four-year-old, but rather at the mother’s reprimanding whisper. It drew more attention to me, making me feel even more embarrassed and awkward.

It didn’t take long for the X-rays to be taken, so my trip to freedom was short-lived. On the return journey I asked the nurse for a blanket to cover my solitary leg. For the first time I had discovered how painful it is to be different.

Mr Peach came to see me a bit later and jovially entered my room.

‘It’s great news, Little Lady!’ he greeted me. ‘The X-rays are clear. Your lungs are fine. That is a very good sign.’

I was so relieved. It was the first good news I had received.

‘So what does it mean, then?’

‘Well, it’s a good indication that your lungs are free of any spread from the bone tumour so we can go ahead and do the other tests which are more sensitive.’

He appeared overjoyed and I realized he hadn’t been expecting the tests to be clear.

‘Tomorrow we will do a CT scan of your whole body, which will give us more information,’ he added.

‘I told you that God would heal me, didn’t I?’ I said, and Mr Peach smiled at me.

‘Yes, you did say that, and it looks as if God is listening to your prayers!’

The test result gave me confidence. I spent some time putting on my make-up, styling my hair and donning my favourite nightdress. A round of applause greeted me as I pushed myself triumphantly down the length of Ward Six.

‘Hey, look who’s here!’ shouted Peter. The boys gathered round me in their wheelchairs and Barry waved from his bed.

‘You made it then, kid!’ he quipped and we all wheeled over to his bedside. I told my friends about the test results and they were delighted.

‘This calls for a celebration,’ said Peter and signalled to Barry for his jug of water. I noticed there were three glasses on his bedside table.

‘Get a glass for Mary,’ urged Barry. I wondered what they were up to. Barry poured four small glasses and handed them to us. The boys winked at me and said in unison, ‘Cheers!’ They all seemed very jolly. I took a sip and, as I swallowed, the back of my throat burned.

‘Vodka!’ whispered Peter and we all laughed together. I felt accepted and safe, for we were all different here. After a few minutes Steve and Peter disappeared, leaving me with Barry. We talked for a while until a nurse came to tell me that I needed to let him rest. As I left, Barry blew me a kiss and I blushed.

‘You look lovely when you blush,’ he said to me and I left the ward with my heart singing.

I was on a cloud of dreams for the rest of the day and the nurses teased me. I felt normal again and it was wonderful. I have tapes of Beatles love ballads and I listened to them all day. By the evening, I was in love. I pushed myself dreamily down to the bathroom to get ready for bed, then lay there cuddling my teddy bear. I thought about Barry and, for a moment, I felt like a beautiful teenager again. Then I remembered what lay ahead of me the following day and I felt a pit of fear swallowing my fantasy. I wondered if I would ever know again the safety and innocence of being a carefree child.

Yesterday was Tuesday and I had my CT scan. I felt very nervous about it. I knew it was crucial for it to be clear. Everyone was tense and on edge. The scanner is shaped like a huge circle with a hole in the middle and the bed slides through it slowly. A kind lady greeted me and pointed to a picture of a grinning cat on the door.

‘This is our CAT scanner,’ she laughed. ‘We also call it the magic Polo mint.’

‘Will you stay in the room with me?’ I asked, feeling overwhelmed.

‘I’m sorry, Mary, I have to stay in that little room because of the radiation. But we can see you from behind the glass and I can talk to you through a microphone.’ She helped me up on to a narrow bed. She seemed so kind.

‘Did you know that God is going to heal me?’ She looked at me and smiled. She pointed to a little brooch on her collar in the shape of a dove.

‘I’m a Christian too,’ she said. ‘Let’s ask God to strengthen you and look after you, shall we?’ I felt disappointed. I wanted a miracle.

‘Can I keep my little cross with me?’ I asked her.

‘I’m such a spoilsport, aren’t I?’ she joked, but explained the metal would spoil the pictures.

‘I’ll be praying all the time you are in there,’ she promised and squeezed my hand tightly before leaving. She waved to me from behind the glass screen but I couldn’t wave back because my hands were strapped against my sides. I was all alone and scared. I wanted a hug from somebody. I wanted my mum and dad and tears sprang to my eyes. I was unable to wipe them and they trickled down the sides of my cheeks. The machine started to make a loud humming noise and then some clicks. It moved slowly over my head, so close that I could feel the metal touching my hair. I closed my eyes and tried to remember a verse of scripture.

‘Be not afraid,’ I thought to myself and repeated it like a mantra. ‘Be not afraid.’ I thought of the kind lady praying for me and I felt calmer.

It seemed like hours before the scanner reached my toes. Then the lady came in to help me sit up. She was smiling a lot. I got my little cross back.

‘Was it okay?’ I asked her.

‘Well, officially I’m not allowed to tell you,’ she said slowly but, seeing my anxious face, she added, ‘Put it like this: I think your prayers are working.’

Mr Peach came bounding into my room as soon as I was back on the ward.

‘The scan is clear! That’s the best news that we can give you!’ I was overjoyed. Mr Peach was happy, Dr Jimmy was happy, the nurses were happy. My mum and dad were ecstatic when they came to visit me later.

‘You see!’ I told them all, ‘I told you God would heal me!’

There was an air of celebration all day. I told everybody about the miracle and they all commended my faith. I couldn’t wait to tell the God Squad that I had been spreading the word. Perhaps now everybody would begin to believe and then my suffering would have been for a reason.

Now today, Wednesday, I have the last of my tests. It is the most sensitive of all. This time I am having a bone scan which involves an injection of a radioactive chemical, then afterwards they take some special pictures. If there are any tumours, even microscopic ones, they will glow brightly on the pictures. If they are clear then Mr Peach will contact Christie’s and arrange for me to be transferred there for treatment.

If they are not clear … then I go home to die.

I hope I go to Christie’s, but not too soon. I am beginning to enjoy so much being with Barry. Christie’s is miles away. I will be away from Mum and Dad and so lonely. I feel safe here because everybody knows my dad and people pop in all the time. Two years seem to stretch into the future without any end in sight. It feels like the rest of my life.

When I get down to the X-ray department I am surprised to see Mr Peach holding a massive syringe enclosed in a big metal box and his hands encased in thick gloves.

‘Is that for me?’ I ask fearfully.

‘Yes,’ Mr Peach says, taking my hand and squeezing it. ‘The metal box and the gloves are because of it being radio-active.’ He finds a vein in my arm and injects the chemical into my body. Then he tells me to rest while they take the pictures. I feel very unwell, my head starts to spin and everything goes black. I wake up in my room. Dr Jimmy comes to see me.

‘You fainted during the test, Mary,’ he tells me. ‘We will have to do another one tomorrow.’

He leaves the room and I hear him talking with the ward sister outside the door. I listen to snatches of words I don’t understand – ‘cerebral … metastases … convulsions … prognosis …’ I feel terrified again.

What has happened to the miracle? Is something going wrong again? Why is everybody so concerned? Mr Peach comes to see me and I decide to ask him what ‘metastases’ means.

‘It’s another name for a secondary,’ he tells me honestly. ‘Where did you hear it?’

‘I think I read it somewhere, on a test form maybe,’ I lie, not wanting to get Jimmy into trouble. My heart lurches with despair when I realize Dr Jimmy was talking about secondaries in my brain. I didn’t even know it could happen.

‘So could I get secondaries anywhere, then?’ I ask. Mr Peach looks at me thoughtfully, wondering how much he should tell me.

‘Nearly always they are in the lungs,’ he explains. ‘But sometimes they can occur in other places.’

‘And if they did?’ I push him more, for I must find out what Jimmy was saying.

‘Well … it would be very bad news indeed,’ he says gravely.

I try to push away thoughts of the Limpet attacking my brain but I can’t. Time and time again I return to the words. I think back over my life and worry about all the sins I have committed. I feel a sickening spasm of guilt and shame. My seventeen-year-old conscience decides I deserve to die. Please, God, don’t let me die and please forgive me. I will do anything, but don’t let me die.

I don’t sleep at all, even with my tablets, and I am glad when the pale light of dawn fills the room. I am exhausted; there are dark shadows under my eyes and I am in pain. I hear a voice in my head.

‘You would be better off, you know …’

I fight the voice of despair.

‘What sort of future do you have? What about a window – you could break it and jump.’ I am stunned at the clarity and the suddenness of the thought. I don’t know where it came from.

‘Just wheel along and break the glass while nobody is around and then …’

I think to myself that I couldn’t break the glass and then, just as quickly, the voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘What about the arm on your wheelchair – that would do the job.’

Ward Eight is at least three storeys up. It would be quick and easy. It would hurt but only, I guess, for a few seconds. I get out of bed and into the wheelchair. This is the only way to escape. I no longer know what is reality. I am so confused.

I wheel to the door as if in a dream. Nobody is about. I can hear the nurses laughing and joking in their office. I recognize Dr Jimmy’s cheerful voice telling them about his busy night.

‘God, if You are there and You love me, do something,’ I pray angrily and despairingly, but also half-expecting nothing from Him. I turn right along the corridor and start to wheel myself slowly in the direction of a window.

The voice in my head reassures me. ‘It will be okay. It will only hurt for a bit.’

I wonder where it has come from and think I must be going mad.

The voice is persuasive and smooth. ‘Just one little jump and that will be it.’

As I approach the window, I see a figure in a wheelchair, silhouetted against the dawn light. I think it must be a ghost. ‘It must be a sign,’ I think to myself. Then the figure turns, lifts his hand and waves.

‘Hi, Mary! What are you doing up so early?’

With a jolt I am catapulted out of my dreamlike state.

‘Oh, hi Steve. I couldn’t sleep. I decided to take a walk!’ We laugh together.

‘Me too,’ he points towards the window. ‘I often come here in the morning and watch the day beginning.’ He looks at me and smiles, his head on one side. ‘You know, Barry really likes you. He talks about you all the time. We all love you coming to see us in the ward.’

‘What, me?’ I ask incredulously.

‘Yes, you! You give us all courage. We think you are amazingly brave and, although none of us believe in God … well, you’ve made us think.’

‘Well, thanks.’ I don’t know what else to say but inside I feel proud and somehow worthy again. I tell Steve about the tests and he listens to my fears.

‘You’ll be okay, Mary,’ he says. ‘We all know you’re going to get through this – remember that. We’re counting on you!’ We wheel back down the corridor together and, as we part company, I realize God answered my desperate prayer.

Entering the ward, I bump into Dr Jimmy.

‘Hello, Mary,’ he says brightly. ‘Where have you been? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’

‘I have!’ I reply and, heaving myself on to my bed, I curl up. I am filled with a warm peace which makes me recall the Presence and I sleep deeply.

‘Fantastic news!’ rejoices Mr Peach later. ‘The bone scan is clear.’ It has been such a long day but now I have my answer. All the tests are clear. Mum and Dad are with me and I see them turn to each other and silently communicate. Everybody seems to breathe a huge collective sigh of relief.

‘So what is the plan now?’ I ask Mr Peach, eager to make more progress.

‘We need to get you over to Christie’s as soon as possible. I’ll ring them straight away.’

Now I am left alone with Mum and Dad and we all give each other a big hug. After all the bad news, this is a little glimmer of light. I begin to think, ‘Maybe, just maybe …’

Mr Peach returns quickly, smiling broadly.

‘I have some very good news, Mary. I have just spoken with Dr Pearson – she is the consultant who will be looking after you. She tells me they are trying out a new regime of treatment. It is very intensive but it would only go on for three months and not two years as we expected. She thinks you would be a perfect patient for it.’

‘Is it as good as the other type?’ my dad asks.

‘Yes. In fact, the results look even better. The only problem is that while Mary has the treatment she may be very ill.’

‘I’ll go for it,’ I say. I have worked out I can still take my A levels, and the thought of shortening my hospital stay is so attractive.

‘Will it still have the same side-effects?’ I ask as an afterthought.

‘Yes, it will,’ replies Mr Peach.

‘So, if I make it and if anyone wants to marry me, I will still be infertile?’ My mum looks away and when she turns her head back I see she is crying.

‘I’m afraid so. And it will still affect your lovely hair-do.’

‘But I have a chance, at least?’

‘Yes, it gives you a chance.’

‘So when do I go?’

Mr Peach looks at me again. Strangely, I am not afraid today. Somehow, after my experience of despair this morning, I know that there is someone looking out for me.

‘They want you there on Monday.’

‘Oh, so soon!’ I think of Barry and how much he means to me.

‘It means you could be finished by May.’ Mr Peach looks straight at me. He knows I am thinking about my A levels.

‘Right then, I will go on Monday.’

He nods and adds, ‘I thought that’s what you would say!’

I watch him leave the room and, as he does so, he turns and winks at me. Later my mum and dad return with even better news.

‘How would you like to come home for the weekend?’

‘What?’

‘Mr Peach has said you can spend the weekend at home if you like,’ says Mum.

‘But how will I manage?’ I ask.

‘Well, you get round here in your chair, so it should be okay at home. Dad or Martin can carry you upstairs.’

‘Yes,’ adds Dad. ‘Martin and Franny could both come home for the weekend. We can all be together again.’

‘Yes! Oh please! I would love to come home!’

‘That’s sorted then.’ Mum is determined. ‘We will have a wonderful time.’

The day has turned round since my dawn conversation with Steve. Now I am able to see some kind of future, even if it is very uncertain. I feel so excited about going home.

Later I go to see the Ward Six boys and tell them the news about my tests being clear. They are pleased for me and delighted to hear of my shortened stay at Christie’s but there is an atmosphere of gloom.

‘We’ll miss you, kid!’ says Barry, and I tell them I will miss them too. We have a laugh and Peter pours out some more vodka. After a while I am left alone with Barry. ‘Come and see me when you get back!’ he jokes and I promise I will, although I don’t know if I will ever see him again. I do know that, even though the chemotherapy drugs could cure me, they are so poisonous they might also kill me – that’s if the Limpet doesn’t get me first. But I try not to think about that because I don’t want to spoil this night. We hold hands and listen to his music. It is the first night I have been allowed to stay here so late but the nurses make an exception. By the time I get back to Ward Eight all the other patients are tucked up and sleeping.

Friday arrives too quickly. I am so looking forward to spending time at home and seeing my family again but I will miss my new friends and I am a little scared of leaving the familiar territory of the hospital. I have so many hurdles to face.

Mr Peach comes to see me early.

‘Right, Little Lady, I need to see your stump. Then I need to take the stitches out of your wound.’

‘I hate that word “stump”, Mr Peach, don’t you?’

‘Mmm, yes, I do.’

‘It sounds so ugly and final,’ I explain. It conjures up pictures of bleeding soldiers I remember from my history books, or scenes from torture chambers.

‘Well, what do you want to call it, then?’ Mr Peach asks.

I think for a moment.

‘Let’s call it my Little Leg!’

‘Okay then, much better,’ he agrees ‘A Little Leg for a Little Lady.’

‘Do you want to see your Little Leg now?’ he asks, for I have still not had the courage to look at it without the bandages on. He pauses. ‘You have to at some time, you know.’

I look at him and nod, for I know I will be strong enough while he is here. He finishes unwinding the layers and layers of bandages and slowly removes the dressings to view his stitching.

‘Ready?’ he asks and takes my hand. I look at my Little Leg. I expected it to be ugly and horrible, but it isn’t. I had pictured it as bloody and bruised but it is pink and soft and healed. Quite cute, really. My new body is not ugly, just different.

‘It’s very neat,’ I say to him.

‘Thank you. I tried my best. Why don’t I leave you here for a few minutes while I go and get some stuff to take out your stitches?’

He leaves me alone with my new body and disappears. I look curiously at myself. I am changed but not mutilated. I feel sadness but no longer hatred for my own body. Maybe I am not as ugly as I assumed.

I scream as Mr Peach takes the stitches out. ‘Make as much noise as you like!’ he says, so I do. When he is finished he looks at me with a serious face.

‘You must be very careful, Mary,’ he says kindly. ‘Your Little Leg is very delicate still. Don’t knock it, under any circumstances.’

‘What would happen if I did?’

‘Well, the wound is healed but not very strong. First, it would hurt a lot, but it could also open up the wound and that would be a disaster. So just be careful – no tearing around on crutches when you get to Christie’s.’

‘I will be very, very careful,’ I promise him.

I am tired after my ordeal and sleep for a long time. Before I know it, my family is gathering to take me home. Hellie arrives first.

‘We have so many surprises planned for the weekend,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve brought you some clothes.’ She hands them to me and I am delighted. They are, as all her clothes are, incredibly well-chosen. I select an outfit. I get to the bottom of the bag and pull out a new shoe.

‘Hellie, you only put one shoe in,’ I say, unthinkingly. She reaches over and gives me a playful hug.

‘Silly! You only need one now – until you get your new leg.’ Now I know why Mum sent Hellie early; she never makes a big deal out of it. I stare at her, wondering how I feel, and then I decide it has a funny side and I laugh. She laughs, too.

‘How can you forget you have only one leg, Mary?’

Hellie helps me pack. We fill several large bags with cards and presents. The cards have covered most of the walls for the last few weeks and there are literally hundreds. Mum and Dad return with presents for the nurses and Dr Jimmy. For the first time in three weeks I don outdoor clothes. Hellie helps me dress my leg with a stocking and my lonely shoe. There are so many new things to face.

‘Are you okay, Sis?’

‘Just thinking.’

‘What about? Your leg?’ I nod and sigh. ‘Look at it this way – you only have to buy half as many stockings!’ she jokes and we both fall about laughing. Dr Jimmy comes into the room.

‘What’s all the noise in here?’ He pretends to be cross at us. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye and thank you for the chocolates.’

‘That’s okay, Jimmy. Thanks for looking after me.’

Mr Peach rushes in. ‘You be good at Christie’s, now,’ he tells me, ‘and I’ll see you when you get back, by which time I hope we can sort you out with an artificial leg.’

‘Fantastic! I can’t wait!’

‘I’m very proud of you, Little Lady. You have been remarkably brave. I won’t forget the things you’ve taught me.’

‘Me? Taught you?’

‘Well, I know now that some words are difficult for my patients. That’s a useful lesson for me.’

I bask in his compliments and I am determined that, if I get through my treatment, I will pass my exams so I can come back and tell him. We give each other a big hug and I feel a sense of loss as he leaves.

‘Ready?’ asks Hellie when she has done my make-up and hair for me.

‘You bet. Let’s get out of here.’

I reach for my blanket but Hellie snatches it away.

‘No, you’re not having that. You don’t need it. It makes you look like a granny. You are beautiful as you are.’

‘People will stare at me, though,’ I complain.

‘Then I will stare back. That’s before I run them over with the wheelchair!’

‘I can’t wait for Franny to arrive too!’ I say. ‘It will be great for us to be three again.’

‘Well, I have an idea,’ Hellie says as she pushes me briskly out of the ward. ‘From now on we will all three of us share legs. That makes one point something each!’

‘Bye-bye, Ward Eight!’ we shout together.

Dad is waiting with the car at the front of the hospital. He straps me in the front and speaks to Hellie.

‘You must hold Mary’s shoulders from behind so she doesn’t overbalance when I go round corners.’

I hold tightly to the car seat, for I am indeed unbalanced. He drives very slowly and, by the time we get home, I feel like a cripple. I am exhausted and I haven’t done anything. Mum has cooked a special dinner for me but, having eaten it, I am ready for bed. I hear the door banging and the loud voice of my older brother. He has come home from university to see me.

‘Where’s my little sister?’ I hear him shout. He comes bounding in. ‘You look great!’ he says to me and doesn’t even look at my wheelchair. ‘Have a present from the gang at uni!’ and he fastens a delicate gold bracelet around my wrist.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say and admire it. He has made me feel special and worthy.

‘Okay, so it’s up the stairs, is it?’ and he scoops me up in his arms and climbs the stairs two at a time. Hellie comes up to our pretty room, too, and sits on the bed with me.

‘I’ll stay with you, Mary,’ she says and strokes my hair. ‘When you wake up in the morning, Franny will be here too.’ She kisses me gently and lies down beside me. I feel safe and loved.

I sleep heavily and when I wake it is light and the room is empty. It must be quite late in the morning. I hear voices chattering downstairs and recognize Franny’s laughter. I call down the stairs as loudly as I can. My two sisters run up to see me and we all have a huge hug.

‘Oh, it’s so good to be back here with you both,’ I say. ‘What shall we do today?’

‘We are all going out for lunch later on – somewhere really smart!’

‘This afternoon we’ve arranged for some of your friends to come over.’

‘Perhaps this morning we can go out for a walk.’ I want to get out in the fresh air again. I have been deprived of the outside world. My sisters pass me my clothes. Undressed, I am a little self-conscious these days.

‘Mary, you are so thin,’ Hellie notices. ‘I must tell Mum you need feeding up.’

Franny hunts around the room for her camera and then calls my brother to carry me downstairs again. Everything seems so difficult now. I think back to how easy it used to be to run downstairs two at a time. Now getting downstairs is a huge performance.

‘I want some pictures of you two to take back to college with me,’ Franny explains as she pushes my wheelchair up to the park.

Even though it is still January, it is mild with a hint of spring in the air. I shiver, though, after only a few minutes. My body has been in a warm hospital for so long I have forgotten what it’s like to feel cold. I look at the snowdrops and the bulbs pushing through the soil and wonder to myself whether I will ever see them flower. I have started to count in days and weeks. I have begun to set myself little goals to aim for. I decide to set myself one now. Next weekend the snowdrops will just about be flowering so that will be my goal – to come here and see the snowdrops. At the park we have fun and I enjoy myself but I am also aware that everything now is tinged with sadness. Nothing is the same and never will be. My sisters and I have been up here so often, running and jumping and practising our gymnastics. I will never do these things again. But I am here. I am alive. I shudder as I think back to Thursday morning and my trip down the long corridor. Franny sees me shiver.

‘Time to get you home,’ she says. ‘But first a photo!’ She asks a passing dog-walker to picture the three of us. He looks at me sympathetically. I see the look of pity in his eyes as my sisters help me stand. It suddenly strikes me, as he is snapping away, that these may be the last photos of us three girls together. I realize now why Franny wanted to bring her camera. Aim for the snowdrops, I tell myself. Then aim for the daffodils. For after the winter comes springtime and new life.

At lunchtime my dad takes us all out for a treat. We have a wonderful time at the restaurant. The whole family is together again. I watch my mum and dad looking at us all and I realize they are thinking the same as Franny. They are wondering how many more times we shall all be together like this. I sit between my two sisters. I spend a lot of time talking to Martin and telling him about God helping me through my illness. I thought that being strong in all this would bring him back to God, but it has had the opposite effect. He hates God now for allowing it to happen. He is angry, he says, at what I have gone through. Why didn’t God intervene and rescue you, he asks me, and I don’t know how to answer. Why should you have to suffer this way, he says. My little brother, Adrian, is silent. He doesn’t say a word. He won’t speak to my dad and barely looks at my mum. It seems to me he blames them for making the decision to allow the operation. He thinks it is their fault that I have lost my leg.

With a shock I realize our entire family has been touched by my illness. I see now that we all have cancer one way or another. We all feel grief, anger and guilt. We all feel pain and uncertainty. We are all very scared.

Sunday morning arrives and with it the usual church routine. Because I am home the entire family goes to Mass, even Martin, but he sits there stony-faced. I sit in my wheelchair at the side of the hard church bench, feeling conspicuous and on display. At the end of Mass a large crowd of well-wishers gathers around me. Lots of people come over and clasp my hand. ‘You’re so brave!’ they all say to me and I feel bewildered at their choice of words. They all smile sweetly and treat me like some sort of saint. I am not brave at all. I just don’t have a choice. If there was an easier way I would take it – although I now know I am not yet ready for suicide. After a while I tire of the trite platitudes and ask my sisters to take me home.

Franny has a train to catch after lunch and I cry as she leaves. She promises to write and come over and see me in Christie’s. Hellie gets stuck into her homework and Adrian heads off to practise his music. Soon Martin has to return as well.

‘See you in Manchester, Sis,’ he promises. The house is all too quiet. I potter around in my wheelchair, feeling gloomy.

Later, I am sent an invitation to join the God Squad for an Italian meal. Except for pizzas, I have never had Italian food before. I am told I must order mushrooms and garlic bread.

As I prepare to set off, I think how strange it is – there are so many things I have never done. I have never eaten garlic bread before. I’ve never been abroad. I’ve never made love with anybody and I’ll never wear a beautiful white wedding dress. I’ve never drunk red wine in a grown-up restaurant. I haven’t seen medical school. I might not even make it to my A levels. And, do you know, I have never held a sweet newborn baby. Let alone had my own child which will never, ever be. And that makes me so unhappy.

I make a mental list of all the things I would like to do. I start to imagine medical school. I remember stories Dr Jimmy told me to make me laugh. It must be such fun, apart from dissecting bodies.

The restaurant is dark and cosy. I have never been anywhere like it before. There are bright candles in bottles, and guitar music plays in the background. Waiters appear carrying delicious creations, and one rushes over. He rearranges the tables and fits us in a corner. I order mushrooms, garlic bread and cannelloni. We drink red wine and feel very grown-up. The meal arrives and I taste it.

‘It’s delicious!’ I say, and everyone laughs. We have a good time; the food is wonderful, the waiter tops up our glasses and we all joke and laugh about school. The evening rushes by and, before I know it, we reach our curfew. But, back home, I lie in my bed dreading what lies ahead at Christie’s. I want time to stop. I cuddle up to my sister. She stirs in her sleep and flings her arm protectively around me.

I think back to my happiest moment with my sisters when we all ran hand in hand down a Scottish mountain, our cheeks red and our hair flying loose. We sat on a huge boulder overlooking a loch on the last family holiday before I got sick. I remember seeing the moon, large and pale, reflected in the water and thinking how much beauty was in the world. Now I have seen another side of life. I recall that I shivered, for it was getting cold and late by the lake, but none of us wanted to forsake the moment so my big sister wrapped her cardigan around my shoulders and gave me a hug. We sang, my sisters and I, ‘Over the sea to Skye’. I hum it under my breath. I feel a desolate sadness.

‘Over the sea to anywhere,’ I whisper, ‘but not here, please, not here.’

Hellie shakes me awake in the morning. She is already in her school uniform. Blackness hits me immediately. Christie’s beckons.

‘I’ll see you Friday. Be brave for me.’

I am unable to speak, fighting back tears. She wipes my eyes.

‘You’ll be okay.’

‘Oh, Hellie,’ I sob loudly and she holds me and rocks me. The cancer, the pain, the disability, the fear and confusion, I want it all to end.

‘Shh. I’ll always be there for you. Even if I’m not physically there. I’ll be with you in spirit. And Franny too. Okay? Just think of us holding your hands.’

I wipe my eyes and whisper: ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll think of.’

‘Think of our special times together. All the wonderful things we have done together. Think of those things when you feel alone. We’ll do those things again, I promise.’

Mid-morning, two jolly ambulancemen lift me onto a stretcher and tuck a blanket around me.

‘Try to sleep,’ one of them advises. Mum and Dad follow in their car.

Soon we arrive at Christie’s. I am instantly disappointed. I imagined a small friendly place. This is a huge tower block with rows of impersonal windows. I am taken to a busy clinic area where Mum and Dad meet me. There are no friendly faces or people who stop and say hello to my dad. I feel small and insignificant. We are called in to see Dr Pearson after a long wait during which I fall asleep. She examines me and then talks to my mum and dad, but not to me. She is brusque and businesslike and barks out her questions. I feel completely ignored. There are no smiles or small talk here.

‘You are going to Ward Two,’ my parents tell me after a separate consultation with the doctor. ‘It’s an adult ward. Dr Pearson couldn’t decide whether to put you on the children’s or the adults’ ward, but we thought you might prefer to be quieter if you wanted to study or something.’

The corridors are long with signs and notices for ‘Radiotherapy’ and ‘Isotope Room’ and one that I recognize for a CT scanner. At Ward Two a nurse in a dark blue sister’s uniform comes out to meet us.

‘Hello, Mary!’ she greets me with a broad smile. ‘I’m Sister Anna. We have been looking forward to meeting you. We’ve heard a lot about you.’

She is tiny and very thin and has long blonde hair. She has a lovely smile and I feel more at ease.

‘This is Vera. She’ll show you round the ward.’

A very fat nurse bustles over to me with a wheelchair. She helps me into it and turns to my mum and dad. ‘Do you want to go now? I’ll help Mary unpack.’

My parents haven’t said much since the interview with Dr Pearson and they seem upset again.

They give me hugs and leave me with Vera who helps me take in my new surroundings. This place will be my temporary home for several months. I spot some strange yellow signs posted round several of the beds. ‘Danger! Radiation hazard!’ There is a black symbol on the sign, too, which I recognize from an experiment we did in physics. It means that something is radioactive.

‘What’s the sign for?’ I ask Vera.

‘The yellow sign indicates that the patient has a radioactive implant inside their body. It would be dangerous to go too near. Whenever you see those signs, you must keep away from the bed.’

I have a distant memory. I am sure I have seen the sign a long time ago, even before my physics lessons. I rack my brain and try to think when it was. I remember I was very small, maybe only five or six … Martin was with me. We were playing – somewhere dark and dangerous but I’m not sure where.

Although Ward Two is different from Ward Eight at the Victoria, it isn’t too bad. The beds are all lined up on either side of the long narrow ward and all have names. Vera stops at an empty one. It is called the Edith Cavell bed.

‘Here you are, this is Edith!’ she jokes. She lifts me out of the chair onto the bed and starts unpacking. All the women on the ward are old, apart from one other girl and me. She seems about my age and I notice she walks with a limp.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask curiously.

‘That’s Debbie. She’s had a bone tumour. She has an artificial leg.’

‘What? I couldn’t even tell. When did she get hers?’

‘Ages ago. Two years, I think.’

‘Oh. I don’t understand. Why is she here, then?’

Vera doesn’t answer at first. Then, ‘She has come back for some check-ups and things.’

‘Maybe I could ask her about legs and that kind of stuff?’

‘Yes, but I’ll warn you, she doesn’t like talking about it much.’

Vera unpacks my Bible and some prayer books. ‘You believe in God, then?’

‘Oh yes, definitely. He is going to heal me, you know. I might not need the chemotherapy.’

‘Listen to this girl,’ Vera says loudly, to the ward in general. ‘Isn’t she brave?’

‘What is wrong with you, then?’ asks one of the ladies. ‘What have you got?’

‘I haven’t got anything now. I’m better. I’m just here to have chemotherapy. God has healed me, you see.’

The lady looks puzzled and Vera is silent. I can see I’ll have my work cut out to teach them about miracles.

After a couple of hours I am bored. Nothing happens here. There is no Ward Six to visit and no Dr Jimmy to make a fuss of me. Lots of the ladies have bits of their bodies missing. One lady has a breast missing and looks all lopsided. She covers her top half with shawls. I think it must be really awful and wonder if they give you an artificial breast and what she will do about wearing a bra. Every time I look at her she looks away from me. Maybe she is embarrassed about me seeing her. It doesn’t dawn on me until later that maybe she thinks I am lopsided too. Another lady talks about cancer all the time. She has had a bowel tumour and has a bag on her tummy. It must be horribly messy and smelly. I tell her I want to be a doctor which is a big mistake because she tells me horror stories about all the operations she and her friends have undergone. She points to the lady in the next bed and tells me she only has half a tongue. She tells the lady to show me and the lady sticks her tongue out. It looks so ugly and strange.

Another lady is bald. In fact, lots of the ladies are bald and, from time to time, they take off their wigs to brush them or scratch their heads. I wondered what it would look like and now I know. I sort of thought that everybody would be wearing long blonde wigs and that kind of thing but, no, she is sitting there with her head as bald as an egg. She looks weird. I don’t want to look weird. I am scared of my hair falling out. It might sound stupid but in some ways it is more scary than cancer. I spend a lot of time making my hair look nice. It is one of my better points – that and my eyes. I don’t really feel confident about my appearance. I think I’m too skinny and my boobs are too small. I can’t stand my freckles either. But my hair is lovely, wavy and soft. I had nice legs too but now I can’t have nice legs. I can only have a nice leg and that’s weird, too. So now I will be even weirder with no hair. It is so freaky, this place. People walking around with strange bodies – bits missing and lopsided and things like that. It’s like seeing aliens off Star Trek and now I’m one of them. And I don’t want to be.

I wheel into the day room and sit on my own for a while. I feel a rising panic. I can’t stay here; it is awful. I am surrounded by sickness and old age. There is an atmosphere of imminent death and gloom. I look out of the window and see the bare trees. All these ladies seem to be very sick, and it dawns on me that maybe I am, too. Cancer means death and destruction. It is all around me, the inevitable decay. I feel so lonely and desperate.

The door opens and Vera comes in. She sits beside me and smiles.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘I guess I feel scared.’

‘My best friend was ill in here. She had treatment. That’s why I nurse here.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She’s fine now. She fought it. That’s what you have to do. Fight. Don’t give up. Ignore the other ladies. It’s how they cope, talking about their illnesses, but you’re too young for that.’

‘But there’s nothing to do.’

‘Well, get your mum to bring your school books in. There’s no reason why you can’t read when it’s quiet.’

‘Is there a library?’

‘No, but there is a chapel and it’s very quiet up there.’

She agrees to take me after lunch. I like her. She is a kind and motherly person with a smile always on her face. We sit next to each other in the chapel and talk.

‘My friend believes in God, too,’ Vera whispers. ‘She says that her faith has got her through.’

‘Is she a Catholic?’ I ask.

‘No, I don’t think so. But it doesn’t matter, does it? I must introduce you to Irene as well. She’s the staff nurse on the ward. She is also a Christian. Her faith is very strong.’

The chapel is beautiful and so peaceful. It is dark and cool. It seems a long way from the wards and is very quiet. I notice it is not Catholic. It doesn’t seem to make any difference except there aren’t any statues of Our Lady. A large tapestry picture of the Last Supper hangs on the wall with Jesus breaking bread. I try to work out which figure is Judas. He must be the one with the evil smile.

‘You must be cold and tired,’ interrupts Vera. ‘Let’s get you back.’

The doctor arrives. I call him Dr Tan-Shoes. He doesn’t tell me his name. He looks briefly in my direction and starts to read my notes. He doesn’t talk to me at all. Then he comes up and takes my arms without explanation. I pull them away.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Veins. I’m looking for veins.’ He continues his search and sighs. ‘Your veins are bad. That will be a problem.’

I begin to worry. What does he mean?

‘When does my chemotherapy start? Today?’

‘No. Next week.’ I am surprised and ask him why.

‘Tests. We need to do more tests.’ He is walking away as he says it. I feel really angry because he won’t explain things to me.

‘But I’ve had loads of tests.’

‘We need to repeat them.’

I sit there and simmer with anger. What a waste of time, I think, when I could be home.

The week is long and dull. The tests are repeated, exactly as before, only this time nobody comes to tell me the results. I find them out from my parents when they visit. I am grumpy and depressed the whole week. I lie on the bed and try to concentrate on reading, but it is difficult. The only breaks in the routine are mealtimes. I get to know the nurses and the physio. She brings a set of crutches and helps me use them. Her manner is also sharp and matter-of-fact.

‘We can’t have you in a wheelchair all the time. You’ll become weak and you won’t be able to manage an artificial leg.’

‘Well, how will I get around?’

‘On crutches. You’ve got arms.’ She makes me do exercises every day and soon I am worn out with her pummelling. In the end she takes away my wheelchair and leaves me with only the crutches. I hate them because I can’t hide the fact that I am minus a leg and I feel self-conscious and embarrassed.

By Thursday I am all packed up, ready to go home and determined I am not coming back. The chemotherapy will have to go and God will just have to do a miracle without it. I ask myself how I can possibly tell people about God here, where nothing happens.

I am lying on my bed in a bad mood when a nurse walks up to me. She is short and plump.

‘Hi, Mary. I’m Irene. Vera told me you’re a Christian, too.’ I sit up quickly. This seems better.

I tell her: ‘I’ve been waiting to meet you. I don’t know why God has brought me here. There is absolutely nothing I can do for Him here. I’ve decided not to come back next week.’

‘That’s a real shame because there are some books I think you will really enjoy about people who have been through difficult times. I was thinking they would help you.’

‘Well, I bet they haven’t been through anything as awful as this.’ I am really feeling sorry for myself now.

‘One is about a girl called Joni who breaks her neck but goes on to become a painter. And one is about Nicky Cruz, who is a drug addict and a gang member who becomes a preacher. Sounds pretty awful to me.’

‘I’m sick of people going on about God and how He can get me through. It’s just a cop-out.’

Irene looks at me and laughs. ‘Well, do you have any other option? You’re not doing so good on your own, are you?’

‘No, I’m not really,’ I have to admit. ‘I’ll give it one more try.’

So I went home for the weekend. I had a lovely time and the snowdrops had bloomed – Hellie took me up to the park to see them. Now I am back. My tests are finished and my chemotherapy starts tomorrow. Irene has brought in the books for me and I’m saving them for when my treatment starts.

Dr Pearson came to see me this morning. She explained about the chemotherapy. I asked her about my hair. She said it will all fall out in a few weeks. I’m praying it won’t. I asked Dr Pearson about being infertile and she looked at me as if I was crazy. She said: ‘One step at a time.’

But it is important to me. If God is going to heal me, and I live, I want to have children. That’s if anyone will ever love me. I guess that someone would have to be different and special to be able to love me now. I started to cry, and one of the ladies went to get Irene and she came and had a chat. She is a very gentle person. She said Jesus can help me through all the bad times and I will be very close to Him because of suffering like this. She said: ‘Think of Him as your best friend.’ She is really helping me to understand God.

As the day goes by I feel more and more frightened about starting the chemotherapy. Debbie is now having some and she keeps being very sick. The drugs go into the veins through a drip and I’m scared because drips hurt a lot. I don’t understand why Debbie is having more chemotherapy so long after her operation. The nurses won’t let me go and talk to her. They say she needs to rest. She looks very ill – thin and pale. I’m thinking maybe she has got secondaries or something and that scares me too.

Vera sees me looking worried and comes over. ‘How about having a lovely bath, getting your nightdress on ready for your drip later, and then I will take you up to the chapel?’

She helps me into my nightclothes and walks me up to the chapel. I am pretty good on my crutches now and when we get there she suggests I might like some time alone. I want to pray.

She leaves me alone in the cool silence. Nobody comes up here, ever. Once I saw the hospital chaplain and he said hello but, apart from that, only I come up here with my books and my Bible. I am reading the Psalms. Irene said they were good things to read in hard times. So I do as she told me and ask God to speak to me through His word and then I open the Bible at Psalm 6 and begin to read. I’m sure God will tell me something really important with my treatment starting tomorrow.

I read words that do not fit the picture: ‘O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger …’

Why is He angry? Is it because it is all my fault?

‘… or discipline me in your wrath.’

Discipline? Oh no – that must be my illness, maybe even secondaries. I knew it was a punishment.

‘Be merciful to me …’

But why do I need mercy? Is it because I’m a bad person?

‘O Lord heal me, for my bones are in agony.’

That’s me! It’s talking about me. My bones are in agony. Of course. Why didn’t I see? The cancer is a punishment for my sin and for the bad things I’ve done in my life. Maybe I will get secondaries and then I will die.

I am crying and sobbing, the tears flowing steadily and easily down my cheeks.

I know the cancer can kill me – and even if the cancer doesn’t then the drugs might. They will poison my body, cell by cell. First they will poison my scalp and my hair will fall out, leaving me a bald and sexless freak. Then my ovaries will die, robbing me of the beautiful children I have always longed for. Then, maybe then, the bad cells left by the Limpet will be poisoned. They might be killed; they might not. If they aren’t poisoned then I will certainly die. ‘Death’, a word I never used until recently, has now entered my vocabulary and is used every day of my life. I feel I can’t escape from its shadow. I dwell constantly in reach of its beckoning hand. I do not know how to die. I do not know what awaits me beyond the grave. What if I am facing an eternity in hell?

Maybe by making some painful sacrifice I can make it up to God. I cling onto the bench and kneel carefully and painstakingly on my one good knee, leaning the weight of my body over the bench. It hurts as the hard wood digs into my breasts and ribs. I should be punished. I deserve it all; the cancer, the amputation, the ugly and deformed body. The tears pour down my cheeks and run on to the bench, then cascade to the polished floor.

I look accusingly at the picture on the wall. I see the figures of Jesus and the apostles breaking bread together.

‘Why me? Why me?’ I sob, but the figure of Jesus is serenely aloof.

‘Don’t just sit there looking holy,’ I yell in my mind with all the anger I am capable of.

Suddenly something inside me breaks. My mind begins to fracture and unravel. The images from the picture blur behind my tears and the figures seem to come alive. My mind leaves the chapel and I am in the upper room, sharing a passover meal. I sit down between two figures. On my right is Jesus. He is dressed in white and has a sad smile on his face. His eyes are downcast. He is crying and somehow I feel cheated. Jesus is not meant to cry. Then I see why. His hands are wounded and covered in blood. I recoil in horror at the sight. Jesus is holding a chalice full of ruby wine which catches the candlelight. He passes it to me and solemnly I lift it to my lips. I take a sip and, as I taste the metallic tang of blood, I drop the chalice and it hits the ground, smashing into millions of tiny pieces. There is blood everywhere now.

‘It’s broken!’ I cry, and Jesus looks down. He spots the hideous, empty space where my leg no longer is. I hear Him draw breath sharply and He shakes His head disbelievingly.

‘What happened to your leg?’ He asks.

‘They took it away. It was bad. The miracle didn’t work, you see.’

Suddenly, another figure leans over my shoulder. I peer up at him and know it must be Judas because he is carrying a bag with coins in it. I hear the chink of metal on metal.

‘It must have been your fault, then,’ says Judas. ‘What did you do wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I cry. ‘I don’t think I did anything wrong. I don’t know why it didn’t work. Anyway,’ I ask Jesus between sobs, ‘what happened to Your hands?’

‘Oh, they crucified Him,’ interrupts Judas. ‘I betrayed Him.’ He throws his head back in mocking laughter and, as he does so, I glimpse a dark ring around his neck.

‘What is that mark – like a bruise?’

Judas is silent; he looks shiftily around for a way of escape but he cannot get out of the picture.

‘Tell her, Judas. Tell her you could no longer live with yourself. Tell her you hanged yourself from a tree.’

‘How did he betray You?’ I ask but, before He can answer, my mind leaves the scene and returns to my head. I am in the chapel again, shivering and trembling.

But in my moment of darkest fear I find courage. I recall the voice I heard when I wanted to kill myself and realize now it was the voice of Judas. I make a vow and, as I speak it to the Limpet, I know it to be true. I will survive, if only to tell the tale. Words flood into my mind from a power greater than my frail human spirit: ‘I shall not die! I shall not die; but I shall live!’

Somehow I make my way back to the ward knowing that, by my own strength or by divine miracle, I must overcome death.