Читать книгу No Ordinary Wedding Planner: Fighting against the odds to help others make their dreams come true - Naomi Thomas - Страница 8

With every session of chemotherapy, things got tougher and tougher. When I got home I would put myself straight to bed and sleep, although I’d return to feeling almost normal again a few short hours later. My treatment was always on a Tuesday and I remember the fear that washed over me whenever someone mentioned that day – my tummy would do somersaults, and I would completely fill with dread. The drugs used during my chemotherapy were bright red and I found that I grew to detest the colour. Anything red repulsed me. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as anything that resembled those drugs.

As the days after my treatment went on, I would improve a little and then relapse significantly. The effect that the chemotherapy had on my moods was severe, and I know I was a horrible person to be around! I was angry at my situation, and feeling awful never helps matters; it just envelops you and leaves little room for rational thought.

Another side effect of my treatment was an increased appetite. There were Saturday nights when Graham and I would order pizza and sit in front of The X-Factor, comfortably eating more than enough food for four or more people; and yet, five minutes later, I could have eaten the whole meal again. I would experience horrible pains in my chest, like severe indigestion, and the only way to relieve them was to eat. I knew my weight was creeping up and I began to feel really uncomfortable about myself.

I’d let my hair fall out naturally, and one weekend caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had no idea how thin my hair had got; from the back, I looked like a monk! It was then that I decided to shave it off, giving myself a little control over my cancer. I was also fed up of finding hair all over my home and clothes, so I took a razor to my head the next time I found myself alone. Within minutes there was nothing left. It was a weird feeling, slightly liberating, and there were no tears. I’d just accepted losing my hair as part of the process, and decided to post a photo on Facebook to let people know I was okay. Within seconds of uploading the photo of myself smiling, I was inundated with comments – I knew I had the support I needed to keep fighting.

I was due to meet Graham that night for a drink and, other than on Facebook, he was yet to see my new look. I donned the long, blonde wig that I had chosen a few weeks before and set off to meet him, slightly nervous about how he’d react. I arrived feeling emotional and angry at the whole situation, and as soon as I saw Graham I was overcome with anxiety and shame for having no hair. We had barely been together for five months and now Graham was having to face all of this with me; it seemed so unfair on both of us. I wanted to give Graham the opportunity to walk away, as much as it hurt me to do so.

I explained how I felt to Graham. He hugged me close and pulled off my wig, drawing me into a deep and meaningful kiss. We pulled apart and he looked into my eyes.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, and I knew that he meant it.

That weekend the pain in my chest peaked. I had become so depressed that I told Graham I didn’t want to live any more. I became hysterical as he insisted that he was taking me to the hospital. The only way he could get me into the car was to promise me that he wouldn’t leave me there, and that we could come home that night. I knew that he was just worried for me; I was in such a bad place that he had no way of knowing what I would do to myself.

We arrived at the hospital and went straight to the oncology ward. The doctor came to meet us and asked to see all the medication that I was on, which Graham dutifully emptied out in front of him. The doctor explained that half the medications I had been using should not be taken together, and that this was probably the cause of my erratic thoughts and chest pains. As soon as we got my medications sorted, the doctors allowed me to go home. Graham watched me like a hawk from then on, but I soon started to feel so much better in myself.

With no hair and my ever-increasing weight I couldn’t feel good about myself at all. My clothes were pretty and feminine but just didn’t look right with a bald head. I was trying to wear my wig as much as possible, but it was the height of summer and far too hot. I knew that I didn’t have to wear it, but didn’t want to embarrass anyone that I came across while I was out; I wore the wig for them. On occasions that thought made me angry. Looking back it was a stupid way to feel, but I couldn’t help it. I remember sitting in a restaurant one evening with Graham, the sweat dripping from inside my wig and down my back. He repeatedly told me to take it off, but I just couldn’t – I’d walked in wearing it, what would people say if I took it off? I endured the rest of the meal with it on, but inside I was seething.

As the months went by and the end of my chemotherapy came into sight, I realised that I was beginning to run out of savings very rapidly. Money was getting tighter and tighter, and I didn’t know how much longer I could afford to keep a roof over my head. I hadn’t wanted to rush into moving in with Graham, but it was looking as though it was the only option for both of us. Graham worked selling second-hand cars, but the Government’s scrappage scheme had put paid to much of his income. Cars that he would normally have bought were being scrapped, and his earnings were dwindling to nothing. There were times when he had to decide whether to drive to work and try to earn money, or eat.

Graham always chose to work, and I would find him living off a loaf of bread, eating toast for his tea. Living in Devon was becoming increasingly expensive, and we had discussed moving to Nottinghamshire to be closer to some of our family, namely Graham’s dad, and my nan, aunty and uncle. My aunty in particular had been an absolute rock to me during my treatment, sending cards and flowers to cheer me up. She never forgot an appointment, always wished me luck, and touched base after every session to check I was okay – words cannot express how grateful I will always be to her. My nan, well into her 80s, was funny and loving and always talked sense. I knew that my family had kept much of my illness from her, but she knew exactly what was going on!

Graham and I decided it was time to think about the big move. The Nottinghamshire area was cheaper in terms of living costs, and it would mean we could spend time with family we’d not been local to for a long time. My nan’s age and health were also at the forefront of my decision, and I was eager to spend as much time with her as possible before it was too late. Our minds were set.