Such Unkindness - Blessed Oceans

One awful entity was when my wonderful little wife was found to have breast cancer. To be told you have cancer must be bad enough, but for a woman to be told she has breast cancer, I can only equate with myself being told I would never walk again. Perhaps all husbands think their wives breasts are beautiful but my wife’s breasts really are beautiful; the only way I can accurately describe them without being too overt is ‘Page Three.’ And now she was being asked to accept, what I can only describe as, mutilation. The cancer was a DCIS, ductal carcinoma in situ, which means it can’t be removed without removing the whole breast, as the cancer is within the milk ducts. The surgeon told us he could build a reconstruction at the same time. He gave us the implant to hold and he said he could match the ‘fall’ of the other breast, but he couldn’t save the nipple as the ducts there would also be carcinogenic. My little wife felt it was imperative she woke up with two breasts.

At this stage, as my wife figures so completely entwined in our lives together, I think I should paint you a picture of how she really is. When I refer to her as ‘My poor little wife’, I give you the wrong impression. It’s a term of endearment I use to give you the sense of how I feel towards her. How I think I ‘am’ imposing upon her, how I ‘hate’ myself for being as I am. You might think she’s a small, meek and put-upon person. She is neither meek nor small, and I don’t think she’d ever describe herself as ‘put upon’. She is a tall, strong, buxom, beautiful Englishwoman with a commanding presence. Her eyes are deep, deep brown with the whites of her eyes showing all around the iris. The irises are so brown they merge into the pupils, giving them a dense depth in which you could get lost forever. Her dark brown eyebrows are set well apart and emphasise her strong features. Her shoulders are broad and strong and her rounded, plump, beautiful breasts have the perfect fall. Her figure is hourglass and her skin is all a soft, pale biscuit colour giving her a natural glow.

She was admitted to the Royal Marsden Hospital in London to have a single mastectomy and reconstruction. She spent a week in hospital, I was with her all day, every day, and although, in great discomfort, all was going to plan. A couple of days after she was discharged, just before her first follow-up appointment, she began to feel unwell, a fever, and yes, the reconstruction had become infected. The whole thing had to be done all over again.

This time, we very nervously wove our way through the next five years of regular checks, when she was finally considered ‘cured.’

Although the new breast was nothing like her own breast, we began to relax, and the whole dreadful episode slowly receded into the background of our everyday thinking.

The new breast had a valve on the side underneath the armpit, which meant the size could be adjusted after the effects of surgery had subsided. When my little wife, after about ten years, became aware of a small lump around the implant, we both felt it was probably the implant showing its age, and needing to be replaced.

If only it were that simple. Not only was the lump cancerous, a CT scan revealed it had metastasized, spread through the lymph system and throughout her lungs. By now we were punch-drunk. We could only listen to the oncologists with their strategy of how they would endeavour to treat it.

The drug therapy she was given immediately has so far been very successful, and reduced the size of the tumours in her lungs from peas to pinpricks. She has a CT scan and ultrasound every four months to follow progress.

So, instead of just sitting at home, nervously waiting for results every four months, we made one of the best decisions we’ve ever made; to go on a four-month cruise right around the world. Our little ship was called the Saga Ruby. We fell in love with that little ship, its crew and all its passengers. We visited thirty-six different countries over one hundred and fifteen days. As far afield as Tahiti and Bora Bora in the South Pacific and Beijing in the winter in the North Pacific. We walked on the Great Wall of China; my Pusher pushing me along. We wheeled right through the Forbidden City, a sight no one could ever forget, we were driven all about Beijing in a London taxi. We were taken to a Chinese play, where we sat in the audience at our own table, with drinks and little eats, and the actors moved and sang in high staccato. Dramatic and really quite touching.

We were taken to the Temple of Heaven. It was on the way there we had an experience I will always cherish. It’s difficult to explain how moving it was. Our London taxi was parked on the edge of one of the few Beijing City parks through which we had to wheel to get to the Temple of Heaven itself. At the bottom of the long flight of steps up, was a large, open-sided, old stone courtyard, with covered stone passages along the sides. It was along these passages that like-minded, elderly Chinese would gather in the late afternoon, in groups of people with similar interests. Playing cards, playing chess, mahjong, discussion, singing, opera or operetta, men and women, all muffled up against the cold. We wandered slowly through them, from group to group, watching or taking photographs. No one took any notice of us; we might as well have been invisible. It wasn’t a performance, it was just what they did, every evening, it was beautiful, and I’ll never forget it.

At the end of a very long and intriguing, memorable day, we were taken to the most sumptuous hotel imaginable. Then at six o’clock in the morning the following day, without time to enjoy the lovely hotel, we were driven back the hundred miles, to our beautiful ship. Our butler was waiting for us at the cabin door and said, ‘Welcome home.’

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Another time, a long time before we found our lovely ship, a long time before beginning to find our way again, or even thinking there might be a way again. We were sitting on a blindingly white shimmering beach, overlooking the Indian Ocean, on the Kenyan coast, about a hundred miles south of Mombasa. The tide was at its lowest, you could smell the damp sand and the wet seaweed, and in the distance you could hear the line of white surf crashing on exposed coral reef.

I was in my wheelchair, my wife was on one side and a great friend, whom I’d been at preparatory school with years before, was on the other. He said, ‘Let’s go for a swim.’ I said, ‘That’ll be great when the tide comes in.’ He said, ‘No now.’ Before I could answer he picked me up in his arms and ran into the shallow water. Instead of putting me down in one of the hundreds of knee-deep little pools, he went on running. My little wife was running behind, she couldn’t keep up. We clambered on to the exposed reef. Even Gwynne’s knees began to buckle. He charged through the white surf and quickly into the deep blue water. I floated out of his arms, and immediately I could sense the immensity of the Indian Ocean. My legs had already been affected by osteoporosis so it wasn’t possible for me to sink. I floated about on my back, stretched my arms up over my head, weightless, I turned over and looked down. I hadn’t got goggles on so everything was very blurry, but I could see the reef wall plunge down out of sight. It was stunningly beautiful, little fish darting in and out of the colourful coral. I’ve always been able to hold my breath for a long time so I just hung there looking down, buffeted about by the small waves on the surface. I felt completely at peace. I wasn’t aware of any pain. My body was absorbing energy. I didn’t want to take a breath. I wanted to be part of this lovely enticing picture. I don’t know how close I was to that moment, that millisecond before the oblivion of the crash. It would be so easy to end this awful struggle we were both yearning to be through. I rolled onto my back and took a deep breath. That experience was a pivotal point in my recovery. In the deep misery we were both suffering, I’d forgotten how much I loved the sea.