3

Bad news

Tom’s discovery of a lump under his right arm confirms in our minds what we fear most. This has to be cancer. A little know­ledge is a dangerous thing. Like most people these days, we scour the internet. Based on his symptoms and age, we think he may have Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Not good, but treatable with radio- and chemotherapy – and with a five-year survival rate of over 80 per cent. We brace ourselves for the battle ahead but are cautiously optimistic about the future.

With Tom, we meet Mr Grant, the surgeon who is to remove the lump from under Tom’s arm and do a biopsy. He is efficient and reassuring and a few days later the lump is removed. Then the waiting. Why does it take so long? Surely it’s just about looking at it under the microscope, isn’t it? They suggest it will be about ten days; but ten days come and go.

I am booked in for our annual clergy golf tournament at Frilford Heath, near Oxford, in a couple of days’ time. Two rounds of golf on a tough course with a slap-up lunch and tea to follow. Exhausting, but a grand day out. At least it will take my mind off things for a while. I plan to be away with my mates overnight. With an early start and an 8 p.m. finish, it is too much to drive there and back in a day. I wonder about cancelling it but, when we enquire at the hospital, they seem to think the results will still take another few days, so off we set.

The journey there is all blokeish hilarity, particularly on the subject of Michael’s white-knuckle driving and Bruce’s unwillingness to pay more than a fiver for his dinner at the pub that evening – not to mention his unwillingness to split the bill four ways when he’s had sausage and mash and we’ve all had the rack of lamb and a dessert. We’ve booked in at a B & B for the night, just a mile from the course. We get back to the B & B from the pub at about 11 p.m. and go to bed.

There is a message on my bed from the B & B owners: ‘Please phone home urgently.’ The phone has now taken on a different significance. It is no longer the bearer of loving greetings from Annie or the kids, or even the neutral conveyor of details about work; it is the bringer of bad tidings. I ring home. As I wait for Annie to pick up the phone, I feel the tension in my body. She tells me that she has tried to ring me earlier, on my mobile, but for some reason hasn’t got through. I hear her voice and know from the tone that all is not well. The results are in. They confirm our worst fears. Tom does indeed have cancer. There are no more details yet, but there is an appointment at the hospital, 11 a.m. tomorrow, to talk to the oncologist. ‘Will you come back?’ ‘Of course I will.’

However, there are no trains that will get me to Cambridge tonight and we’ve all had a drink, so I am not happy to accept Michael’s generous offer to drive me home immediately. Michael is keen to take me in the car the following morning, but I do not want to ruin everyone else’s golf and, in any case, something inside me wants to be alone. So we arrange for him to drop me at Didcot station at 6 a.m. Annie picks me up from Cambridge station and by 11 a.m. we are at Tom’s bedside, waiting for the oncologist.

Some years ago I attended a seminar for clergy on ‘breaking bad news’. It was led by an expert in palliative care. He said he thought that there were two extremes of doctors – those who are determined to tell you the stark truth and those who avoid it at any cost. And also two extremes of patients/relatives – those who want to know the worst and those who don’t. I think I am definitely towards the ‘wanting to know the worst’ end of the scale. However, Dr Roberts, the oncology registrar, is clearly seeking to soften the blow.

Tom is in a side ward now, so at least we will have some privacy. Dr Roberts is very kind but also clearly nervous. He also has a slight stutter, made worse, no doubt, by the gravity of the occasion. He gently explains to us that Tom has malignant melanoma. ‘Isn’t that skin cancer? How come they never found a mole on his skin? Can’t it be treated with laser surgery?’ Dr Roberts explains that no primary site has been found, which is very unusual. They have removed the tumour from under his arm, but there is one growing on the optic nerve, which is what is causing so much pain and double vision. He tells us that they will arrange a course of radiotherapy which they hope will alleviate the pain in his head.

‘What about chemotherapy? When will that start?’ I ask. He looks grave as he hesitantly explains that there are no known chemotherapy agents which are effective against this type of cancer. ‘What are you planning to do then? What is the treatment? What is the prognosis?’ Dr Roberts is very nervous indeed now and his stutter has got worse. He talks about a possible period of remission. Finally, he says:

‘The thththththththththhing is

iiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s

iiiiiiiincurable.’

It is like a tidal wave hitting us. Hitting Tom. This 21-year-old with everything to live for, full of hopes and dreams. Making plans to trek round Australia with his best mate, Phil. The hopes and dreams are all, now, suddenly shattered. Incurable. We are utterly stunned.

I am about to question Dr Roberts further, but Annie gives me the look which says: ‘We can’t take any more just now. Leave it.’ So, unlike me, I do.

Dr Roberts leaves. Tom is very quiet. He curls up in the foetal position and turns his face to the wall. He doesn’t want to speak. Indeed, there are no words. He cannot speak. Neither can we.

The rest of us eventually head home in silence. We get out of the car, walk into the downstairs back room and weep, crying out in deep, uncontrollable gasps of grief: ‘Poor Tom. Poor Tom. Poor Tom.’