When I moved away from London, I didn’t care if I never saw my father again. I had bumped into him at Uncle Pip’s funeral, when he passed away far too young. I went up and said hello to Dad, and we exchanged small talk for a little while, but we didn’t speak for long. I think that he was too ashamed to talk to me. About twenty years later, I got in touch with Theresa, who was still with him after all that time.
“Your dad’s sick,” she said. “He’s in hospital. He’s on his last legs.”
After speaking with Theresa, I put the phone down and went to think about what I had been told. My father had never done much for me. On balance, he had contributed to making my life and especially my childhood much more difficult than it should have been. But I realised now that I could move away from that; that I could forgive and forget. I really didn’t want him to die thinking that he had been a bastard and nothing else. Whatever he had done, no doubt there were things in his own life that had led to him turning out the way he did.
I also realised that while I had always been very good at blaming my father for things, I had long ago reached the stage where I had to take some more responsibility for myself, and not just put everything on him. Even if he hadn’t been a good father, maybe I could have done more to keep our relationship alive later on, too.
So I went to see him in hospital so that we could say goodbye. I made a big effort to be pleasant to him and we were able to talk. He was in and out of hospital for a while, and on one occasion I was the one to take him home. I am glad to say that I saw him on the day he died and helped to arrange his funeral.
On the day Dad died, I went to sit with him for a few minutes on his own. He looked very small, lying in the bed. I felt that I needed to have a quiet word with him, even though he was gone. Nobody heard me – or certainly he didn’t – but at least I said it.
Afterwards, I thought about my mother again. Although I had largely managed to forgive her, thanks to the Ley, I had always felt that in abandoning me she had sent me along the wrong path and bore a lot of responsibility for how things had worked out. But at this stage, I had to accept that I didn’t know the full story and never would. Two things had enabled me to finally change my attitude towards women. One was gradually becoming able to forgive my mother, and the other was working with the women in the programme while I was a resident and with women staff members over the years. I am pleased to say that I have never looked back.
Latterly, I have had to fight a lot of battles, many of which result from my own behaviour in the past. When you are an addict, you don’t ever consider the damage that you might be doing to yourself physically. I know I didn’t. Little did I know that the time bombs were ticking inside me, and that all the years I had assured myself that I was doing myself no physical harm with my behaviour, I was dangerously mistaken.
I had been diagnosed with hepatitis C while I was in the programme at the Ley. I seemed to manage this without any problems, which was just as well, as I wasn’t ever offered any treatment. I didn’t worry about it very much. Years after graduating from the Ley, I developed diabetes. I thought that I was managing this quite well until I was told that my diabetes was out of control and that I now had insulin-dependent diabetes. This was a real shock, and something I found really difficult to come to terms with. For a start, it meant that I had to inject myself several times each day in order to stay alive. This took me back to my junkie days. When I had first started at the Ley, I had promised myself that I would never inject again. Yet here I was, having to do it to survive.
I think it took me about a year before I really started to accept this was something I had to deal with for the rest of my life. I also realised that alcohol played a role with both my diabetes and hepatitis. I drank regularly and really enjoyed a few pints in the local pub with my mates. This was having a big impact on my illnesses. I had already given up drugs and even packed up smoking and now I decided that I had to give up drinking. This was a huge deal for me, as I cherished the release of going down the pub, and socialising enabled me to cope with the pressures of my emotionally demanding job.
I decided it would be a good idea to go on holiday with my mates for a last blow-out before giving up drinking for good. We went to Spain and spent the whole week reliving our youth and generally drinking as much as we could. How I didn’t kill myself I do not know. When I look back on this time I can’t believe I behaved so irresponsibly. Someone must have been looking after me. I had my last pint ever in Spain, approximately thirteen years ago. My life changed.
I found the transition from drinker to non-drinker really difficult. Mates would keep asking me to have a drink in my local pub. They said that I was a miserable bastard without a pint. “One drink won’t kill you Steve,” they said. I thought differently. It was a very difficult time for me, and I tried to fill my extra time constructively. I was still doing my motocross, and spent a bit more time in my garage working on my bikes. About a year after giving up drinking, I treated myself to a brand-new 1200 Harley Davidson Street Rod. I still have my Harley to this day and have the pleasure of riding it when the weather is good. I have ridden as far as southern Spain on my Harley, and find nothing more exhilarating than the sense of freedom that it gives me.
Not long after the trip to Spain, I was getting ready to go to a motocross meeting when I started to feel quite ill. I was coughing up loads of blood, so I went straight to the doctor. He told me to go home, pack a bag and make my way to Banbury Cottage Hospital, where I was expected. Once I got to the hospital, I was examined and told not to drink or eat anything as they were going to do exploratory investigations to find out what the problem was.
Following the examination, I was told that I was in a serious condition because I had burst varices. I had no idea what this meant. Apart from feeling a bit weak, I didn’t think there was much wrong and wanted to know when I could go home because I didn’t like being away from my family and from work. It was only after spending a week in hospital that I realised the significance of the situation. I could have died. The doctors warned me that the problem could recur at any time. I had three varices in my oesophagus and one in my stomach. Once I started to realise the full implications of this, I became quite frightened. Not long after being discharged from hospital, I returned to work. I had been told by the doctor that I had to be very conscious of my blood pressure. This was obviously difficult, working in the stressful environment of the Ley, so I just carried on as usual.
In 2008 came the big one. I was under Dr Ellis at Banbury. I had been seeing him for a number of years because of my varices. I had some ultrasound tests done, and following this I had to have a CT scan. I was asked to attend Dr Ellis’s surgery on the evening of the 20th January 2008. I was very concerned; the appointment was in the evening, which made me quite suspicious. Friends around me tried to convince me that there was nothing sinister for me to worry about. I duly arrived for the appointment, and was asked into Dr Ellis’s consulting room. Dr Ellis could see that I was quite anxious and started talking to me in a very matter-of-fact way about the issues that I had been seeing him for over the past few years.
“There is a way to cure a lot of your problems, Steve,” he said. “You could have a new liver.” I did not have a clue what he was talking about and just sat there and laughed.
“I don’t understand what you are talking about – just tell me straight,” I said.
Dr Ellis told me that I had a lesion on my liver. I still did not know what he meant.
He gave it to me straight. “Look, Steve,” he said. “You have liver cancer.”
I was completely shot away by this piece of news. After all I had gone through in my life, I did not want to be beaten by liver cancer. I was given two options: have a transplant, or die. Neither seemed very attractive at the time. The odds on the transplant being a success were not great.
“Will you think about having a transplant, Steve?” Dr Ellis asked me. At that moment in time I wasn’t sure. I had thought that I had come to terms with my past, but I did wonder if I was good enough to have a transplant. What made me deserve a second chance, after all the terrible, awful things I had done in my life? While some people develop liver cancer through no fault of their own, I had brought it upon myself by consuming substances that are known to be extremely damaging to health. It was all my own fault.
Even later when I was told that I had been assessed, and was a suitable candidate for a transplant, I kept wondering if I really deserved to live. Should I have a year or so living my life to the full, spending time with my son, or should I take the biggest risk of my life and have a transplant knowing that there was a chance that I would die on the operating table? Should I take the liver when someone else, who deserved it more, had to continue to wait?
I needed time to think. After leaving the hospital that evening, I went over to see Bev and Norm, good friends of mine, to break the news. They were as shocked as I was, but offered me and my family support. Dr Ellis gave me two weeks to make up my mind. Time was not on my side. My lesion was 2.3 centimetres, and if it grew to 3 centimetres it would be too late to have a transplant, as it would be too big.
I spent the next two weeks considering my options. It was a nightmare. I didn’t have a family – in the traditional sense – to consult with; my family was the community and the people I worked with, my wife and a few close friends. I did not keep the cancer a secret, as I felt that it was only right to make people aware of what was going on for me. I continued to work full-time and was supported by those around me.
At one stage, I decided that I definitely would not go ahead with the operation. Because of my past, I had convinced myself that the transplant would not be successful as I was not worthy of receiving somebody else’s liver. What right did I have as a recovered addict to benefit from the death of an innocent human being? This was hard stuff to deal with. At other times, I felt that I had to go through with the transplant so that I didn’t desert my son, as I had deserted my other children. I wanted to be there for him and help guide him as he grew up.
I don’t think I actually came to a complete decision at all. I returned to Dr Ellis for my appointment after two weeks. I told him about my fears and anxieties. I had been seeing him for many years and he knew me well. He convinced me that we should move forward and have an assessment to find out my suitability for a transplant. Dr Ellis suggested I go to either Birmingham or Cambridge for the operation. A good friend at the Ley has a brother who is a surgeon, and she told me that the best place in the world for a liver transplant was King’s College Hospital in London. I asked Dr Ellis if I could be seen there. He was delighted to offer this to me, as that was where he had done his training and he knew all the surgeons who would deal with me. I felt I was going full circle – back to London, not ten miles from where I was born.
I continued to go to work every day and waited to hear from the hospital. A date was set for the assessment. I spent a week at King’s, undergoing masses of tests. When it came to it, I was desperate to be found suitable for a transplant. At least then I would have a choice. At King’s I was in the same ward as those who had undergone transplants already. I spent some time talking with them, which gave me some confidence for the procedure ahead. I was successful in my assessment and would have to wait until I was put on the transplant list.
On 18th June 2008, I was formally put on the liver transplant list. This meant I had to have my mobile phone on day and night and take it with me always. I could receive a call at any time. I was not allowed to go far from home. I had to be able to get to King’s via hospital transport within a couple of hours. I continued to work full-time, but my mind was racing. Every time my mobile went off or my phone rang at home, I thought, “That’s it; I’m off.”
At six in the evening on Wednesday the 16th July 2008, I received the call. I spoke to a transplant coordinator who informed me that there might be a suitable liver for me and to expect hospital transport in the next thirty minutes. I called my friends Bev, Norm, Chris and Sue. Chris and Sue came over to look after Daniel, and Bev would come with me and Alison and provide support. All four friends arrived within twenty minutes, closely followed by an ambulance. I was in tears. I remember saying goodbye to Daniel, not knowing whether I would see him again. My friends were emotional too, but they tried to put on a brave face for me. Alison, Bev and I got into the ambulance and we were on our way.
“This is it,” I thought. I was elated that a suitable liver had been found for me, but scared at the same time. I couldn’t really get my head round it. As it happened, I didn’t have to. We were on the M4 heading towards London when the ambulance driver received a call from King’s. The liver was not suitable, and we had to turn back. This news was unbelievable. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After getting back home I sat down and relaxed. “Thank God for that,” I thought. I had been saved for a while. I returned to work the next day, and everything went back to normal.
On Wednesday 23rd July, I received a phone call at quarter past eight in the evening. It was the liver transplant co-ordinator from King’s. It was on again. My friends came round again and Alison, Bev and I headed to London. I was a bit more relaxed this time, partly because I expected to be called back to Oxford as we were driving along. This did not happen. We arrived at King’s and I was wheeled into the ward.
“This is really it,” I thought. I was scared now. There was no going back. The doctor came to take my blood, which was a performance in itself. As an ex-addict. I knew that I had only one good vein. I told the doctor this, told him where it was, and said that it would be difficult to obtain blood from me. They knew best. After about twenty puncture holes, the doctor passed me over to a competent nurse who listened to what I was saying and got blood straight away. I was a bit stressed out at this stage but I bore the doctor no ill will.
I was asked to shower in readiness for the operation. I did this and got into bed. I waited. And waited. At about half past four in the morning, the liver transplant coordinator came to see me. She apologised and said that unfortunately the liver was not suitable. I was gutted. Would a suitable liver ever be found for me?
We all returned home by train. Everything seemed too surreal to be believed. I returned to work the next day and everything went back to normal. On 20th August at eight in the morning, I received another call. It was the liver transplant coordinator. I should expect an ambulance in the next thirty minutes. From the coordinator’s tone of voice, I could tell this was different.
Daniel was dropped off at the child-minder’s, and Bev made her way to my house. On this occasion, an ambulance estate car pulled up and we climbed in. The blue flashing lights were on, and so was the siren. The driver meant business.
I remember that the cars on the motorway did not seem to move over for us very quickly, but as soon as we got to London it was like the parting of the seas; it was magic. At one point we went round a roundabout the wrong way. As we got nearer and nearer to King’s, I expected to get a call saying that the liver was not suitable.
We arrived at King’s within the hour and went straight to the ward, where I was booked in. Loads of people were looking after me. Grace, the transplant coordinator, introduced herself to me and told me that I would be receiving a split liver. Part of the liver had been removed and, as we spoke, was being given to a tiny baby. I would receive the larger part. I was told that the surgeons doing the operation for the baby would then do my operation. In one way, I was pleased, because it meant that the liver was of excellent quality. But, on the other hand, it meant that the healing process would be more difficult.
Before the operation, some blood had to be taken from me. An anaesthetist tried and, after a few attempts and many apologies, managed to get just enough for tests to be run. She then had to get a line in my foot for further blood. I was asked to shower with a special shower wash. I insisted on doing this on my own. When I returned from the shower, I sat down in a chair. Grace sat down at my level and looked me straight in the eyes.
“You do realise, Steve,” she said, “that you will be getting your new liver today. The operation is definitely going ahead.”
A couple of tears rolled down my face but I didn’t say anything. I was in shock.
“Fuck it,” I thought. “I’m here now, and they are the experts. I’m in their hands.”
Thirty minutes later, I was being wheeled out of the ward. It was quite comical for all of us to be in the lift together as my wife and friends accompanied me upstairs. We only just fitted in! I was wheeled through double doors into a small holding area.
It was time to say goodbye before they took me into theatre. Alison kissed me and Bev gave me a hug. I didn’t say anything. As they left, the doors in front of me opened and I saw the operating theatre and the surgeons. There were lights everywhere and everything seemed to happen so quickly. I was out of the game in seconds, and in the hands of the very gifted surgeons at King’s.
The operation started at half past one in the afternoon. By four, my old liver had been taken out. This left me in a very precarious position. My old liver could not be put back in again, and my new liver was not yet connected. I couldn’t function without a liver. Alison and Bev waited in the family room. It became apparent that the operation was going to take a bit longer than they thought. Finally, Alison and Bev decided to check into a hotel. I had insisted that I wanted Alison to be there when I came round, but nobody knew when that would happen. Alison had told the staff that she could be contacted by phone at any time, and that both she and Bev would come to King’s when I came round.
At nine o’clock that night, Grace called Alison to tell her that the operation was complete and that I was stable. Alison and Bev both visited me once I had been cleaned up – though of course I have no recollection of this, as I was sedated. They were also due to come and see me at seven thirty the next morning when I would be coming round. Instead, Alison received a call saying that I was to be kept on the ventilator and they would call her later.
They tried again to bring me round at about two o’clock on the afternoon of the 21st, but I was having none of it. At half past five they told Alison that it was unlikely I would come round that day. This was very upsetting for them. Alison and Bev were told that I would be brought round the next morning, so they arrived at about half past eight. They waited and waited.
Eventually, they were allowed into the intensive care unit, where I was in and out of consciousness and not in my right mind. Waking up was terrifying. I felt that I was engaged in an enormous battle with someone or something. Knowing me, my adversary was probably myself. The nurse had instructed Alison and Bev to talk to me, as it was probable that I could hear and understand what they were saying. Bev recalls that at one stage she stood at the end of the bed and looked me in the eye.
“You are in King’s College Hospital, Steve,” she said. “You have just had your liver transplant.”
“I know where I fucking am,” I said, looking straight at her. “Stop saying that.” This produced fits of laughter from Alison and Bev and from Ferdinand, the nurse. I remember being very agitated as I was coming round, and that I kept shouting, “Hold on, hold on. Please!” It was as though I was fighting for my life. I recall pictures flashing through my mind. All I could see were black demons chasing me, and gargoyles trying to eat me. I had to put up the fight of my life. It was so very real and frightening. I was back in a black hole, desperately trying to fight my way out.
As I came round, the demons began to fade away, and I felt I was winning the battle. I was still questioning whether I was worthy of saving, whether I deserved the opportunity of a new liver. This really troubled me, especially given my past. I was becoming more lucid and coherent by the minute. I was swaddled in bandages and felt like a baby. I wanted to get free. At one point, I remember thinking that if I asked Bev nicely she might help me. When Alison was talking to Ferdinand, I called Bev over quietly.
“Sshh,” I whispered. “Please help me out and take the bandages off my hands.”
Bev looked at me. “I can’t do that,” she said. She knew that I had previously tried to pull all the leads out of my body.
“Well, fuck off then,” I said. Bev just laughed. Everyone kept telling me I was doing OK, but it didn’t feel like it. I felt helpless and unable to do anything for myself. This caused me great distress. Before I was allowed out of intensive care, the surgeon came in and asked me some questions, to find out whether I was compos mentis or not. He asked me my name, my age and my address, where I was and whether I knew what had happened. I remember thinking that I could have a laugh with him and say something silly, but I didn’t. When he asked me who the prime minister was I told him I didn’t have a fucking clue! I was deemed fit enough to go onto the main ward.
I can remember lying on my bed, brushing what I thought was sand off my chest. I asked Alison if she could see the sand. To my surprise, she said that she could not, but to me it remained very real. I was still hallucinating. On another occasion, I had a particularly bad night. I was shaking all over, and thought that I had actually started to burn my new liver out. I called the nurse and told her. She reassured me that this was not the case and said that I should try to relax.
I remained in King’s for six weeks, and was then allowed to go home. I was tremendously pleased to be going home, but I was terribly frail and had lost a great deal of weight. I had aged ten years and looked a shadow of my former self.
I had worked right up until the day of my transplant, and it was very important to me that I visit the community to speak to residents and reassure them that I was OK. Rightly or wrongly, I am seen as the figurehead of the Ley. I had received letters and cards from residents throughout my time at King’s. They had given me the strength to carry on.
I made the decision to visit work about eight weeks after my transplant. I was still unable to drive, and a friend picked me up to bring me to work. A new chief executive had arrived in my absence, and I wanted to check out how things were going, and to reassure myself and the residents that all was well. The stability of the community is always at the forefront of my mind, and a liver transplant didn’t change that.
I arrived at about ten in the morning and asked for all residents and staff to join me. It was obvious from the look on some of the staff members’ and residents’ faces that they were shocked by my physical appearance. I stood in front of them all, thanked them for their kind support and told them how important it was to me. I explained that I hoped to be back at work very soon. The encounter was very emotional for us all. They were not used to seeing me like this, but I was determined to return when I was physically strong. I returned to work part-time three months after my liver transplant.
Words cannot express how grateful I am to the surgeons and all the other staff at King’s who helped me through my operation and subsequent recovery. A day doesn’t go past without me thinking that somebody somewhere lost someone they loved, and I cannot thank them enough for allowing their liver to be given to me, to give me new life. I am truly grateful to them.
Because of all the drama surrounding the transplant, I lost sight for a little while of how difficult this period was for Daniel, who was still very young. I was too busy fighting to keep myself alive to notice or think about the trauma that he was going through. I regret not having thought about this before the operation, as I might have been able to do something to prepare him for how difficult it was going to be. Shortly after the procedure, all Daniel was able to say was that he didn’t want to talk about it. It was only after a year or two that he started talking about the operation and its aftermath. I know that he still worries about me because he understands that I have health issues and am more likely to get sick than other people because I am on immune suppressants every day. I do my best to reassure him without sugar-coating the truth.
At the time of writing, Daniel is just approaching adolescence. He is the only one of my children I’ve always been there for; the first time I didn’t negate my responsibilities. I am pleased to say that my stepdaughter and daughter, who still live in Cardiff, are in regular contact with me and pleased with how I have been able to change from the chaotic man they used to know. Sadly, their mother, Anne, died about five years ago. She had never managed to win her battle with addiction, and one day she fell and slipped into a coma. Nobody knows what drugs she had been taking. She never woke up.
Perhaps Michelle and Catherine and I are not as close as some families, but I hope that they know that I will always be there for them when they need me, and I am sure that they would do the same for me. They are still very good sisters and very supportive of each other. Michelle has made me a grandfather. Catherine is a lesbian, and for a long time I was concerned that this was not her own choice or inclination, but that I had literally turned her off men because I had been such an awful father. It was a difficult subject to broach, but eventually I managed to ask her about it, and she laughed and reassured me that that wasn’t the case; that she had been born gay and was very happy that way.
Although I’ve had a very chequered past, I think that I have done useful work at the Ley, and I am proud of it. While I have no problems with daily reading and writing, I am not what you would call a literary man. I write letters, but I leave the lengthy reports to others. I think that my strength lies in the fact that I know what our recovering addicts are going through, because I have been there too, and I have come out the other side.
I expect to spend the rest of my life – whatever time I have left – working in the field of drug rehabilitation, right here at the Ley Community. Anyone who works in this field knows that it’s a job that calls for immense dedication. It’s about working alongside people you genuinely care about, and giving them the best when they need it, whatever day of the week that happens to be. I plan to stay here for as long as I can be of help.
I still love motorbikes and cars, and a beautiful vehicle makes my heart race just as it did when I was in the workshop with my uncle Albie. As well as my health problems and my love of bikes, there are many other reminders of the man I used to be; the tough guy I thought I was. I still have my tattoos. I thought they made me look so tough when I was kid, but on a man of my age, they look quite different. I have considered having them removed, but then I thought, “No; they are part of who I am.”
The Ley offered me the chance to start my life again. The first day I really began to realise this was the one when I was given the little elephant, with a white patch and red stitches, to remind me always of a very special time in my life. I still have my elephant to this day. It is very significant to me, and I will treasure it always.
There was a period in my life when I was concerned about what people thought of me. I worried that I would be judged on my past and considered a bad person. But I’m not a bad person, and I think that everyone who knows me can see that I am not the man I used to be and never will be. I am not perfect but I do genuinely care about people and I like to help people make changes. I never stop being grateful to the Ley for everything that it has done for me and I hope that I will always be able to do my best for it and for the people in our programme.
Over the course of the years that I’ve been here, the programme at the Ley has evolved, developed and grown. We now have a range of buildings, and rooms for sixty-four residents. It has been exciting to be here throughout all the developments we have seen. We continue to help addicts from all different walks of life. Many of our graduates have been successful. Of course, there have also been disappointments, when former residents returned to drug-taking, or ended in prison, or even dead. But most of our graduates have succeeded in their recovery, and many of them have ended up doing very well. They include social workers, probation officers, academics, housewives, gardeners, wealthy business people, mechanics… really every sort of person imaginable. Many have gone on to become mothers and fathers, or have been able to rekindle family relationships that had been damaged by their destructive behaviour and drug-taking. We stay in touch with a lot of them and are always happy to hear from them, or from their families. We know that the work we do has made an inestimable difference to so many lives. I think that I probably know that better than most people.
I am proud that the Ley won a prestigious Centre for Social Justice Award in 2010 for its effectiveness, efficiency, innovation and compassion, and that we continue to hold a three-star excellence rating with our regulators, the Care Quality Commission. In 2011, I won an Oxfordshire High Sheriff Award, and I was also invited to the Queen’s Garden Party. The Ley continues to move onward and upward.
I sometimes think about the friends I lost along the way, throughout my years of resentment and chaos. Would they want to meet me now? Would they still be angry with me for all the betrayals, or happy that I have been able to sort things out? Since my dear friend Brian and I parted ways, for example, our journeys must have been completely different. Perhaps some of my old friends will read this book; maybe we’ll even meet. If that does happen, I’ll have to take it as it comes. I am not the same person I was when they knew me, but nor am I someone completely different.
At the time of writing, I have been working at the Ley Community for half my life. I spent the first half of my life fucking things up for myself and I hope that I have spent the subsequent years not just making things better for me and those I love, but also helping people who are in the situation that I was in years before. I hope that, in at least some ways, the Ley and all the work that we have done together have made it possible for me to become the man I was always supposed to be.