Authors: Bernadette Bohan
The Choice (3 page)
Chapter Four
Â
Loss and Relief
I
t was one of those rare glorious Irish weekends: the sky was cloudless and everyone was out enjoying the sunshine, leading normal family lives â as it seemed to us. For us it was the most unusual weekend we had ever lived through.
There is a photo of me taken that Sunday. I am sitting in the garden with Sarah on my knee. She looks gorgeous, full of life, her cheeky face framed by a brown bob. She is wearing one of the little outfits I had made for our holiday, which now seemed such an age ago. I look tired and strained â it's not the best picture of me I've ever seen â but we are both smiling at the camera. I remember so well looking at her that day, hugging her to myself and wondering if I would see her grow up.
We had decided that I would spend the Saturday and Sunday at home. After all, we reasoned, if I had a limited time ahead of me I should spend every possible moment with my children. The most important thing would be to act normally. âPromise me this,' I said to Ger and his mother Anne, who had come to stay. âDo not say anything that might make the children worry or suspect that something is amiss. No whispering, no quiet talking when they are around. We cannot discuss this at all.' I knew that Richard in particular was so close to me he would be bound to pick up on any snippets that we might let slip. They promised faithfully. I think for me, as well, it was important to try to carry on as usual. Ger was great, joking and laughing, full of humour and fun. There was an edge of desperation to his humour that weekend â he was trying to keep me going as if his life depended on it. And in a way, it did.
I felt then, more than ever, what a wise choice I had made in Ger. As I watched him chasing the children around the garden, wearing one of Richard's scary masks while Sarah screamed in mock terror, I cast my mind back to the night we met. We had been dancing that night, at the local rugby club do. It was the autumn of 1970, and I was sixteen.
One of my friends worked in a local record shop, and told me she had met two guys from Dublin earlier that day in the shop. They had told her they were staying the weekend in Drogheda and she had mentioned the rugby club dance. We both wondered if they would turn up, and sure enough, they did. Ger walked straight over to me and asked me to dance. He was nice-looking, with blond hair and blue eyes, and he had an open and friendly manner â not at all shy like many of the boys I had met. I was dark-haired, and very petite. I felt an instant attraction, and it was clear he did too. We danced together for the rest of the evening, but when it came to leaving I couldn't find him. I knew he lived in Dublin, the big city I longed to be part of, but as I lived in a small town some thirty miles away there was no way of contacting him. Well, I couldn't get him out of my head for months, and my chance came â or so I thought â when I went to see Thin Lizzy in Dublin at the National Stadium just before Christmas. Hardly paying attention to my favourite band, I scanned the audience again and again, checking every face, sure I would see him there. It wasn't the metropolis it is now of course, but even then I was crazy to think that I would find him at the gig. We left, my friend Catherine in high spirits singing âLook What the Wind Blew In' at the top of her voice. I was dejected. More to the point, I thought, look what the wind
hadn't
blown in. âLook Bernie,' she said, âif it's to be, it will be.' We all set a lot of store by fate in those days.
I stayed with her that night, and the following day instead of going straight back to Drogheda we decided to go to the stock-car racing. It was good fun, and I knew Gerard was into it too. As we arrived, whom should we see leaving but Ger himself. My heart nearly stopped. Fate! I was beside myself â anxious to appear nonchalant, but desperate to talk to him. He came over to us (although we were pretending we hadn't seen him) and offered us a lift home. Naturally we accepted, although we had only just got there. He was driving his father's Rover and I admit I was impressed â the prospect of a boyfriend with a car would have turned any young girl's head at that time.
He dropped us off at home and my friend got out of the car and went in to talk to my mum. I stayed chatting with him â we got on well from the very first, and I was loath to leave him. When he mentioned he wanted some patches on his jeans â the height of fashion in the early seventies â I knew I had him. âI could do that for you no problem,' I said easily. âI'm good at sewing.' He asked me out that evening, and we're still together thirty-four years on.
He is my rock, as I needed no reminding that afternoon, watching him hold everything together for me and the family. His mother hadn't been so lucky, and nor had mine. The day wore on, dusk fell, and we all went in to put Richard and Sarah to bed.
âIt's been a lovely day,' said Richard as I tucked him up. âI'm glad you came back from hospital.' I sat on the edge of his bed and cupped his sweet, trusting face in my hands. I willed myself not to cry. âIt's been lovely for me too, Richard,' I whispered. âBut I may have to go back again soon.'
âAre you sick?' he asked.
âA little, yes, but I'll get better, don't you worry.'
âOK. Night, night.' He was so accepting, so sure that I was always going to be there. I prayed to God to protect my little boy from the pain and sorrow I feared was ahead.
As soon as the children were asleep that evening I burst into tears, unable to take the strain of trying to pretend everything was rosy any longer. The worry, the uncertainty, perhaps even the pregnancy hormones â all crowded in upon me, and I allowed all the emotions to flood out. I sobbed for a long time. Ger just held me in his arms, stroked my hair, and told me again and again that he loved me.
The next morning I woke up and found I was bleeding. I knew I was losing the baby now. I came out of the bathroom and called Gerard.
âI am sure I've lost the baby.' I said, trying to keep calm. He held my hand and comforted me. âI'm sorry,' he said. âMaybe it is for the best. It just isn't the right time.'
I wept, but with something like relief. This was God's way of helping me, I knew. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that I would not now be faced with making that cruellest of choices. I might recover from cancer but I would never recover from killing my own baby. I knew the memory would come back to haunt me for years. Even now I shudder to think about how close I was to the horror of that decision. This was just the way I felt, and no âsensible' medical reasons could ever square that for me. Suddenly I thought of my mother, who had given birth to three stillborn babies â two between Jimmy and Aquinas, and one between Aquinas and Deirdre. Each time she came home from hospital and carried on as usual. It may have been more common in those days to lose a baby, and regarded as an unpleasant fact of life that one just had to deal with, but I cannot think that she did not grieve inwardly. I marvelled at her bravery and determination. If she could carry on after each successive loss, surely I could cope with the disappointment of this miscarriage.
âI'm fine, I really am,' I said briskly, getting dressed and readying myself to face the last day of not knowing.
Now I just had one thing to worry about â the cancer, which was looming large in front of us.
Â
Loss and Relief
It was one of those rare glorious Irish weekends: the sky was cloudless and everyone was out enjoying the sunshine, leading normal family lives â as it seemed to us. For us it was the most unusual weekend we had ever lived through.
There is a photo of me taken that Sunday. I am sitting in the garden with Sarah on my knee. She looks gorgeous, full of life, her cheeky face framed by a brown bob. She is wearing one of the little outfits I had made for our holiday, which now seemed such an age ago. I look tired and strained â it's not the best picture of me I've ever seen â but we are both smiling at the camera. I remember so well looking at her that day, hugging her to myself and wondering if I would see her grow up.
We had decided that I would spend the Saturday and Sunday at home. After all, we reasoned, if I had a limited time ahead of me I should spend every possible moment with my children. The most important thing would be to act normally. âPromise me this,' I said to Ger and his mother Anne, who had come to stay. âDo not say anything that might make the children worry or suspect that something is amiss. No whispering, no quiet talking when they are around. We cannot discuss this at all.' I knew that Richard in particular was so close to me he would be bound to pick up on any snippets that we might let slip. They promised faithfully. I think for me, as well, it was important to try to carry on as usual. Ger was great, joking and laughing, full of humour and fun. There was an edge of desperation to his humour that weekend â he was trying to keep me going as if his life depended on it. And in a way, it did.
I felt then, more than ever, what a wise choice I had made in Ger. As I watched him chasing the children around the garden, wearing one of Richard's scary masks while Sarah screamed in mock terror, I cast my mind back to the night we met. We had been dancing that night, at the local rugby club do. It was the autumn of 1970, and I was sixteen.
One of my friends worked in a local record shop, and told me she had met two guys from Dublin earlier that day in the shop. They had told her they were staying the weekend in Drogheda and she had mentioned the rugby club dance. We both wondered if they would turn up, and sure enough, they did. Ger walked straight over to me and asked me to dance. He was nice-looking, with blond hair and blue eyes, and he had an open and friendly manner â not at all shy like many of the boys I had met. I was dark-haired, and very petite. I felt an instant attraction, and it was clear he did too. We danced together for the rest of the evening, but when it came to leaving I couldn't find him. I knew he lived in Dublin, the big city I longed to be part of, but as I lived in a small town some thirty miles away there was no way of contacting him. Well, I couldn't get him out of my head for months, and my chance came â or so I thought â when I went to see Thin Lizzy in Dublin at the National Stadium just before Christmas. Hardly paying attention to my favourite band, I scanned the audience again and again, checking every face, sure I would see him there. It wasn't the metropolis it is now of course, but even then I was crazy to think that I would find him at the gig. We left, my friend Catherine in high spirits singing âLook What the Wind Blew In' at the top of her voice. I was dejected. More to the point, I thought, look what the wind
hadn't
blown in. âLook Bernie,' she said, âif it's to be, it will be.' We all set a lot of store by fate in those days.
I stayed with her that night, and the following day instead of going straight back to Drogheda we decided to go to the stock-car racing. It was good fun, and I knew Gerard was into it too. As we arrived, whom should we see leaving but Ger himself. My heart nearly stopped. Fate! I was beside myself â anxious to appear nonchalant, but desperate to talk to him. He came over to us (although we were pretending we hadn't seen him) and offered us a lift home. Naturally we accepted, although we had only just got there. He was driving his father's Rover and I admit I was impressed â the prospect of a boyfriend with a car would have turned any young girl's head at that time.
He dropped us off at home and my friend got out of the car and went in to talk to my mum. I stayed chatting with him â we got on well from the very first, and I was loath to leave him. When he mentioned he wanted some patches on his jeans â the height of fashion in the early seventies â I knew I had him. âI could do that for you no problem,' I said easily. âI'm good at sewing.' He asked me out that evening, and we're still together thirty-four years on.
He is my rock, as I needed no reminding that afternoon, watching him hold everything together for me and the family. His mother hadn't been so lucky, and nor had mine. The day wore on, dusk fell, and we all went in to put Richard and Sarah to bed.
âIt's been a lovely day,' said Richard as I tucked him up. âI'm glad you came back from hospital.' I sat on the edge of his bed and cupped his sweet, trusting face in my hands. I willed myself not to cry. âIt's been lovely for me too, Richard,' I whispered. âBut I may have to go back again soon.'
âAre you sick?' he asked.
âA little, yes, but I'll get better, don't you worry.'
âOK. Night, night.' He was so accepting, so sure that I was always going to be there. I prayed to God to protect my little boy from the pain and sorrow I feared was ahead.
As soon as the children were asleep that evening I burst into tears, unable to take the strain of trying to pretend everything was rosy any longer. The worry, the uncertainty, perhaps even the pregnancy hormones â all crowded in upon me, and I allowed all the emotions to flood out. I sobbed for a long time. Ger just held me in his arms, stroked my hair, and told me again and again that he loved me.
The next morning I woke up and found I was bleeding. I knew I was losing the baby now. I came out of the bathroom and called Gerard.
âI am sure I've lost the baby.' I said, trying to keep calm. He held my hand and comforted me. âI'm sorry,' he said. âMaybe it is for the best. It just isn't the right time.'
I wept, but with something like relief. This was God's way of helping me, I knew. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that I would not now be faced with making that cruellest of choices. I might recover from cancer but I would never recover from killing my own baby. I knew the memory would come back to haunt me for years. Even now I shudder to think about how close I was to the horror of that decision. This was just the way I felt, and no âsensible' medical reasons could ever square that for me. Suddenly I thought of my mother, who had given birth to three stillborn babies â two between Jimmy and Aquinas, and one between Aquinas and Deirdre. Each time she came home from hospital and carried on as usual. It may have been more common in those days to lose a baby, and regarded as an unpleasant fact of life that one just had to deal with, but I cannot think that she did not grieve inwardly. I marvelled at her bravery and determination. If she could carry on after each successive loss, surely I could cope with the disappointment of this miscarriage.
âI'm fine, I really am,' I said briskly, getting dressed and readying myself to face the last day of not knowing.
Now I just had one thing to worry about â the cancer, which was looming large in front of us.
Chapter Five
Â
The Diagnosis
âO
h. Right,' was all the oncologist said the next day when I told him I had miscarried. He wasn't sympathetic, but nor was he unkind. To him it was simply a bald fact, and of course it removed a complication. He was doing his rounds at the time and told me he would have my results later in the day.
We waited in the ward all morning, sitting on two armchairs next to the same bed. There was not much to do other than watch the other patients, but what I saw shocked me to the core. The poor woman opposite me who had been so friendly on the Friday was unrecognizable. Out of her mind on morphine, she kept trying to get out of bed and was repeatedly helped back by the nurses. She was a little older than me, but in her I saw a vision of myself as I might become. It was a vision of hell. Frightened, I pulled the curtain around my bed and wept.
Please, God, can I not end up like her.
âShe has leukaemia, Bernie. You have got something else. You won't end up like that, trust me.' Ger busied himself with ordering prawn cocktail and steak and kidney pie, while I sat feeling nauseous at the very thought. The minutes seemed to stretch out endlessly, the hands on the large clock on the wall moving unbearably slowly.
âI keep thinking of Dad,' I told him. My recent dream was still with me, in the way that some dreams lurk at the sides of your consciousness, nagging at you, as if they are trying to tell you something. The smells of the hospital also reminded me of the last days I spent with him, and the grey, drawn faces of the patients on this ward brought back his dear, ravaged face clearly to me. Dad wasn't sick for long â he went downhill very quickly over two months, and I thought I'd heard somewhere that some cancers killed you quickly, while others lingered for years. Which kind would I be dealt, I wondered.
âI expect he's watching over you, you know. He may not have been at our wedding, but by God he loved his little girl.' I shut my eyes.
I had been twenty-five at the time, and due to be married to Ger that summer. We had been together for years but had been wary of rushing into marriage earlier: both sets of parents had been less than blissfully happy. But finally the wedding was all organized, the honeymoon booked. We were already living together: we couldn't afford to keep two flats going but this was something that was frowned upon in those days. I hadn't told my own mother â she hadn't asked, and I hadn't volunteered the information, but Ger's mother knew and was not at all happy about it. So we were quite keen to get on and marry. Then Dad got sick and everything changed.
I knew before I was told. One day I saw him walking up the hill to our house. He was only sixty-six but he was hunched over like a man twenty years older, coughing and coughing. He had been such an upright, smart man: he always wore a tie, his hair always neatly slicked back, even though he worked on construction sites. I knew there was something terribly wrong, and sure enough, a few days later he was in hospital for tests. Then he was sent home again, and when I asked my mother she seemed confused.
âI don't know, pet,' she said. âI'll look after him here and let's hope he gets better.'
Ger collected me from work one day. âI have some news for you about your Dad,' he said. âHe has cancer.' I needed to find out more, so I rushed in to the hospital to see the consultant. âCan you tell me what's the story with my father?' I asked him. He explained that the tests were inconclusive, but he was fairly sure it was advanced cancer, and they would be doing more tests.
âIs he a smoker?' he asked.
âYes,' I said. âAll his life. 80 Woodbines a day.' He made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders and held his palms up as if to say, âWell, what can you expect?'
âI'm afraid there is very little that can be done for him at this stage. We will do our best to make him comfortable.'
Dad did not know he had cancer. It was a hushed word in those days, and still is, to a degree. It seems to be a taboo subject, second only to AIDS in the fear it inspires in people. I don't think we should be afraid of the word, and now I am very straight when I tell people what I have had. I regret now that I did not say, âI know you're dying, tell me what you want to say.' I am sorry I did not tell him how much I loved him. But back then I was afraid too, and I was used to keeping secrets in my house.
âI want to walk you up the aisle, so I do,' my father said to me. âCould you wait a little longer until I'm well?'
âOf course, Dad, we'll postpone it as long as we need to. You'll get better,' I promised.
But he was dead in two months. I could not save him.
The clatter of the dinner trolley brought me back to the present, and I looked up to see Ger rubbing his hands at the thought of the steak and kidney pie he had ordered. I could face nothing more than a cup of tea and slice of bread. We were both trying so hard not to fall to pieces, but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach refused to ease, even with a little food.
The afternoon ticked on. Shortly after the tea trolley had been round, the oncologist appeared. The moment of truth had arrived, and I splashed my tea on the bed cover in my hurry to stand up. I was surprised and immensely cheered â the man was beaming.
âGreat news!' he announced. âIt's lymphoma. Cancer of the lymph glands.'
âUm â how is that great news?' I asked, glancing at Ger who was smiling broadly, if looking a bit confused.
âIt is at a very early stage. You will not need chemotherapy, only steroids. You won't lose your hair. Nevertheless, you will be in and out of here over the next year or so.'
Suddenly I felt fantastic. I had spent the day believing that it was my fate to end up like the poor woman on the ward, or like my father. Now it appeared I was being given a stay of execution.
âYou'll have a few more tests over the next few days, and then you'll need to take this prescription to the dispensary to collect your drugs. Follow the instructions on the packets. I'll get my secretary to make a follow-up appointment for a few weeks' time to see how you're getting on. Goodbye for now.' He shook our hands.
âThank you, thank you,' I breathed, hugely grateful to this oncologist who, it seemed, had just told me I was not about to die after all. He was a hero, a saviour. A huge sense of relief washed over us both, and after he had gone we just stood there grinning stupidly at each other.
Later that day I had to have a piece of bone marrow taken out of my hip, I imagined so they could check to see whether the cancer had spread to the marrow. The doctor did not use an anaesthetic â I didn't think to ask why â but plunged the thick needle straight into my hip, twice, leaving it there each time for over a minute. I gasped in shock â I had never felt pain like this, and the only tools I had for dealing with agony like this were the breathing techniques I had learnt when I gave birth to Richard and Sarah. Holding on to a nurse I panted loudly, trying to rise above the pain and think of each breath. I squeezed her arm so tightly I must have hurt her quite badly. Then it was over.
The test results were clear, showing that â thankfully â the cancer had not spread. A few days later we walked through the ward on the way to the dispensary. The bed opposite mine was empty and I looked enquiringly at Ger. He put his arm around my shoulders. âShe's not in pain any longer.'
We left the hospital with mountains of drugs. The treatment had begun.
Â
The Diagnosis
âOh. Right,' was all the oncologist said the next day when I told him I had miscarried. He wasn't sympathetic, but nor was he unkind. To him it was simply a bald fact, and of course it removed a complication. He was doing his rounds at the time and told me he would have my results later in the day.
We waited in the ward all morning, sitting on two armchairs next to the same bed. There was not much to do other than watch the other patients, but what I saw shocked me to the core. The poor woman opposite me who had been so friendly on the Friday was unrecognizable. Out of her mind on morphine, she kept trying to get out of bed and was repeatedly helped back by the nurses. She was a little older than me, but in her I saw a vision of myself as I might become. It was a vision of hell. Frightened, I pulled the curtain around my bed and wept.
Please, God, can I not end up like her.
âShe has leukaemia, Bernie. You have got something else. You won't end up like that, trust me.' Ger busied himself with ordering prawn cocktail and steak and kidney pie, while I sat feeling nauseous at the very thought. The minutes seemed to stretch out endlessly, the hands on the large clock on the wall moving unbearably slowly.
âI keep thinking of Dad,' I told him. My recent dream was still with me, in the way that some dreams lurk at the sides of your consciousness, nagging at you, as if they are trying to tell you something. The smells of the hospital also reminded me of the last days I spent with him, and the grey, drawn faces of the patients on this ward brought back his dear, ravaged face clearly to me. Dad wasn't sick for long â he went downhill very quickly over two months, and I thought I'd heard somewhere that some cancers killed you quickly, while others lingered for years. Which kind would I be dealt, I wondered.
âI expect he's watching over you, you know. He may not have been at our wedding, but by God he loved his little girl.' I shut my eyes.
I had been twenty-five at the time, and due to be married to Ger that summer. We had been together for years but had been wary of rushing into marriage earlier: both sets of parents had been less than blissfully happy. But finally the wedding was all organized, the honeymoon booked. We were already living together: we couldn't afford to keep two flats going but this was something that was frowned upon in those days. I hadn't told my own mother â she hadn't asked, and I hadn't volunteered the information, but Ger's mother knew and was not at all happy about it. So we were quite keen to get on and marry. Then Dad got sick and everything changed.
I knew before I was told. One day I saw him walking up the hill to our house. He was only sixty-six but he was hunched over like a man twenty years older, coughing and coughing. He had been such an upright, smart man: he always wore a tie, his hair always neatly slicked back, even though he worked on construction sites. I knew there was something terribly wrong, and sure enough, a few days later he was in hospital for tests. Then he was sent home again, and when I asked my mother she seemed confused.
âI don't know, pet,' she said. âI'll look after him here and let's hope he gets better.'
Ger collected me from work one day. âI have some news for you about your Dad,' he said. âHe has cancer.' I needed to find out more, so I rushed in to the hospital to see the consultant. âCan you tell me what's the story with my father?' I asked him. He explained that the tests were inconclusive, but he was fairly sure it was advanced cancer, and they would be doing more tests.
âIs he a smoker?' he asked.
âYes,' I said. âAll his life. 80 Woodbines a day.' He made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders and held his palms up as if to say, âWell, what can you expect?'
âI'm afraid there is very little that can be done for him at this stage. We will do our best to make him comfortable.'
Dad did not know he had cancer. It was a hushed word in those days, and still is, to a degree. It seems to be a taboo subject, second only to AIDS in the fear it inspires in people. I don't think we should be afraid of the word, and now I am very straight when I tell people what I have had. I regret now that I did not say, âI know you're dying, tell me what you want to say.' I am sorry I did not tell him how much I loved him. But back then I was afraid too, and I was used to keeping secrets in my house.
âI want to walk you up the aisle, so I do,' my father said to me. âCould you wait a little longer until I'm well?'
âOf course, Dad, we'll postpone it as long as we need to. You'll get better,' I promised.
But he was dead in two months. I could not save him.
The clatter of the dinner trolley brought me back to the present, and I looked up to see Ger rubbing his hands at the thought of the steak and kidney pie he had ordered. I could face nothing more than a cup of tea and slice of bread. We were both trying so hard not to fall to pieces, but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach refused to ease, even with a little food.
The afternoon ticked on. Shortly after the tea trolley had been round, the oncologist appeared. The moment of truth had arrived, and I splashed my tea on the bed cover in my hurry to stand up. I was surprised and immensely cheered â the man was beaming.
âGreat news!' he announced. âIt's lymphoma. Cancer of the lymph glands.'
âUm â how is that great news?' I asked, glancing at Ger who was smiling broadly, if looking a bit confused.
âIt is at a very early stage. You will not need chemotherapy, only steroids. You won't lose your hair. Nevertheless, you will be in and out of here over the next year or so.'
Suddenly I felt fantastic. I had spent the day believing that it was my fate to end up like the poor woman on the ward, or like my father. Now it appeared I was being given a stay of execution.
âYou'll have a few more tests over the next few days, and then you'll need to take this prescription to the dispensary to collect your drugs. Follow the instructions on the packets. I'll get my secretary to make a follow-up appointment for a few weeks' time to see how you're getting on. Goodbye for now.' He shook our hands.
âThank you, thank you,' I breathed, hugely grateful to this oncologist who, it seemed, had just told me I was not about to die after all. He was a hero, a saviour. A huge sense of relief washed over us both, and after he had gone we just stood there grinning stupidly at each other.
Later that day I had to have a piece of bone marrow taken out of my hip, I imagined so they could check to see whether the cancer had spread to the marrow. The doctor did not use an anaesthetic â I didn't think to ask why â but plunged the thick needle straight into my hip, twice, leaving it there each time for over a minute. I gasped in shock â I had never felt pain like this, and the only tools I had for dealing with agony like this were the breathing techniques I had learnt when I gave birth to Richard and Sarah. Holding on to a nurse I panted loudly, trying to rise above the pain and think of each breath. I squeezed her arm so tightly I must have hurt her quite badly. Then it was over.
The test results were clear, showing that â thankfully â the cancer had not spread. A few days later we walked through the ward on the way to the dispensary. The bed opposite mine was empty and I looked enquiringly at Ger. He put his arm around my shoulders. âShe's not in pain any longer.'
We left the hospital with mountains of drugs. The treatment had begun.
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