There's Nothing More to Do
South Kensington Station, London, UK
Female, age 24
As we walked down the steps and into the station, Mum reached into her pocket to get out her oyster card, and took out a clean tissue so she could dry the tears that were trickling down her face. This was the first time I had seen her cry.
She has been brilliant through all of this. She was a nurse once upon a time before my brother and I came along, and although I am her daughter and she should never have to deal with any of this, her inner Florence Nightingale has really shone through these last few months.
It’s hard to believe that it really has only been a few months since I found it. A lump. Something that should not have been where it was. Something that surely must be the cause of the aches and pains and general weariness I had been feeling for a few weeks. I’ve done enough reading online by now to know that people just ‘know’ when something is amiss. When I found it, I just ‘knew’.
They would have to do tests to define what type of cancer it was; whether it was more of a teenage cancer that I should be able to bounce back from more quickly and wasn’t strongly linked to lifestyle or environmental risk factors, or if it were something more mature. I was right on the border age wise, and they’d require different treatment strategies.
My mind kept coming back to the fact I had cancer at the age of 24. I wasn’t even old enough to be called for a cervical smear, yet I had cancer. Cancer.
The confident, worldly, ambitious and successful [for my age] woman I prided myself on being shrunk into a little girl and I called Mum. I was coming home. I needed her.
She didn’t break down, but stoically hugged me and told me that whatever happened, it would be okay. Then she put in place an action plan and charged at the whole thing like a bull. She probed for answers and campaigned for faster results. It was taking a while, so she made sure that I used this diagnosis period wisely and harvested some eggs for the future, in case…
Finally the doctors came up with a treatment plan, and I was to undergo chemotherapy. Mum took me to the hairdresser to get my hair cut short so I wouldn’t be too shocked when I lost my hair, found me an Hermes scarf on EBay that we bid on together, bought me a stack of magazines and made a schedule of friends and family to sit with me at each session. She was always there at 3am when I woke up and didn’t feel at all well, and throughout all of this, she remained calm and positive.
The treatment didn’t work. I got my scans back, and the cancer had not only grown but had spread to my lymph nodes. I was terrified. Mum, meanwhile, was arranging for me to see the country’s foremost specialist in this area. He was based in London, at the Royal Marsden in Chelsea, and his tactic was a lot more aggressive. When he told me I was going to feel horrible, I didn’t realize just how horrible. Still, each time I got scared Mum was there and she would reassure me, time and again, that whatever happened it would be okay. She was imperturbable.
At the end of my second round of treatment, we decided to make a bit of a day of going up to London to see the specialist and get my results. My appointment was at twelve, and although she knew I was tired Mum suggested we drop into the V&A museum for a quick look at some of Jackie O’s dresses. It would give me something to think about other than the obvious. Afterwards we would walk down the Kings Road, have lunch and do some shopping at Peter Jones. It would give me something to look forward to.
On the train on the way up to London, Mum mused about how much she loved Jackie O’s style and which dresses would be showcased. We took a taxi from Victoria Station to the V&A, slowly strolled around the exhibition and then on to the Royal Marsden for my appointment. If she were at all nervous, she didn’t let on, and seemed on the whole quite upbeat and maybe hopeful this would all be coming to an end.
The doctor’s words danced mockingly around me. I couldn’t really take them all in, but the gist was that the treatment hadn’t worked, the cancer had spread more and the chances of me surviving this were now very slim. He was going to do a little more investigating, but I should perhaps prepare myself for the thing nobody wants to prepare themselves for, and least of all a 24 year old.
We left the hospital and instead of turning down towards the Kings Road, Mum turned to me and said, “let’s go home, shall we?” She only had energy enough to walk to South Kensington, take the tube and train home. She was admitting defeat. She was crying. It was time to take me home and to prepare to watch me fade away.
