Synopsis

Telling the children that their mother has cancer was probably the most difficult conversation I have ever had. Their little faces dropped, and I was immediately overcome with guilt for having a disease that was out of my control.

‘Are you going to die?’ said Steph.

Trying to sound as positive as I could, I said, ‘I hope not, but you know everybody is going to die at some point; we just don’t know when.’

‘But Mummy, are you going to die?’ Saz knitted his brow with confusion, not really understanding what cancer meant.

‘Well, I’m going to have surgery to take away the cancer and then I should be OK.’

‘Joey’s mum died from cancer last year.’ I thought Tom would connect the two—10-year-olds are pretty quick.

‘Yes, she did, but that doesn’t mean everybody who has cancer dies from it. There are many cancer survivors, not just victims.’ Tom was at an age now where you couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes. I just wished I could pull the wool over mine.

‘Listen, guys, let’s be positive about this.’

‘Why?’ said Steph, bowing her head.

‘Simply, darling, because there’s nothing else we can do.’ It sounded convincing enough; if only I believed it myself.

Dr O’Shea was back from his Eastern States trip. I went to see him and we had a long discussion about my impending surgery.

I knew that the surgery was relatively radical, but I hadn’t fully taken in how invasive it was going to be.

It would take a few hours, and in that time Dr O’Shea (with the help of an assistant to hold my tongue) would cut a 1–2 centimetre margin around the site of the tumour. That is a huge piece of tongue to lose.

Once this tricky part of the surgery was finished, he would insert a feeding tube into my throat and nose for nutrition purposes and, finally, put an oxygen mask on my face to increase airflow.

The drip feeding the anaesthetic would be used for pain relief and, from what I could gather, I would be needing this one the most.

Dr O’Shea was wary of the tongue swelling and blocking the upper airway, cutting off my breathing. He said it might be necessary during the surgery to perform an ‘in case of emergency’ tracheotomy but would decide at the time.

My speech would also be affected considerably, so I would be given a ‘Magna Doodle’ (a mini erasable message board) as my way of communication.

I was beginning to feel nervous and very protective of my tongue, despite it being plagued with cancer.

‘What if I don’t have the surgery?’ I questioned Dr O’Shea.

He paused and then said, ‘You will die. This type of cancer is known to be aggressive. You may be lucky and get six to 12 months. Maybe longer. But it will kill you if it is untreated.’

Six to 12 months? Was he kidding? It takes me that long to clear the clutter from my laundry bench.

I really couldn’t take it all in. ‘Better have the surgery, then,’ I said.

‘Do you have any questions?’ Dr O’Shea smiled.

‘No, thanks. I think I’ve heard enough for one day.’ I stood, indicating that the appointment was over. I didn’t want to hear anything else.

‘See you Saturday morning. Take care.’ He outstretched his huge hand and gently shook mine.

I nodded but had no words.

(Excerpt taken from the chapter “Tough as old rope”)