Somehow, Christmas Day itself was a bit of a let-down. Franny was ill in bed with flu and my brother spent the whole day at his girlfriend’s house. The rest of us had to go to Mass again while my mum cooked Christmas dinner. Mum was a bit worried about Franny being ill and upset about Martin not being home, and Dad seemed preoccupied, too. Franny made a brief appearance when we opened the presents which were piled under the tree. I felt a bit sad because there wasn’t one for me from Martyn. My parents bought me a gold cross and chain. It was very pretty and delicate and I put it on straight away. ‘I’ll never take it off,’ I told them.
I stretched out my leg again and Dad noticed.
‘Is it still hurting you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it’s very sore tonight,’ I said, as I winced in pain.
He told me that the following day, Boxing Day, he would ring Barry Peach, an old friend of his from medical school and an orthopaedic surgeon at our local hospital.
‘What’s an orthopaedic surgeon?’
‘A specialist doctor – someone who looks after bones and joints.’ I filed the information away for medical school …
Sitting here in Mr Peach’s tidy office, I replay in my mind my last run with my brother. The examination has now been completed and X-rays of my knee carried out. With a theatrical gesture, Mr Peach pins the picture up on a white illuminated box fixed on the wall in front of me.
‘See here, Little Lady,’ Mr Peach is pointing at the box, ‘this is the problem, just here.’ I look at the outline of my knee joint, labelling the bones for practice. ‘Patella, tibia, fibula and femur,’ I whisper under my breath, and Mr Peach smiles. And I see it – a large, white, hard lump, sitting on my bone in the wrong place.
‘A limpet,’ I think to myself. ‘It looks just like a limpet clinging to my leg.’
My mouth is suddenly dry and my palms begin to sweat. I feel hot and cold and very, very scared. My heart is pounding in my chest as if it will burst. The voices of my dad and Mr Peach seem to recede into the distance.
‘O God, don’t let it be cancer,’ I pray, more fervently than I would have thought possible. I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the Limpet is cruel, ugly and evil.
I lean forward and peer at it harder. Maybe by looking hard enough I can wish it away. I inspect my enemy and prepare myself for the fight ahead, for a fight I know there will be. Somewhere, deep inside, I know the Limpet will change my life beyond recognition. A terrifying and unknown beast, I realize it has the power to kill me. I know what it is. It is a tumour. It is Cancer with a big C. I’m dying.
‘I am too young, Limpet,’ I cry inside and I see I am hopelessly ill-equipped for this battle. I am a novice, a frightened soldier facing war for the first time.
‘Why? Why me? Why now?’ I ask despairingly.
The Limpet remains coldly and complacently silent.
God doesn’t answer me either.
In the distance I hear faint strains of music. I try to place the tune and recognize ‘Auld Lang Syne’. I open my eyes slowly. Lying flat on my back, I see a system of pulleys and ropes above me. I make to sit up but cry out as I feel agonizing pain in my left hip. Then comes the reassuring touch of another human hand.
‘It’s okay, Mary, you’ve had your operation.’ The nurse’s voice echoes, sounding too loud. ‘Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year.’
I am in the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool, and I have just had my biopsy operation. My Boxing Day consultation with Mr Peach was five brief days ago and the very next day he admitted me to Ward Eight. It is midnight on New Year’s Eve and I am waking up after surgery. I drift back into a heavy, drugged sleep.
Later, I awake on the first morning of 1983 with no idea what lies ahead for me this year. I manage to pull myself far enough up the bed to view the contraption that I seem to be a part of. My left leg is swathed from hip to toe in a heavy layer of bandages. A tight ring, made of leather, encircles the top of my thigh and is attached to a metal frame. The frame seems to be part of the pulley and rope system and a set of heavy metal weights finishes the whole thing off. I shift my position and pain shoots through my body. I realize it comes not from my leg but from my hip which is covered in dressings and has a large tube coming out of it. As I begin to panic at my strange and new surroundings, there is a knock on the door and Mr Peach sweeps in with a broad smile on his face.
‘And how is my Little Lady today, then?’
The contraption, he tells me, is called a Thomas Splint and will be with me for a while.
‘The operation was bigger than I thought would be necessary. We had to cut a lot of bone marrow away under the lump. There’s only a tiny wafer of bone left. That’s why you need the splint.’
‘So what did you fill the hole up with?’
‘We packed it with bone chips from your hip.’
‘Is that why my hip hurts, then?’ I am piecing together this puzzle.
‘Yes, that’s a bone graft and I’m afraid it will be very sore.’ He looks at me apologetically. ‘Be brave, Little Lady!’ I nod seriously, for I would do anything he tells me.
‘I have some more news.’ He is grave now. ‘Because the bone will be so weak, you will have to use a calliper to walk.’ I know what a calliper is. I have seen musty old photographs of my father wearing one after he had a leg operation as a child. My heart sinks and I try to imagine how I will manage at school and university. As if reading my thoughts, Mr Peach says I should delay my university entrance by a year because of the difficulties of getting around.
Anxiously, I ask Mr Peach how long I am going to be in my Thomas Splint.
‘I’m afraid it will be quite some time. Probably six weeks at least.’
‘How will I manage? It’s so uncomfortable!’
‘You will get used to it,’ he reassures me in his kindly way, ‘and we will help you all we can.’
It feels as if the bottom has dropped out of my world. I realize I will miss my mock A level examinations, maybe even my A levels themselves.
Mr Peach goes on to explain about the tubes draining my wound, the catheter in my bladder and the intravenous drip in my arm. I feel overwhelmed by my new situation but he pats my hand, inspiring me with confidence as he says: ‘Just think what a better doctor you will be for this.’
‘I know, I’ll be the best orthopaedic surgeon ever!’ I enthuse.
‘Well, you will need to get some muscles then, Little Lady!’ he laughs, and leaves the room that will now become my prison for the next six weeks.
Visitors arrive in droves. My mum and dad visit me often, appearing strained and worried. I reassure them by saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine with my calliper.’ My brothers and sisters, friends and school teachers drop in, too. I am in a great deal of pain, particularly from the hip graft, and I have lost a large amount of blood so I tire very easily. The immobility and discomfort from the Thomas Splint cause me to sleep badly and I soon feel very discouraged.
My