Dream saved my life!
Wednesday 12th November 2008
The radio crackled in the background, sunlight filtered through the hospital windows, and the surgeon's voice was muffled behind his mask. All normal, except…Dear God, no! They were about to operate on me, and I was awake.
'Third mastectomy I've done this week,' the surgeon said calmly, as he drew a line on my chest. Please stop, I tried to scream, but no words would come.
'Cancer. Poor woman,' tutted his assistant.
I'm awake!
As the knife loomed into view, I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the pain to explode in my chest.But then, the surgeon's face changed. It was different. Older. Hang on. That was no surgeon. It was my husband, Des, then 41.
'You've been having a nightmare love,' he said gently.
'I was in an operating theatre,' I mumbled groggily. 'I had breast cancer. They were about cut me open.'
Des rolled his eyes.
'Blimey,' he laughed. 'You're a ray of sunshine to be on holiday with!'
And that's when I remembered where I really was.
It was September 2000, and we were on a fortnight's holiday in Torremolinos on Spain's Costa Del Sol, with our 11-year-old daughter, Sam, and my sister, Carol, 52. I didn't have cancer. I hadn't had a mastectomy. It was just a dream.It was no wonder I was having nightmares, what with the luck my family was having. My mum Eileen, 71, had just been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. That's all it was, I decided. Nothing to do with me, just silly fears over Mum. For the rest of the holiday, I pushed my cancer nightmare to the back of my mind and concentrated on trying to relax. Mum hadn't wanted me to worry about her on holiday.
But, the following week, back at home, I was in the shower when the dream came flooding back. This time, it was even more vivid. The surgeon's face… the knife cutting into me…It felt so real. Should I just check? I thought, my hands straying down to my breast. Even though I felt daft, it couldn't hurt so, stepping out of the shower, I dried myself off and put on my bathrobe. I went into my bedroom, lay down on the bed and tentatively reached under the robe. As I squeezed and prodded my left breast, I sighed with relief. Nothing there to worry about.But as I moved my hand over my right breast, I froze. There was something there. A hard lump the size of a pea. Panic shot through me.
When Des got in from work as an engineer, I was still sitting in the same position, feeling the lump. I got him to feel it, too.
'Hmm,' he murmured. 'It's definitely a lump.'
The next morning, I was first in the GP's door, and he referred me to a specialist at a breast clinic in Windsor. By the end of the month, the specialist had removed the lump under general anaesthetic, so it could be tested. A week later, I went back for the results.
'There's no easy way to say this,' the specialist said. 'The lump was a grade three tumour. You need a mastectomy.'
I gasped. My dream was coming true.
The specialist explained he had found three tumours, which meant it was an aggressive form of cancer.
'You're lucky you checked when you did,' he added.
I didn't feel lucky. I was facing the battle of my life.
'How will I tell Sam?' I sobbed to Des, back home. 'She knows her gran is dying and now she's going to have to cope with this.'
But there was no need to tell her. She'd overheard us, and burst into the room.
'It's cancer, isn't it?' she cried.
No words could make things better. Instead, I clung to my daughter and sobbed like a child.
Later in bed, I turned to Des.
'Remember my dream?' I said. 'It must have been a premonition.'
The following week, I was admitted to Princess Christian's Hospital, Windsor, to have the mastectomy. As I was wheeled into theatre, everything felt sickeningly familiar. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the part of my dream where the surgeon had sliced into me. I just wanted those tumours out.
Two hours later, I came round in the recovery room and my first thought was sadness.
My right breast was gone. But then I felt relief. That meant the cancer was gone too.
Only it wasn't that simple. The specialist had warned that, if the cancer was also in my lymph nodes, it may have spread elsewhere.
'I removed your lymph nodes,' the surgeon said, when he came to see me. 'We'll test them to find out whether the cancer's spread.'
I prayed for good news and, a week later, I got it.
'Your lymph nodes were clear,' the specialist smiled. 'The cancer was limited to your right breast.'
But there wasn't any time for celebration because, a few days later, I began intensive chemotherapy. Everything you've ever read about chemo is true. The vomiting, hair loss, depression…The first session made me throw up practically nonstop for three days, and my hair fell out in clumps. After the second session, I broke down in my car outside the hospital.
'I'm sorry,' I sobbed to Des and Sam, back home. 'I can't take this. I'm going to stop the chemotherapy.'
They were both horrified.
'Don't you dare!' Sam yelled, suddenly much older than 11. 'We need you, Mum. You must fight this.'
I looked at her and knew she was right. My own mum was dying. I owed it to Sam to stay alive.
'All right, love,' I smiled weakly.
Over the next two weeks, I had four more chemo sessions.Des bought me a wig to cover my bald head and Sam fussed over me, bringing me bowls of tomato soup on the rare days I had an appetite.After chemo, the specialist put me on a course of radiotherapy. I did my best to stay positive, but it was hard, because by now, my mum was slipping away. In March 2001, she died, aged 73. Horror, devastation, fear. I felt it all. But mainly guilt.
Why was I still here when Mum hadn't made it? And one other thing refused to leave my mind. The dream.Had it been a premonition?
Des and Sam were convinced, like me, that it had been.
'If you hadn't had that dream, you'd never have checked your breast,' insisted Sam.
In August 2006, I had my final scan at Thames Valley Nuffield Hospital, in Slough.
'You're clear of cancer,' the specialist smiled.
As I heard the words I'd longed her to say, there was only one place I wanted to be.
'I'm sorry I made it and you didn't, Mum,' I said, sitting by her grave.
A month on, I decided to see a clairvoyant.
'Don't worry about your mum,' she said. 'She was there when you visited her grave and she wants you to know she's looking after you.'
It was a great comfort. I'll never forget my dream. Without it, I may not have been diagnosed until it was too late. If the cancer had gone into my lymph nodes, my chances of survival would have been greatly reduced. Life is precious and I want to make the most of it. I'd started training as a part-time palliative care nurse for Marie Curie Cancer Care in August 2004, and this February, I gave up my job and began to nurse full-time. Now I visit cancer patients in their homes to support them. My nightmare did a lot more than open my eyes to my health. It made me realise what's really important.