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CHAPTER 1

Part One

Views From the Edge

It was spring 2015. And until then I was pretty normal.

It all started simply enough and in many ways was the usual story. My husband Robin and I had moved down to Dorset from Sussex the year before, heading west like so many before us. We'd been married 10 years – still happy we'd found a late but wildly flowering relationship that continually surprised us. We soon discovered some like-hearted, light-minded friends in our village. Even our quirky cats and rescue dog bounced into their new 'escape to the country'. It was all to play for – new environment, new haunts to eat and drink, new friends, new adventures. We were the envy of friends and family.

But then life threw us a curveball. At first, I wrote about it a day at a time. It was the only way to handle it then, bit by bit ...

10 April 2015

After suffering months of discomfort and pain beneath his ribcage on his left side, Robin finally convinced his new GP to refer him for an endoscopy. This was The Day. He was hoping he'd at last discover what was actually wrong with him instead of enduring endless guesswork from the doctors and locums he had seen at the GP practice. He'd had endoscopies in the past so wasn't unduly worried about the procedure. We weren't expecting what happened next.

They called me in from the waiting room and I found Robin in a side room, pale and quiet. The nurse said simply that the endoscopy had shown a substantial growth in the oesophagus and the clinical nurse specialist would come down shortly to go through it all with us. By then we were both 'pale and quiet', surprised and in shock.

Specialist nurse Jane arrived. I had a mass of questions and Jane was lovely, calm and kind. It wasn't long before the C word came up. They'd taken a biopsy which would confirm whether the growth was malignant. There would also be a CT scan and an appointment with the consultant after that to go through the final diagnosis and options. Jane looked as though she already knew where all this was going and my questions were being gently guided down the 'probability of cancer' route. But the consultant would review all the results and go through it with us after the scan.

The CT scan was arranged for 10 days' time. (10 whole days?! What were we supposed to do in the meantime? Wasn't speed vital with potentially life-threatening diagnoses?) But it was out of our hands – we were now 'in the system'. It was both a relief that someone was taking him seriously at last, and also the scariest thing in the world.

We left the hospital dazed and conflicted. Robin was satisfied, in a way, that there had been something wrong all along and that he wasn't 'malingering' at the GP's. And once we knew exactly what it was, we could do something about it. We hoped.

We had a hassled week of restless sleep. It was hard not to overthink it, and were buoying each other up to get through the uncertain days. We told some of our close people, but not everyone yet as there was no really definite news or plans for treatment until after the scan.

Robin was in pain and discomfort following the endoscopy and biopsy, and wasn't eating much. I made loads of soups and smoothies, and tried to keep active and positive.

We somehow got through the days. When the sun came out we spent a bright afternoon down at West Bay with an excited Freya dog barking and playing in the sea. It was good and very therapeutic. The next day we walked along the local stream, enjoying the simple pleasures of wood anemones and tiny new lambs.

The cherry tree in the front garden just outside my window was bursting with buds, obliviously pushing forward into spring. The garden, after Robin's earlier hard work and totally unaware of the turmoil inside the house, was bursting out all over and already looking lovely. And Robin had plans for much, much more.

21 April 2015

The CT scan was pretty straightforward and a familiar procedure. It wasn't the first time we'd been in this department. Unfortunately the previous scan and ultrasound they did on Robin was apparently 'abdomen only' and didn't include the now all-important upper digestive tract. ('Why???' I wanted to scream.) No news yet. The consultant appointment was the following day.

22 April 2015

Okay this was it. We drove the 30 miles to Weymouth hospital to see the consultant. When we went in, he started with the words, 'This is bad news I'm afraid.' He actually looked afraid. He told us the cancer was at the base of the oesophagus and top of stomach, and had also spread to a small spot on the liver. It was inoperable. He said Robin had months rather than years.

Robin was amazingly calm and asked lots of questions. As I sat there listening to one bad thing after another, my mind dissolved and I fainted. I'm not usually the fainting kind, and when I came to, the consultant and nurse were kneeling beside me asking if I was all right. Dumb question ...

Unfortunately, because I'd had pulmonary embolisms three months before, they were telling me to go back to Dorchester hospital and get checked out. The timing couldn't have been worse. With Robin's blindingly bleak diagnosis, the last place we wanted to go was another hospital. He drove me there and although was obviously struggling with being back at Dorchester, he was still kindness itself in spite of his far greater problems and obvious shock. We left after a couple of hours and headed home.

By then we were both feeling sick, cold and shattered. It was the most awful day. We laid low and decided to tell people tomorrow, though we did both call our sisters in the end.

We had a fitful night, waking and dozing in turns, holding each other, feeling devastated. Terms like 'sick with worry' and 'frozen with fear' suddenly made perfect sense to me, obviously coined by those feeling as we did now.

23 April 2015

We felt a bit easier on waking, not quite so panicky or sick. We phoned and emailed all our main people. The hardest bit was hearing their shock and devastation, not to mention tears and outrage.

We went shopping to get some easy things for Robin to eat – veggies for soups and smoothies. Wine for me. We were trying to be normal. Feeling anything but.

Later we took Freya to Charmouth beach – I was trying hard not to think how many more times we'd come here. Dorset countryside is so rapturously beautiful in the sunshine. How could I ever enjoy being here without Robin?

He made Thai noodle soup for supper and we both ate some. It was gorgeous and light. He decided he would go off to his short mat bowls club at the Village Hall this evening. I was glad he felt normal enough to do that. Me, I was reading lots of heartfelt replies to our earlier emails. And writing this.

24 – 27 April 2015

Up, down, up, down. Days of trying to do normal things like shopping, walking Freya, talking to people etc. Not feeling normal. It was a very grey day on Sunday and Robin wasn't well. We pushed ourselves to go to an Open Garden nearby that was supposed to be ravishing and it truly was. Sadly we weren't.

28 April 2015

We had an early appointment at Dorchester hospital to see the senior oncology consultant. We were both, we realised later, dreading it – imagining more of last week's gloom and doom. I had been busy online researching various new cancer treatment trials Robin could possibly go on and felt I had weapons in my armoury ready for firing. Actually I felt more like a wet dishcloth.

BUT it was good news, or what passed as good news to us those days. Yes, he said, Robin was a prime candidate for the gold standard drug cocktail chemotherapy cycle to hopefully halt but also (I heard him say it) to shrinkthe tumours.

No promises obviously. But he mentioned the '3 months', '6 months', '9 months', 'next year' words that were sheer music to my ears. The drugs may or may not work, he said, but the side effects were usually tolerable and if not they could consider a different mix.

Suddenly, there were options. There were possibilities. I was joyful. There may be no cures, but there were more chances than there were yesterday.

Robin has been brilliant. But when we left he was quiet and obviously worried. Having felt so ill and awful over the past few months, he was now imagining this heavy new regime might actually make him feel even worse and admitted he's not good with pain and discomfort. This from the man who'd had endoscopies and colonoscopies, tests, scans and other procedures with aplomb. But he was so tired from going through all this for so long, the hurtling juggernaut of toxic medicines and hospital visits heading his way seemed to be painting a pretty grim future. It was the unknown again. And who could blame him.

He managed to eat a good meal and went to bed early. It's another day tomorrow. My joy was tempered with a heavy dose of reality. But it was still better than yesterday. For me anyway.

29 April 2015

Another hiccup. Robin had toothache and the info about chemo from the hospital said to get all this checked out before chemo starts. So he saw the dentist first thing today and apparently had a gum infection and needed two teeth out. After phoning Jane, our clinical specialist nurse, he tried to get an early appointment to have the teeth extracted asap. The chemo would have to be postponed.

After the initial relief that some sort of treatment was about to start at the hospital after all this time, this frustration, at least for me, was mind grabbing. The chemo department said to come for the pre-chemo appointment today anyway so we spent the afternoon at the hospital. Chemo nurse Caroline talked us through the whole thing and super-efficiently sorted everything on the phone with Robin's dentist as though she did all this sort of thing all the time. She does, of course. And she did it so well. The chemo itself was pushed back just a week, and in the meantime, poor Robin had a dental appointment the next morning to have the teeth extracted, followed by a week on antibiotics to clear any infection. Sigh. Phew. It's never up but it's down.

I hoped perhaps the extra week would give him time to get used to the chemo idea and calm his spirit. It's been so tough for him.

All the emails and phone calls from family and friends were lovely, positive and bright. Everyone was rooting for him. Me too. In buckets.

30 April 2015

Not a good start. Robin woke up in pain thinking this may now be the norm. He went to the dentist anyway and had the two teeth out, but they wouldn't give him the required antibiotics the chemo nurse had asked for. Back home again we got on the phone to the chemo dept and they were wonderful, instantly reassuring, and organised the medication direct with our doctor.

We did some shopping and then went to the GP's to pick up the antibiotics as well as Robin's new protein drinks to help him get enough nutrients when he couldn't eat properly. A huge crate full of bottles appeared in reception. Robin at least managed a smile, saying they obviously thought he'd be around for a while yet to give him so many ...

I made risotto for supper – a disaster as he couldn't eat it. So keen was I to find something light and tasty, I'd completely forgotten the 'not being able to chew because of having had teeth out' situation. It all landed up in the bin. What am I like. It served me right. I felt awful.

The evening picked up with us watching The Good Wife on TV in bed. Peace and harmony was restored. What would tomorrow bring?

1–2 May 2015

Starting the day on a positive note, we dug out Robin's ancient blender from the back of the cupboard (more used to mixing cocktails in his wild youth) and started whizzing up some carrot and tangerine juice. It got very thick and pulpy so I went online for some suggestions. Aha! Squeeze it out in a muslin bag or similar, said a woman on YouTube – the pith stays in bag and a lovely smooth juice emerges. I used our Onya net vegetable bags and got perfect results – it even tasted great.

Spurred on, I chopped some veggies for soup and got the breadmaker going. Domestic goddess? Hardly, but it felt better to be doing something useful. Then I made lemon and coriander pasta for supper which was yum and easy to eat (I hoped), but Robin gave up halfway through and fancied cereal and yogurt instead. He was taking his herbal tonic twice a day now, so I must brew some more in a couple of days.

By then he decided it was time for his sister Lynne to come down (she'd been wanting to for ages but had been selflessly giving him space to adjust and adapt to the big C news) so I arranged for that, too. I reckoned it'd be very emotional but also good for them both, and for me. I went into mad cleaning and washing for tomorrow. (It's known locally here as 'immaculating' your house for visitors ...)

I gave Robin a massage this afternoon. He was obviously very tense and anxious, quite naturally given what was going on, but responded brilliantly and relaxed enough to watch a Nick Cave documentary, sipping his protein drink.

Everyone round here was so thoughtful and kind. Quite humbling. And also very nurturing for us both.

3 May 2015

We had a bad night with one of our elderly cats keeping us both awake. R got very stressed, me I was just knackered. In the morning, Robin asked me to call Lynne and suggest we abandon today for her visit as he said he just wasn't up to seeing anyone.

It would be good to wake up from this nightmare. The weather was rainy and windy (typical bank holiday) and perfectly mirrored our spirits. I took Freya dog out – walking in the fields is always very therapeutic, even in the rain. But when I got back I found Robin slumped on the bed feeling so ill he thought he was dying. He'd been hoovering the house and then mowed the grass and had obviously overdone it. We talked, I listened and encouraged. He then agreed to try a healing meditation tape that a friend had given us. It relaxed him down and I tempted him afterwards with juices and soup.

It's pretty hard all this and it amazed me that so many people go through these things every day and still carry on. I was doing my best to be positive and support Robin, but it was knackering emotionally and physically for both of us, and we'd barely started yet. I thought perhaps you might slip into a rhythm when the chemo treatment starts. I hoped so.

4 May 2015

What a difference a day makes. After a good night's sleep Robin was feeling much better. His sister Lynne and brother-in-law Philip arrived at 11ish and after a few emotional hugs and hellos, we had a splendid, mostly normal spring day, walking in the bluebell woods, having Indonesian noodle soup for lunch followed by tea and biscuits, even laughs and jokes around the table. It was heaven and so lovely to see and hear Robin being positive and happy. A joyful day.

6 May 2015

Yesterday Robin went for his dental deep clean – poor guy, it seemed to be coming all at once for him. His face was frozen for most of the day from numerous injections, so he was unable to eat, drink or even sip. He bore it bravely, though, and we gorged on Game of Thrones episodes ...

Today was more positive again. I noticed a slight gallows humour coming in now which was a little disconcerting at first. He was also going through his watch collection and sending off special ones to his sister and nieces, and organising others for his special friends. He said he was just saying in the cards that he's 'still here, don't worry', but I was sure they would. It was a lovely thought but perhaps a bit premature. Or not. Who knows.

We went to Bridport to buy a hat for when his hair falls out from chemo – we laughed as he looked like a groovy rock god. Well, I suppose he was really. I bought some new specs. He was going to, too, but joked about whether it was worth it. (There was that gallows humour again.) New phone or not new phone? Monthly tariff or just a new sim card till 'whenever' ... It was a bit hard to deal with this new jokey stuff. Or maybe it wasn't jokey at all. That was the terrifying bit.

8 May 2015

Here we go. Chemo day. We had an early start for Robin's first session at DCH (Dorchester County Hospital). Our lovely neighbour Mel was helping us out with dog walking, even though she'd had a late night herself after election duties in Bridport until the early hours.

The chemo department was empty when we arrived at the prescribed 8.30am, and we waited a while before seeing the chemo nurse. She smiled reassuringly but then took Robin briskly away for his treatment. No room for partners or friends in the chemo suite apparently and I suddenly felt bereft. Robin and I had been through so much of this together over the last few months, it seemed strange and cruel that they whisked him away to sit there around six hours on his own. When I asked, they said that the chemo area wasn't big enough for 'extra people'. I felt a like a spare part.

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Excerpted from "Tales from the Wishbone Tree"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Helly Eaton.
Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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