I walked up and down Julie and David’s living room with tears streaming down my face. Why, oh why couldn’t this cancer just leave me alone? I eventually sat down and allowed the peace and tranquillity of west Cork calm me. I was desperately trying to stop thinking. It can be so hard when you’ve been delivered a bombshell, albeit in the most gentle and professional way by my consultant oncologist, Dr Deirdre O’Mahony.

I thought I was ready for all eventualities. I wasn’t. The stereotactic radiotherapy that I’d had to my lungs, under the expertise of Dr Paul Kelly, consultant radiation oncologist, had been successful.

But, there was a new intruder under my arm, deeply embedded where the blood vessels and nerves turn to travel down my arm. An MRI was ordered. The surgical option was discussed with Professor James Clover in CUH. It was a mammoth task. The intruder was bigger than first thought and had wrapped itself around my scapula. Radiotherapy was probably the treatment of choice.

ADVERTISEMENT

The planning started.

Knot in my belly

A few days later, Dr Paul suggested a consultation. The instinctive knot in my belly told me this was not good news. When cancer is as rare as mine is, the importance of doctors collaborating is really beneficial.

I was trying to hold onto positive thoughts but they fell like feathers onto the floor and blew away

Sitting in Dr Paul’s room with my scan up on the screen and the awful yoke clearly visible; he explained the new twist in my story. His patience, expertise and diligence were admirable as he did a SWAT analysis of the situation. He had spoken to James and Deirdre. There were options, radiotherapy, surgery, but nothing was simple. I hadn’t realised where he was going with his analysis until he said “maybe, this is the time to get a second opinion from a hospital and multi-disciplinary team with experience of a higher volume of sarcoma patients”. He was speaking about London. If I opted for this route, then the stereotactic radiation would be on hold until London spoke.

I had to take the chance. Yet I was terribly conflicted, wanting to take action to curb the growth of the tumour. I was trying to hold onto positive thoughts but they fell like feathers onto the floor and blew away. They were replaced by black, angry ones. This was new and very unlike me. Tim was equally gutted, but we had to pick up the pieces.

Diarmuid was due in the Mercy University Hospital for a check-up. I had promised to go to Enniskeane to pick up Ricky from school.

The phrases “second opinion, surgery in London, high volume of cases” were hard to take in. I turned on the TV and started to watch Sullivan’s Crossing. The signature tune is soothing. Thankfully, I had an hour to spare before presenting myself at the school gate to collect Ricky. I needed to have a smile on my face. There is no way I would upset that little boy in senior infants by being sad. It was hard to stop my tears but I did.

There’s my granny

I saw Ricky coming down the path with his schoolmates. His face lit up when he saw me and I could hear him saying “there’s my granny”. The surge of love when I heard those words renewed my resolve to have faith in my medical team. Ricky ran all the way into my outstretched arms. His lovely news poured out of him.

I’m back on track. London has spoken. I’ve 15 sessions out of 25 of radiotherapy done. Then surgery will be explored. More time brings new opportunities. That’s what I will tell the audience at the Women & Agriculture conference in Sligo. Every day matters and I live them with gusto.