Forever Is Over (139 page)

‘
Change the record, Kelly!
’
I thought. Maybe she was going over
and over this to illustrate w
hy she had killed her sister!

“
What did you do, Kelly? Obviously it was something and that
’
s
why you are so upset, but what was it you did?
”

“
I struck back, Roddy. I needed to get some sort of revenge. I needed
Jemma to feel the way I feel, hurt and double crossed
…
..
”

I had a good idea what was coming.

“…
.so I told her I
’
d slept with Richie , that afternoon on the
‘
Sunny
Road
’
.
”

I knew that
’
s what Kelly was going to say. The problem I had
though, given the dramatics, was that I did not know how Kelly was
going to answer my next question,

“
And did you?
”

It was a question I had to ask. The answer meant everything to me.
There was no real reason for me to place so much importance on it,
but in those few seconds, I felt my destiny was dependent on her reply.
The short answer meant we had a future, the three letter one meant we
were over before we had begun. Kelly
’
s emotional baggage would be
too heavy for me to carry, i
f she
’
d slept with Richie before the crash.
I knew if that was the case, if I tried to lift it, the weight would break
my back.

Jemma was sound asleep. I watched her for a while, her face was
buried deep into her pillow and her legs were tucked into her chest. She
looked untroubled. I was jealous of her tranquillity as I could not sleep. I was troubled. That afternoon, we had been to Clatterbridge hospital for
our first appointment with a new consultant urologist, Mr. Mollon. As
a teenager, I thought my consultant looked ancient, this time though,
he looked so young that his facial hair seemed to have been drawn on
with eyeliner. Jemma said he must have been thirty, but if he was, he
had moisturised twice daily since nursery. He was a small man, a little
smaller than Jemma, with curly brown hair and smokers or poorly
brushed teeth. His mannerisms were those of a man who had traded
his nicotine patch for a snort of a gram of speed, he was twitchy and excessively upbeat which I found a little irritating!

Mr. Mollon was incredibly positive about my prognosis, but the
bare facts were that he was the bearer of bad news. A series of tests had
revealed that I did, as suspected, have testicular cancer, but alarmingly
I also had secondary cancer in my lungs. My internal bells continued
to ring as Mr. Mollon went on to tell us that as far as testicular cancer
goes, it is banded into three stages and I had Stage Three, the most
progressive. This time around I would not be escaping chemotherapy.
The reason for Mr. Mollon
’
s optimism despite my harrowing news,
was that statistics were on my side. 85% of testicular cancer sufferers,
who needed chemotherapy, went on to overcome their cancer, so the
scales of death and recovery were tilted in my favour. I remember Mr. Whiteside, my GP, had previously said though, that only one in
twenty five testicular lumps turned out to be cancer and mine turned
out to be that one in twenty five. I was not going to take anything for
granted, but I could not have been more determined to avoid being in
the 15% that lost their battle. I owed it to Jemma, Melissa and Jamie to
remain positive at all times.

Due to the progression of my cancer, Mr. Mollon explained that
it would be necessary for me to complete three or four cycles of
chemotherapy. He explained, to my great relief, that I would not have
to be admitted to hospital, but I could have my chemotherapy as an
outpatient. This would involve three days of being drip fed a cocktail of
drugs called BEP (Bleomycin, Etoposide and Cisplatin- with the
“
P
”
being the platinum from
‘
cisplatin
’
).

After three days of chemotherapy, there would be some respite, but
on Day 9, I would need to go back to hospital for further drugs and
then back again a week later, Day 16, for even more. My body was then
allowed another week off without being pumped full of anything, but
after that week
’
s rest, the cycle would start again. Mr. Mollon expected
the whole course of chemotherapy to take between two and three months.

As well as the treatment, we also discussed the side effects, but to
me it was an overdose of information, so I was grateful when Mr. Mollon
handed me a leaflet on chemotherapy and its side effects. As Jemma
lay there sleeping peacefully, I was flicking through a leaflet anxiously,
which explained how my body may react to being pumped full of drugs.
Risks of infection, reduced production
of platelets (which help blood
to clot and stop bleeding), anaemia (low blood cell count) potentially
leading to tiredness and breathlessness, nausea, vomiting, hair loss,
hearing problems and diarrohea, to name but a few. Ironically, I did
remember Mr. Mollon saying that the chemotherapy may harm our
chances of having any further children! I couldn
’
t complain too much
about the vasectomy trip though, as I was not put through the pain of
a vasectomy and more importantly, that trip to the Doctor
’
s may well
have saved my life.

That evening, I had made the dreaded phone calls to friends and
family. It
’
s amazing how guilty I felt about my cancer returning. I
felt as though I had let everybody down. When I reflected on those
feelings, I think it was because all our loved ones have to go through the
emotional turmoil that comes with serious illness, all because I failed to
keep checking myself. I had the same pitch in my mind for everyone I
spoke to, Mum and Dad, Jim, Helen, Caroline, old school friends, work
colleagues - they all received the same initial patter. A few pleasantries,
ask how they are, then I hit them with,

“
Now listen, I do not want you to panic, but I thought that I needed
to tell you that my cancer
’
s back
…
..
”

Once again, Mum, Helen and Caroline all cried. Mum did her
usual and asked a thousand further questions, but she was wonderfully
supportive. Dad, a changed man sinc
e my last bout of cancer and a
change for the better too, offered to pray for me and said he would
encourage the Vicar to ask the congregation to pray for me too. It
would be wrong to feel anything but grateful towards those kindhearted
people, but I wondered whether the 15% who didn
’
t make it, lost their
lives because of a lack of prayers? Whether they did or they didn
’
t, in
my eyes God did not come out of it looking good! Reminds me of the
footballers who cross themselves as they take to the field of play, to
thank God for making them millionaires. The same sportsmen tend to
overlook the fact that the same God might have just allowed millions of
their fellow countrymen to live in poverty or thousands to be killed by
natural disasters like floods or earthquakes. Religion has been diluted
through the centuries into something synthetic, but whether there was
any truth left from the carcass the powerful had fed on, I would find
out whenever fate (or God) decreed. If Dad is right and I
’
m wrong and
there is a God, Dad will be thoroughly miserable for eternity as all his
friends and family are non-believers so they won
’
t make it in.

As well as breaking my bad news to our friends and family, Jemma
and I also had to decide how to deal with breaking the news to our
children. We discussed our need to maintain a normality for Melissa
and Jamie and to leave it as late as possible before letting them know
that I
’
m not well. I would only tell them once it reached a stage that I
could not keep it from them any longer. This may mean telling Melissa
before Jamie, but we decided to just let events develop and take stock of
the state of play at regular intervals.

Jemma also felt uncomfortable about mentioning the
“
C
”
words,
cancer and chemotherapy. She said each time either word was mentioned,
it sent a shiver down her spine and we discussed alternatives we could
use. Jemma suggested we make an acronym from the letters
‘
BEP
’
, the
drugs we hoped would save my life and use that instead of constantly
referring to
‘
cancer
’
and
‘
chemo
’
. The best she could come up with
was
‘
Black Eyed Peas
’
, but when I spoke to Jim on the phone, the
conversation led on to an alternative acronym as he thought
‘
Black
Eyed Peas
’
was a stupid acronym as I had no interest in the band or
their music and I should find something more relevant to me. When
prompted for a suggestion, Jim came up with
‘
Boring Evertonian Prick!
’
Admittedly, it made me crease up with laughter, but if I was looking
for an inspirational acronym, that certainly wasn
’
t it either! I eventually
came up with,
“
Beating Every Problem
”
, which I thought was relevant
and motivational, as it was exactly what I intended on doing.

That night was the beginning of erratic sleep problems that would
hound me throughout my treatment. Each night, Jemma slept soundly.
I once said to her, only half joking, that this was because she wasn
’
t
as worried as me, but she saw it as a reflection that she had exhausted
herself from worrying during every waking second. She probably h
ad
a point.

I started
‘
Beating Every Problem
’
at Clatterbridge hospital the
following Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. A new battle for survival
had begun.

Kelly looked at me aghast.

“
Of course I didn
’
t sleep with him! I told you there was no attraction!
Why would I sleep with Richie if there was no longer any attraction?
”

“
You managed to persuade Jemma that you did!
”

“
I don
’
t know whether I did persuade her. I just wanted to place
a seed of doubt in her brain that maybe her perfect marriage was not
quite so perfect.
”

I have to admit this vindictive side of Kelly was not a side I liked at
all. I would not have wanted her to be the type of girl who was so weak that she did not have the backbone to fight her corner, but there
’
s a big
difference between fighting your corner and punching your opponent
in the face even before the bell has rung.

“
Kelly, who do you think you are destroying here?
”

“
What do you mean?
”

”
Well, who are you destroying and who are you benefiting by saying
that you are pregnant?
”

“
I don
’
t understand what you mean, Roddy!
”