My life changed after learning my wife had ovarian cancer…
By Roy Norman Botley (19 Mar 2006)

On November 8th, 1994 my life and that of my family changed, never to be the same again after learning that my Wife had Ovarian Cancer.

I became responsible for many household duties including cooking. Although I varied the menu, she loved boiled eggs. I used to draw outrageous faces on them - the cooking took four minutes, but the artwork took considerably longer. Our family, friends and neighbours drew comfort and reassurance from my part in this tragedy. I prepared a special meal for everyone who came to lighten her day, and there were many; she used to make the friends - and I made the tea.

My daily routine centred totally around her, if she awoke in the early hours of the morning, I told her not to lie there 'alone' but to wake me and I would make some tea. This she did, and having finished her tea, she would sleep soundly leaving me wide awake until it was time for me to take her breakfast up to her. After disconnecting and cleaning her catheter night bag, I prepared her bath. When finished I'd dry her, have a cuddle and help her dress.

We would decide on the evening meal, I would buy the ingredients, and later prepare it - housework being fitted in.

I prepared her medicines and checked as she consumed them, most of them being to counteract the side effects of other medicines. When the 'Hickman line' was fitted, I carried out, what was for me, the complex routine of cleaning the nine-inch tube. Care was required to avoid infection and pain.

She was always very sick after chemotherapy, the vomiting could continue for a week to ten days. Vomiting, particularly when the stomach contents have long gone can be terrifying to the victim. To comfort and reassure her I held her tightly during these bouts.

We spent a lot of time holding hands, talking and embracing. I tried to amuse her knowing that her mind was never far from the certain knowledge that there were many events, where the seeds had been sown, yet she would be denied the outcome.

Many times she asked me, what would happen to her. Unfortunately the doctors when asked the same question were 'John Blunt' in their reply - which didn't help at all. I found this part of caring the most difficult as the same question requires a different, yet feasible answer every time. To repeat an earlier reply, is unsatisfactory.

A lot of well-wishers were telephoning to find out the latest news. I always answered, and if she felt like talking I'd pass the telephone to her. If not I'd give an update, and with an average of ten people enquiring each day, it became very time consuming.

I took part in all discussions with the District Nurse, Health Visitors and Doctor when they called, also taking her to the local hospital and specialist centres. When she attended for surgery, I stayed with her for approximately nine hours each day, the ward nurses giving me my meals. Every Royal Marsden visit I arranged, travelled with her to London and stayed in hospital accommodation enabling me to remain with her from 8am until 11pm.

In late November 1996 she was in considerable pain and agony. A new tumour was impeding her bowel movement. She was constipated, suffering from haemorrhoids together with a high degree of urine retention, plus a chest pain. Taking both painkillers and sleeping tablets she said she couldn't fight anymore. This was particularly difficult and stressful for us both.

She only had me to fight her corner. When in December 1996, our consultant at the Royal Marsden told us he could do no more and asked me to take her home. I said we would only leave if he arranged for an ambulance to take us to the Dorothy House Hospice, at Bath and to guarantee her admission. This was done. Whilst at the hospice, she was offered a 'break' suggesting she spent the week-end at home. She was excited at returning to her home and was promptly sick on the lounge carpet. The hospice then reneged on their word saying there were several others needing to be admitted and a meeting was being held to decide who would be occupying her bed. I was annoyed but after 'reasoned discussion' they cancelled the meeting and accepted her back where she felt safe.

When the ambulance arrived they wrapped her frail body in blankets and strapped her into a collapsible carrier. As they were wheeling her backwards down the drive, her eyes never left the house and I knew she was thinking it would be the last time she saw it and it was.

Towards the end of her life, I would sit by her bed. She would be sleeping. She would rouse - open her eyes, see me sitting there. She would smile, her hand would reach over to hold mine. Then she would close her eyes and return to sleep with a smile on her face.

I knew I was losing her a little more each day.

Despite the gravity of her situation and the fear we both felt, she always found the time to encourage me in my efforts. It was indeed a great privilege to care for her.

Over what was her last Christmas, I telephoned everyone that I knew for a concerted, collective prayer to concentrate on diminishing the latest tumour. In the region of two hundred people offered up this positive thought in an endeavour to arrest the spread and effect of the cancer.

She rapidly deteriorated and died on a bright, frosty, sunny morning in early January 1997. Maureen was aged 55.

Now eight years down the line, I have been diagnosed as having the 'Big C”.
 

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