Authors: Bernadette Bohan
The Choice (7 page)
Dear God, please don't let me lose this baby, I prayed, please don't take it away from us. I had to hang on to it, I had to stay well.
While my family wanted to celebrate, my doctor made an appointment for me to see the oncologist as soon as possible.
He looked up at me when I entered his surgery. Because it was an unscheduled appointment he knew that there could only be two reasons for my appearance. Either the cancer was back, or I was pregnant. Or both. He looked at the file on his desk containing the referral letter from my GP. Wordlessly he motioned me to lie on the couch. This felt totally different from my normal appointments. No friendly banter, no routine questions and answers. It was only a couple of months since he had given me, for the enth time, his âdon't even think of getting pregnant' spiel. Yet I was desperate for a word of reassurance, something to make me believe it was all going to be OK. He checked me for any signs that the cancer was âpresenting'. Nothing. âYou're fine.'
At the moment.
I waited for him to rail at me for my temerity in getting pregnant, but he just looked unbearably weary. He wasn't going to tell me to get rid of the baby; he knew well enough how much I wanted it. Instead, he said brusquely but not unkindly, âYou're back in the system now. You'll be in and out of here throughout your pregnancy.'
So I was a âcancer patient' again. I had been doing all right â well, even â and now I wasn't.
He put his hand on my shoulder as I rose to leave. âPoor Bernadette,' he murmured.
While my family wanted to celebrate, my doctor made an appointment for me to see the oncologist as soon as possible.
He looked up at me when I entered his surgery. Because it was an unscheduled appointment he knew that there could only be two reasons for my appearance. Either the cancer was back, or I was pregnant. Or both. He looked at the file on his desk containing the referral letter from my GP. Wordlessly he motioned me to lie on the couch. This felt totally different from my normal appointments. No friendly banter, no routine questions and answers. It was only a couple of months since he had given me, for the enth time, his âdon't even think of getting pregnant' spiel. Yet I was desperate for a word of reassurance, something to make me believe it was all going to be OK. He checked me for any signs that the cancer was âpresenting'. Nothing. âYou're fine.'
At the moment.
I waited for him to rail at me for my temerity in getting pregnant, but he just looked unbearably weary. He wasn't going to tell me to get rid of the baby; he knew well enough how much I wanted it. Instead, he said brusquely but not unkindly, âYou're back in the system now. You'll be in and out of here throughout your pregnancy.'
So I was a âcancer patient' again. I had been doing all right â well, even â and now I wasn't.
He put his hand on my shoulder as I rose to leave. âPoor Bernadette,' he murmured.
Chapter Ten
Â
âA Little Miracle'
M
y heart sank as I left the hospital. Like any woman who wants a child, I had been rejoicing in my pregnancy, despite the nagging worry. Now the oncologist had struck fear into my heart. Here I was, defiantly, stupidly pregnant, after so many warnings to put all thoughts of a baby out of my mind. I knew from his comments seven years before that his main priority would be to keep me well, and I remembered as if it was yesterday his workaday reaction to my last miscarriage. I wondered if he was hoping I would miscarry again. It would certainly make his life easier: one fewer potential cancer patient to treat.
Bernie, I said to myself, you've done it now. There's no going back. This is a baby you have wanted for so long â you are risking everything for it. It dawned on me that in the eyes of the medical establishment I was being irresponsible; but for me I was obeying a compulsion stronger than sense. It may not have been a rational, sensible, thought-through choice, but it was a deep and instinctive biological and emotional need. It was a decision I had made with my heart and soul. He thought I was mad, yet I had never felt saner.
Despite this inner conviction that I was somehow doing the right thing for me, for my family and for my unborn child, I was sick with worry. My body was changing by the day, and these changes â fascinating as they had been during my previous pregnancies â now brought with them new fears. Were my breasts sore and lumpy because of the pregnancy hormones, or could I feel a new tumour in its early stages? Was the pain in my lower back normal or sinister? Was I tired because my body was working overtime to establish the pregnancy, was I exhausted from trying to look after two young children, or could this be the first sign of lymphoma returning? I fretted constantly about losing the baby, and every time I went to the bathroom I told myself not to be surprised if I was bleeding. However, when the morning sickness started around the fifth week, I began to believe that this little embryo was really there, making its presence felt, and I felt a small shiver of pleasure through my anxiety and nausea.
I didn't talk about it to the children. Richard seemed to have forgotten for now, and since I showed no outward signs of being pregnant, Sarah was not aware of anything.
They were at each other in those first few weeks though more than ever, and it seemed as if I was constantly breaking up fights. Maybe I was less involved with them, perhaps I left them to their own devices more than usual. Certainly I was wrapped up in myself and my fears, and I know how my moods can affect them. I would wake up each morning, throw up, then have a shower, running my hands over my body â checking for any signs that the cancer was back. Once dressed, I would put on my Happy Mummy face, have some dry toast for breakfast and get the kids ready for school. It was only when I returned home that I would sink into a chair and weep. I was so full of dread, so afraid that my pregnancy would bring back the cancer. It was as if a dark shadow was waiting in the wings to envelop me. It felt so close I could almost reach out and touch it.
Gerard kept me going through those first few weeks like never before. I cannot put a number on the times I would call him at work and offload my worries of the day. He always had time to listen, and always offered some reassuring words.
âBernie, don't forget that the first few weeks of any pregnancy are like a rollercoaster. You've got all those hormones whizzing around your body. They are bound to make you feel more emotional than usual.'
âI know that's true, but these are the very hormones that might trigger the lymphoma again.'
âListen, we don't know that for definite. It has always been something the doctors thought was just a possibility. They don't know everything. I reckon it was caused by that bash from the table. If you find a lump obviously we'll have to get it sorted, and we'll face that if we have to. But please don't go terrifying yourself about things that aren't there.'
I knew that was true, but at times I just could not stop crying. I felt I was going to be the ruin of our family. We had all been so happy, so fortunate that I had survived the lymphoma. Not a day had gone by since I had finished the steroid treatment that I did not think about cancer and wonder if it would come back. Now, here I was almost actively seeking it. How could I endanger Ger and the kids like this? How could I do something that might take me away from them for ever? How on earth was I going to survive the next eight months of this? It couldn't be good for the baby if the mother was a nervous wreck â I had read that the adrenalin flooding my system from anxiety and stress could cross the placenta. I willed myself to calm down.
Appointments had been made for me at the same hospital where I had been treated for the lymphoma. I was to go for regular check-ups with the obstetrician, and after each one I was booked in with my oncologist. The twelve-week appointment was looming â the first time I had been back in the hospital since dropping the bombshell.
âGer, can you come with me to the hospital next week? I have an appointment to check the baby, then I need to see your man again.' I couldn't say his name, I refused to think I might become a cancer patient again.
It seemed odd to be going to a different department, turning down unfamiliar corridors, but once we were through the heavy swing doors of the gynaecology and obstetrics department we might just as well have been in a different world altogether. There was the sound of lively chatter, and parenting magazines and children's toys filled the waiting areas. Everyone seemed cheerful, healthy, comparing bumps and due dates. The receptionist was smiling. It struck me forcefully: pregnancy wasn't a disease, it was a state of positive health in which a woman's body tends towards strength and vitality. We sat down next to a red-faced young woman who looked as if she might give birth any moment. Ger raised a mild eyebrow.
âHello,' she breathed. âI was due six days ago and I'm here to find out if I need to be induced.' We chatted for a bit, and I explained I was here for my twelve-week scan. While we were waiting, one of the nurses took me aside for the standard urine test, blood test and blood-pressure check. I returned to find her still firing questions at Ger.
âIs this your first baby?' she asked me. âHow have you been feeling?' For once I was lost for words, and I looked over at Ger for help. Luckily her name was called at that moment.
âI don't feel like a normal pregnant person,' I whispered to Ger.
âYou're not. You're my wife,' he rejoined.
The obstetrician was a jolly grey-haired woman in her fifties. She immediately put us at our ease as she asked all the usual questions about my other pregnancies, dates, blood group, family history and so on. She then examined me, gently pressing my abdomen to check the position of the top of the womb. Then she frowned slightly.
âIs everything all right?' I asked. I knew that, as a forty-year-old, I already stood a greater risk of something going wrong with the pregnancy â let alone the other risks we knew about.
âMrs Bohan, I know your history. I can quite understand how you are feeling â this must be a terribly worrying time for you both. However, I am going to assume that everything is going to be fine. To me you are just another pregnant woman. Right, let's have a look at this baby then.' She switched on the screen.
I have always loved the way an ultrasound scan gives you a brief window on the secret life within you. That day Ger and I watched the mass of swirls on the screen and tried to decipher the vague outline of a tiny form. The obstetrician pointed out the head, spine and feet. I could see it throbbing.
âThere's the heartbeat!' she exclaimed. âAnd, looking at these measurements, your baby seems absolutely fine.' She printed out a floppy black and white print for me to take. I felt an absurd rush of love for this fuzzy blob, and was unable to speak for a few moments.
âI would like to see you every month from now on until you are six months pregnant, after which we can relax a little more. If you have any questions or problems, or anything unusual crops up, give me a call. In the meantime, do try and enjoy your pregnancy. You're going to be fine.' She ushered us out of her consulting room and we made our way over to the receptionist to sort out the next few appointments.
Gerard looked at his watch. âWe're just in time for the oncologist.' My excitement at having seen our baby on the scan suddenly evaporated, and we walked slowly down the corridor full of dread. Now I had seen it on the screen I wanted to protect it all the more. If the cancer had come back I made up my mind to refuse any treatment until it was born. Ger's face was grim. I decided not to tell him what I was thinking.
âHello, Bernadette,' said the oncologist. We were on first-name terms. âYou know the routine.' I certainly did. In a few moments I was lying on the familiar couch, praying silently as he checked my entire body. Ger was sitting biting his lip. It was very quiet.
âYou're fine,' the oncologist said eventually. âEverything looks grand: I can't find any sign that the cancer is presenting. You can get dressed.'
It had been raining that morning but it started to clear as we drove back to Malahide, where we lived. The roads were wet and the fields we passed all had a clean, just-washed look. We were both enormously relieved that I was â so far â doing well, but I felt a growing sense of more than relief. Suddenly I felt clear headed and positive. I decided to follow the obstetrician's advice and enjoy my pregnancy. I wasn't going to get anywhere by worrying â it wasn't going to help me, it wasn't going to help my family and it certainly would not help the baby. It was time to stop fighting it and trust that God would show me the way.
That evening we told Sarah I was expecting. âOh, Mammy! I'm going to be a big sister! That's so exciting!' she yelled with glee and rushed outside to tell Richard who was as usual kicking a ball around the back garden. As we listened to their animated chattering (âIt's going to be a boy'; âNo it's not, it's going to be a girl!') we got caught up in their delight.
âI really believe this is going to be fine,' I stated confidently. âToday I have made a conscious decision not to worry any more. This baby is a gift from God and I am determined to enjoy my pregnancy, not live in fear every minute.'
âI'll drink to that,' said Gerard happily, uncorking a bottle. We joined the children in the garden, and from that moment on I refused to allow myself to be afraid. Every time the worry popped into my mind, as it did from time to time, I deliberately shut it down.
I went on to have an uneventful pregnancy. I grew bigger with each passing month, and grew too in my sense of joy and fulfilment. I went to the hospital each month for the double whammy of obstetrician/oncologist, and although I never got used to the stark contrast between the light and hope of one department and the fear and coldness of the other, I kept telling myself that God was looking after me and this was all part of His plan.
It was thrilling for me to feel the baby's first squirming, wriggling movements around the eighteenth week, and I'll never forget taking both the children to the twenty-week scan. The look on their faces when they saw the cloudy outline of their new brother or sister and listened to the soft whooshing of the blood flow will stay with me for ever. The obstetrician spent a long time pointing out the fingers and toes, and we could even make out the profile of the face.
âIt's waving at us,' giggled Sarah, as the baby moved slightly at the pressure from the scanning wand.
âThat's my brother,' said Richard.
âI'm convinced it's a boy,' I said conversationally to the obstetrician. She gave me an old-fashioned look, from which I guessed that Richard wouldn't be getting his footballer after all. I would have to tell him before the birth. In fact I broke it to him later. âThat's OK, Mum,' he said. âGirls can play football too.'
I became calmer and more serene in the final months, practising yoga and meditation techniques that seemed to give me inner strength and helped make me more accepting of anything that was to happen. The deep breathing gave me time to think and be myself. This was going to be my last baby, I knew that for certain. She would be like me, the youngest of the family. I remember having vivid dreams at the end of my pregnancy, particularly about my own childhood. Leafing through some old photo albums of Richard and Sarah as young children I remembered how sweet they had been to each other in those days, and I longed for the day when we would have another little one amongst us.
Everything I did at that stage was focussed on the coming birth. My world became smaller and quieter. I took down Richard's cradle from the attic, which I had been keeping for his children, and washed and ironed the tiny sheets and cellular blankets. With it I found two little sleepsuits of his that I couldn't part with when I had my big clear-out after my miscarriage. I would have to buy some more, I realized, and Sarah would just love to come shopping with me. âIt will be like having a real live doll,' I promised her.
Â
âA Little Miracle'
My heart sank as I left the hospital. Like any woman who wants a child, I had been rejoicing in my pregnancy, despite the nagging worry. Now the oncologist had struck fear into my heart. Here I was, defiantly, stupidly pregnant, after so many warnings to put all thoughts of a baby out of my mind. I knew from his comments seven years before that his main priority would be to keep me well, and I remembered as if it was yesterday his workaday reaction to my last miscarriage. I wondered if he was hoping I would miscarry again. It would certainly make his life easier: one fewer potential cancer patient to treat.
Bernie, I said to myself, you've done it now. There's no going back. This is a baby you have wanted for so long â you are risking everything for it. It dawned on me that in the eyes of the medical establishment I was being irresponsible; but for me I was obeying a compulsion stronger than sense. It may not have been a rational, sensible, thought-through choice, but it was a deep and instinctive biological and emotional need. It was a decision I had made with my heart and soul. He thought I was mad, yet I had never felt saner.
Despite this inner conviction that I was somehow doing the right thing for me, for my family and for my unborn child, I was sick with worry. My body was changing by the day, and these changes â fascinating as they had been during my previous pregnancies â now brought with them new fears. Were my breasts sore and lumpy because of the pregnancy hormones, or could I feel a new tumour in its early stages? Was the pain in my lower back normal or sinister? Was I tired because my body was working overtime to establish the pregnancy, was I exhausted from trying to look after two young children, or could this be the first sign of lymphoma returning? I fretted constantly about losing the baby, and every time I went to the bathroom I told myself not to be surprised if I was bleeding. However, when the morning sickness started around the fifth week, I began to believe that this little embryo was really there, making its presence felt, and I felt a small shiver of pleasure through my anxiety and nausea.
I didn't talk about it to the children. Richard seemed to have forgotten for now, and since I showed no outward signs of being pregnant, Sarah was not aware of anything.
They were at each other in those first few weeks though more than ever, and it seemed as if I was constantly breaking up fights. Maybe I was less involved with them, perhaps I left them to their own devices more than usual. Certainly I was wrapped up in myself and my fears, and I know how my moods can affect them. I would wake up each morning, throw up, then have a shower, running my hands over my body â checking for any signs that the cancer was back. Once dressed, I would put on my Happy Mummy face, have some dry toast for breakfast and get the kids ready for school. It was only when I returned home that I would sink into a chair and weep. I was so full of dread, so afraid that my pregnancy would bring back the cancer. It was as if a dark shadow was waiting in the wings to envelop me. It felt so close I could almost reach out and touch it.
Gerard kept me going through those first few weeks like never before. I cannot put a number on the times I would call him at work and offload my worries of the day. He always had time to listen, and always offered some reassuring words.
âBernie, don't forget that the first few weeks of any pregnancy are like a rollercoaster. You've got all those hormones whizzing around your body. They are bound to make you feel more emotional than usual.'
âI know that's true, but these are the very hormones that might trigger the lymphoma again.'
âListen, we don't know that for definite. It has always been something the doctors thought was just a possibility. They don't know everything. I reckon it was caused by that bash from the table. If you find a lump obviously we'll have to get it sorted, and we'll face that if we have to. But please don't go terrifying yourself about things that aren't there.'
I knew that was true, but at times I just could not stop crying. I felt I was going to be the ruin of our family. We had all been so happy, so fortunate that I had survived the lymphoma. Not a day had gone by since I had finished the steroid treatment that I did not think about cancer and wonder if it would come back. Now, here I was almost actively seeking it. How could I endanger Ger and the kids like this? How could I do something that might take me away from them for ever? How on earth was I going to survive the next eight months of this? It couldn't be good for the baby if the mother was a nervous wreck â I had read that the adrenalin flooding my system from anxiety and stress could cross the placenta. I willed myself to calm down.
Appointments had been made for me at the same hospital where I had been treated for the lymphoma. I was to go for regular check-ups with the obstetrician, and after each one I was booked in with my oncologist. The twelve-week appointment was looming â the first time I had been back in the hospital since dropping the bombshell.
âGer, can you come with me to the hospital next week? I have an appointment to check the baby, then I need to see your man again.' I couldn't say his name, I refused to think I might become a cancer patient again.
It seemed odd to be going to a different department, turning down unfamiliar corridors, but once we were through the heavy swing doors of the gynaecology and obstetrics department we might just as well have been in a different world altogether. There was the sound of lively chatter, and parenting magazines and children's toys filled the waiting areas. Everyone seemed cheerful, healthy, comparing bumps and due dates. The receptionist was smiling. It struck me forcefully: pregnancy wasn't a disease, it was a state of positive health in which a woman's body tends towards strength and vitality. We sat down next to a red-faced young woman who looked as if she might give birth any moment. Ger raised a mild eyebrow.
âHello,' she breathed. âI was due six days ago and I'm here to find out if I need to be induced.' We chatted for a bit, and I explained I was here for my twelve-week scan. While we were waiting, one of the nurses took me aside for the standard urine test, blood test and blood-pressure check. I returned to find her still firing questions at Ger.
âIs this your first baby?' she asked me. âHow have you been feeling?' For once I was lost for words, and I looked over at Ger for help. Luckily her name was called at that moment.
âI don't feel like a normal pregnant person,' I whispered to Ger.
âYou're not. You're my wife,' he rejoined.
The obstetrician was a jolly grey-haired woman in her fifties. She immediately put us at our ease as she asked all the usual questions about my other pregnancies, dates, blood group, family history and so on. She then examined me, gently pressing my abdomen to check the position of the top of the womb. Then she frowned slightly.
âIs everything all right?' I asked. I knew that, as a forty-year-old, I already stood a greater risk of something going wrong with the pregnancy â let alone the other risks we knew about.
âMrs Bohan, I know your history. I can quite understand how you are feeling â this must be a terribly worrying time for you both. However, I am going to assume that everything is going to be fine. To me you are just another pregnant woman. Right, let's have a look at this baby then.' She switched on the screen.
I have always loved the way an ultrasound scan gives you a brief window on the secret life within you. That day Ger and I watched the mass of swirls on the screen and tried to decipher the vague outline of a tiny form. The obstetrician pointed out the head, spine and feet. I could see it throbbing.
âThere's the heartbeat!' she exclaimed. âAnd, looking at these measurements, your baby seems absolutely fine.' She printed out a floppy black and white print for me to take. I felt an absurd rush of love for this fuzzy blob, and was unable to speak for a few moments.
âI would like to see you every month from now on until you are six months pregnant, after which we can relax a little more. If you have any questions or problems, or anything unusual crops up, give me a call. In the meantime, do try and enjoy your pregnancy. You're going to be fine.' She ushered us out of her consulting room and we made our way over to the receptionist to sort out the next few appointments.
Gerard looked at his watch. âWe're just in time for the oncologist.' My excitement at having seen our baby on the scan suddenly evaporated, and we walked slowly down the corridor full of dread. Now I had seen it on the screen I wanted to protect it all the more. If the cancer had come back I made up my mind to refuse any treatment until it was born. Ger's face was grim. I decided not to tell him what I was thinking.
âHello, Bernadette,' said the oncologist. We were on first-name terms. âYou know the routine.' I certainly did. In a few moments I was lying on the familiar couch, praying silently as he checked my entire body. Ger was sitting biting his lip. It was very quiet.
âYou're fine,' the oncologist said eventually. âEverything looks grand: I can't find any sign that the cancer is presenting. You can get dressed.'
It had been raining that morning but it started to clear as we drove back to Malahide, where we lived. The roads were wet and the fields we passed all had a clean, just-washed look. We were both enormously relieved that I was â so far â doing well, but I felt a growing sense of more than relief. Suddenly I felt clear headed and positive. I decided to follow the obstetrician's advice and enjoy my pregnancy. I wasn't going to get anywhere by worrying â it wasn't going to help me, it wasn't going to help my family and it certainly would not help the baby. It was time to stop fighting it and trust that God would show me the way.
That evening we told Sarah I was expecting. âOh, Mammy! I'm going to be a big sister! That's so exciting!' she yelled with glee and rushed outside to tell Richard who was as usual kicking a ball around the back garden. As we listened to their animated chattering (âIt's going to be a boy'; âNo it's not, it's going to be a girl!') we got caught up in their delight.
âI really believe this is going to be fine,' I stated confidently. âToday I have made a conscious decision not to worry any more. This baby is a gift from God and I am determined to enjoy my pregnancy, not live in fear every minute.'
âI'll drink to that,' said Gerard happily, uncorking a bottle. We joined the children in the garden, and from that moment on I refused to allow myself to be afraid. Every time the worry popped into my mind, as it did from time to time, I deliberately shut it down.
I went on to have an uneventful pregnancy. I grew bigger with each passing month, and grew too in my sense of joy and fulfilment. I went to the hospital each month for the double whammy of obstetrician/oncologist, and although I never got used to the stark contrast between the light and hope of one department and the fear and coldness of the other, I kept telling myself that God was looking after me and this was all part of His plan.
It was thrilling for me to feel the baby's first squirming, wriggling movements around the eighteenth week, and I'll never forget taking both the children to the twenty-week scan. The look on their faces when they saw the cloudy outline of their new brother or sister and listened to the soft whooshing of the blood flow will stay with me for ever. The obstetrician spent a long time pointing out the fingers and toes, and we could even make out the profile of the face.
âIt's waving at us,' giggled Sarah, as the baby moved slightly at the pressure from the scanning wand.
âThat's my brother,' said Richard.
âI'm convinced it's a boy,' I said conversationally to the obstetrician. She gave me an old-fashioned look, from which I guessed that Richard wouldn't be getting his footballer after all. I would have to tell him before the birth. In fact I broke it to him later. âThat's OK, Mum,' he said. âGirls can play football too.'
I became calmer and more serene in the final months, practising yoga and meditation techniques that seemed to give me inner strength and helped make me more accepting of anything that was to happen. The deep breathing gave me time to think and be myself. This was going to be my last baby, I knew that for certain. She would be like me, the youngest of the family. I remember having vivid dreams at the end of my pregnancy, particularly about my own childhood. Leafing through some old photo albums of Richard and Sarah as young children I remembered how sweet they had been to each other in those days, and I longed for the day when we would have another little one amongst us.
Everything I did at that stage was focussed on the coming birth. My world became smaller and quieter. I took down Richard's cradle from the attic, which I had been keeping for his children, and washed and ironed the tiny sheets and cellular blankets. With it I found two little sleepsuits of his that I couldn't part with when I had my big clear-out after my miscarriage. I would have to buy some more, I realized, and Sarah would just love to come shopping with me. âIt will be like having a real live doll,' I promised her.
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