OK, God: I Need A Miracle!

1 IN A ROOM WITH DOCTOR DOOM J anuary 2020. The man sat across from me with his eyes fixed on the computer screen. His qualifications hung above his desk like medals in polished frames – did all the doctors have their degrees hanging in their offices or was this man particularly keen to show me his credentials? The consultant was obviously highly qualified. That’s why I was here. He didn’t look at me as he clicked through the grey-andwhite platform on his screen. In fact, he hardly looked me in the eye for the next 20 minutes. ‘Denise, thank you for coming in today. Your test results are back in . . .’ The room at the hospital was painted white. From the outside, the Glasgow hospital was vast – a modern, futuristicstyle building surrounded by more concrete than trees. I had come to realise that all hospital consulting rooms looked the same: plain, unassuming, a place to absorb bad news. ‘Last year’s surgery was not as successful as we had hoped. I’m afraid the cancer has come back. There are now three tumours: two in your neck and one at the back of your throat. The affected area is extensive. There is no cure,’ he said flatly. ‘There is nothing more the hospital can do for you.’ I held my breath. In that momentary silence, I could hear my heart hammering at my ribs, chiselling its way out of my chest. There was the whir of the desk computer. The footsteps walking quickly in the corridor outside sounded like another heartbeat – as if the hospital was trying to match my erratic pulse. I must have asked a question because the consultant spoke again. ‘There is no cure.’ I felt numb with fear, the panic playing in my chest like a scratchy violin. In the moments that followed, the consultant told me yet again that they had done all they could. Not once along my 18-month-long cancer journey had I been offered any emotional or psychological support, and none came now. I had been diagnosed with throat cancer in June 2018. After several months of feeling a small lump in the righthand side of my neck grow to the size of a grape, I went to the doctor expecting it to be a benign cyst. When the result came back, I was absolutely shocked. Me – how could this be happening to me? I was fit and healthy, always smiling, a Zumba instructor, surrounded by loving family and friends and was the mother of two boys. The doctors told me that we had caught it early, and they looked relieved to tell me it was perfectly treatable. My family, and partner Alexander, were so supportive, accompanying me to appointments and on the long regular trips from Glasgow to London for hospital visits and always being there to provide the positive network I needed to stay upbeat and manage the discomfort that came with cancer. But after several rounds of radiation therapy and a failed invasive surgery, here I was at one of the top cancer facilities in the UK being told that there was nothing more the medical profession could do for me. I was being shown the door with no hope whatsoever. During this whole time, my consultant hadn’t looked at my face. Were his thoughts on other things? Was he mentally preparing for his next meeting? Wondering what was on the menu for dinner tonight? His delivery of the news had been so shocking: emotionless, cold and without an ounce of compassion. I hoped with all my heart that this was not the bedside manner that all doctors had when they were telling someone their biggest fear had just come true. In my head, I nicknamed the man in front of me ‘Doctor Doom’; someone who doesn’t show an ounce of humanity, someone with an ego and a title telling me that without medicine, there was no hope. I had first been treated in Glasgow during August and September 2018. The radiotherapy and chemo had been brutal, almost barbaric, the effects of which caused me to lose three stone (at a time when I needed every ounce if I was going to have the strength to fight this disease). The treatment didn’t work, and I was sent to the Royal Marsden Hospital in Chelsea in July 2019. Here, I was given a worldrenowned professor as my surgeon; I had every faith in him and felt like I was in safe hands as I knew this man was determined to get me well. He spoke to me one-on-one and was impressed by my fighting spirit. He was keen to take my case on despite the rapid spread of my tumours and was going to use a pioneering robotic technique that had had great success so far. But the surgery was a disaster, leaving me with long-term complications and cancer cells still in my body. I returned home, coming back to the Royal Marsden for follow-up appointments later that year, but in midDecember 2019, the top professor couldn’t even look me in the eye. He wanted nothing more to do with me now he had realised he’d failed, so he sent me back to the hospital in Glasgow. I felt like I was being passed from pillar to post. That’s when I ended up with Doctor Doom back in Scotland. As we sat there, I was rapidly losing respect for these educated medical professionals who could barely give me the time of day. I left to go to the bathroom and compose myself. While I was out of the room, my partner asked, ‘How long do we have?’ The answer came starkly, as clear as day. ‘Six to 10 months.’ But Alexander didn’t tell me this for some time. We were all in shock that day. The consultant never said it to my face either. When Alexander and I left the hospital, we went to pick up my son from school. Something so normal, so everyday – but how could things ever be normal again? For the next few hours, I was distraught. It was the worst diagnosis, made worse (if possible) by the brutal, abrupt delivery. Not only this, but in just a couple of short months, I would soon be facing my cancer alone as Covid-19 restrictions shut down the world en masse. However, what the doctors didn’t know about me is that my fighting spirit is a lot stronger than they had originally thought. I am not the sort of person who gives up easily – I’ve lived through many hardships, and I have always been determined to survive, learn and thrive through the bad times. I was going to prove Doctor Doom wrong. I left the hospital with a new sense of resolve. I needed to face the situation head-on – I wasn’t ready for my time to be up. Everything in me was so angry that the medical profession had abandoned me and told me I was ‘done’. This couldn’t be it – I still had so much hope. I was about to take matters into my own hands. I was going to make myself well. I wanted to live.