They give it to you with your pack when you have your operation. A heart shaped cushion. It is provided by a charity to offer a tangible comfort, something to let you know that there are people out there whom you do not know, who care about you.
It has sat on our bed for years as a soft reminder of a breast cancer journey, twice visited, in vastly different circumstances.
January 2023. ‘I can tell you that you are going to be fine’ the consultant told us ‘I could not have said that last time’. It was the same consultant that we had seen almost twenty years earlier, in our first year of marriage, when we were originally visited by this unwelcome guest. His words offered both comfort and a chill reminder of our earlier encounter.
So much water under the bridge, so much pain swept downstream, yet so formative to everything that we are today.
I learned so much about bravery and resilience, about what it means when your worst fears are banging on your front door, to fling the door open and stare the devil in the face. I watched in awe as my wife set about understanding her tormentor, profiling him and all of his wiles and ways. Then, when she had all of the information she needed, she set herself against him and took me along for the ride. This was a staring contest with the devil and there was only going to be one winner.
Over the months ahead, I watched her bend his preordained path away from his set course, to wrest back control of the narrative and, day by day, to grind him down until his inevitable defeat.
But the eventual all-clear marked the beginning of a different journey for us, a long and hard fought road to parenthood.
It was one of the first things that we had talked about when we met in that hot August of 2003, that we both wanted children, lots of them! Yet despite the battle being won against breast cancer, the toll of chemotherapy looked to have wrought a heavy price.
The initial indications were that conception was looking unlikely. The situation was made acutely more painful by the fact that she had discovered she was pregnant shortly after the diagnosis, and was strongly advised to have a termination, to avoid fanning the flames of a hormone positive cancer. To quote our London based gynaecologist exactly, ‘although not impossible, it is highly unlikely that you will be able to conceive naturally’. I suppose that there was an expectation that we would start the process of acceptance, but that would be to not know Lucy. All she heard were the words not impossible, which meant possible.
So began our belt-and-braces, no-holds-barred approach to parenthood. We cut back on alcohol, caffeine, sugar and any other negative dietary influence. Lucy undertook acupuncture, we got fitter and dialled in all of our resources towards conception. Then Lucy’s parents’ started fostering.
He came into our lives in 2007. A little scrap of a child with frightened eyes and an easy charm. We bonded quickly and, after a battle-royal with social services that spanned eighteen months and a level of determination and purpose in Lucy that I had thought could not go any higher, we went to the family courts and legally adopted Aaron. The first miracle.
It was three years later, having maintained our commitment to good health and spirituality that Lucy fell pregnant. After receiving a profound and deeply moving sign in the first few days after the positive test, there followed a time of huge anticipation and worry until, nine and a bit months later, Aaron had a baby brother called Jack. The second miracle.
She claimed back her future and poured it into our sons in an ocean of love.
When our unwelcome guest called in on us again eighteen years later, it was a sucker-punch. But Lucy had spotted the little lump early and the consultant was very positive. Not being one for half measures though, Lucy opted for a second mastectomy and the recovery was long and drawn out. We stepped up the counter-measures that had relaxed somewhat over the previous years and we now enjoy a plant based, alcohol free lifestyle (which feels really good) and life prospers.
So much in that heart shaped cushion.
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This post was previously published on The Memoirist.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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