To my dear friend, Mrs Hurley

Dear Mrs Hurley,

I do hope you don’t mind me writing to you publicly through my blog but I suppose I’d like to boast that I know such a fine woman and can call her my friend. The last year has been, I can safely say, hell for you and Mr Hurley. I vividly remember last September speaking to you on the phone. We were in Lincolnshire looking at houses and I was too tired to look at yet another so Mr Mason and Mrs Safaie went off and left me on a bench. We spoke about a few things but also about the problem you had found with your neck. No-one knew what it really was but it was suspected to be cancer and they were planning an exploratory operation if you were up for it. From memory, and I may be wrong, you were offered chemotherapy first which they did not know whether it would work or not or surgery. The surgical option involved breaking your jaw and getting into your throat to hopefully remove the tumour so you would need little treatment afterwards. You chose the surgical option, even though it was more brutal, and went on a tour of Southern England the week before to take your mind off it. By this point, I was having an extremely toxic reaction to Lapatanib/Capecetabine and was struggling to walk and heave myself out of a chair but, being the kind old thing you are, you scheduled in a day, any day that suited us, to come and visit. You brought lots of treats with you including a Sutton Hoo mask and a knight you reanimate by putting in water. Also marshmallow of a superior kind. It was so lovely to see you and you stayed just the right amount of time as I was very tired and my eyes tended to go round if I talked for too long. That was the last time I saw you.

You decided on the surgical option as first line treatment. Alas, the removal of Gove was not successful and after the operation, you were told that Gove was still in residence as he had been wrapped around something important and had generally been sneaky. From the very beginning, the tumour was Gove, even when Nicky Morgan took over. Somehow, Gove just fitted better and gave us something to focus on. You were due to be in Intensive Care for a week but were out within a few days and home within a remarkably short space of time. I know things were difficult for you and although you have great friends and neighbours, it quickly became obvious that you were not going to be able to look after yourself at home. Not being able to drive meant hospital trips had to be down to someone else – hospital transport is just ridiculous. You had several run-ins with unsympathetic community nurses who seemed incapable of understanding you were on your own and dealing with the effects of major surgery and cancer treatment.  “Lots of people having cancer treatment live on their own”. Completely on their own? “Well, they all have someone to come and stay – a friend of relative.” So, not really on their own, are they? At this point I know you went into hospital again because you couldn’t eat or take care of yourself. It’s a horrendous thing to face at our age when we know we can’t survive on our own and takes a huge amount of getting used to. It dents confidence and our sense of self. It’s a hard thing to adapt to. After two weeks of mysteriously losing weight and not being able to eat anything, they discovered your swallowing mechanism wasn’t working at all so you were aspirating anything you ate. So the feeding tube was inserted and I know you had a meltdown around number 16 because you told me. Number 16? I would have been melting down way before that. Not surprisingly, chemotherapy was delayed while you dealt with pneumonia and the constant radiotherapy that left your mouth full of ulcers so you were in constant pain and unable to talk. For a woman who likes an intelligent conversation, being struck dumb is a cruel punishment. Being a person who has needs only others can fulfil is a sheer torment but you got through all this. You didn’t like it but you still did it.

It’s taken a long time – I reckon you must have been in hospital for 6 or 7 months. We can’t talk on the phone because you now need 2 hearing aids (with which you will have tremendous fun, I am sure). You’ll have to turn them up when I’m around – my voice is so weak. Oh, the fun we can have! Dinner is delivered via tube and thankfully, can be whatever you want down to your wonderful imagination. When you finally came out of hospital this week I felt quite emotional. I can’t bear being there overnight let alone for months and I know you were frightened at the thought of coming home but what you have endured over the last few months has been incredible. When we couldn’t speak, we sent texts, emails or Facebook messages – there was never silence, even through the worst times. I cannot really imagine what you have been through, my dear friend. You always talk about me being brave and amazing (which I think is nonsense) but have you looked in the mirror lately? When cancer hits us, there are very few options. We can dismiss treatment, kill ourselves or go along with it. I can’t think of anything else. Most of us choose to go along with the treatment plan. It’s not brave or amazing, it’s just what you do when you are faced with a life-threatening illness. The road is generally tough, simply because of the shock of the cancer diagnosis, but some roads are certainly rockier than others and I think yours is just about as rocky as they get. So I salute you for the way you have handled things. Gove and his Govelets have been left behind at the hospital and hopefully will never get to make an appearance again. I like to think of them being incinerated and squealing. All through your treatment you have been worrying about me. Well I’m fine and dandy and about to whip another consultant into shape. It’s the only way to get through, as you have found.

As soon as you’re up to it, there will be a full-frontal assault by the Masons including Dog and Lark. The latter is a good little cuddler. Until then, know you are in my thoughts daily and I can’t wait to see you.

With lots of love, Mrs Mason xxxxx

3 thoughts on “To my dear friend, Mrs Hurley

  1. Dear Marvellous Mrs Mason,
    I am writing this nearly a week after the Mason full frontal assault and a month and a half after you wrote this blog. I guess that means I’m getting quicker. The next response to a communication from you may even be before we’ve had it.
    In order then:
    I managed this hideous experience because you wrote the correspondence course on how to do hideous experiences. I remember, when I first went to the hospital for the results of the tests, you told me you would be in my pocket and would be there if the news was bad. It was and you were. I smiled at the consultant (who had already made me suspiciously aware that something was coming when he called in a senior nurse with a hand ready to be held) and I said to you “right Mrs M this is it. Its not a pickled egg that’s got stuck in my throat after all.” (That’s a pity, said my friend Jak – I had a fiver on it being a pickled egg). And you were there when I had the operation and there when they told me that they had shifted Mr Gove but that there were Govelets still wrecking the curriculum in the back of my throat. You were there when I lost my swallow, there when I lost my voice, there when I lost my hearing and you were there too when I discovered that my sense of smell was in fine fettle – because you sent me an enormous bouquet of wonderfully scented flowers. The perfume of those flowers was so gorgeous that it attracted patients from other wards and probably other hospitals. It was heavenly. You were there.
    Your blog reads like a eye witness account, but I must tell you though something you missed which I reckon is worth a few lines of text. The operation included the removal or an artery and two veins from my left arm, along with associated tissue, to replace those same items that had been removed from my throat (“its like plumbing in a new radiator” said the surgeon who undertook this feat). A skin graft was then taken from my tummy to patch up the arm. Now if they had gone 12 centimetres to the right the graft would have included my belly button. Imagine the fun of showing THAT to people at parties.

    Actually seeing you and hugging you last week in the flesh, as it were, was a heady experience indeed. I shall write to you more on that anon.

    And seeing you and hugging you again in the future was an occasion that I had looked forward to …
    Love you

  2. I have read this through a blurr of tears . Good luck Mrs Hurley , I do hope you are managing at home . I don’t know you but Iam sending you lots of warm wishes and love x

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