Love Will Prevail

When Laura was at her lowest, Macmillan or Marie Curie nurses were always on call, night and day. On one such occasion, I called them out, again, in the very early hours of the morning. There were always two of them. They covered the whole of the county but always seemed to get there fairly quickly, which, given Laura's condition, was a blessing. That morning, it must have been about 2 or 3am, they came and tended to Laura with their usual professional dignity and care. The older of the two nurses took a look at me when they were about done and suggested I come downstairs with her for a little chat while the other nurse finished taking the details and writing her notes.

Downstairs in the kitchen I was expecting her to update me on Laura's condition but instead this softly spoken Irish nurse told me about her experiences both on a personal and professional level. She told me how she had seen people deal with cancer differently on many occasions. She spoke about her own family and the effect cancer had on them. She honestly told me how difficult it was and how it would be for me, not just then but in the future. She knew I'd hardly slept a wink over the last few days but urged me to try get some rest. She gave me little bits of advice, even second guessing me that any advice that she gave to me in regards to my own wellbeing would probably be ignored, given that all I cared about in that moment in time was Laura and the kids. I was a distant third. And by some distance. She knew this. But she had such a comforting manner that the words she said made that distance lessen a little. Finally, she said those three words to me that have been with me for nearly a year now and will be with me for the rest of my life: love will prevail. She said it so softly but with a certain conviction that I knew she had complete faith in what she said. 

Her words moved me. They renewed my strength. They helped me breathe again. No words could ever remove the pain in my heart but I found something there. I found the strength to go on. I would endure. The kids needed me to be strong. Her words and her manner helped in so many ways that it is hard to describe their power. They were simply that, powerful.

There have been times over the last year I had asked myself what does it actually mean. What does love will prevail mean? Life can be cruel and unfair, even for those that know love, that have love in their hearts, that know only love and that are undeserving of such hardships. Why is it that love isn't impervious to pain and hurt and tragedy? I've been angry enough to think what good is love if it can still undone by such cruel fate. Maybe we should just enjoy love as a concept but never fully commit to it as it doesn't seem as strong and as all powerful as we all hope. Yet, here we are. With love. Our love is made strong because of diversity. It doesn't diminish. All that happens is that we, like I have done on many occasions, doubted or questioned it. But it remains. It waits in the wings. Even in tragedy. Even in pain. It's there. Waiting for us to rediscover it again. Knowing full well that it's existence is made even stronger when we find it again and realise that through all our hardships and pain, love never truly left us. 

On our wedding day the celebrant read to us an excerpt from Corinthians 1 Chapter 13. She asked us to read it on every anniversary. Sadly we never did probably because we felt we didn't need to. Now we never will but I have always remembered the words. But more, the part that she didn't read states: Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

Now, nearly a year on, I still may never understand the true depth of its meaning but I'm more than willing to believe in the ideal. Through our children and family and friends I will always find comfort in the words, love will prevail.

The Week Before

It was Monday 6th of June 2022. We had just got back from our trip to Edinburgh the night before and unsurprisingly Laura was exhausted. It had been a nightmare due to her ill health and the catastrophe that was the NHS, but we, especially her, put on the bravest of faces and made the long weekend a special one. I still marvel at her willpower. I marvel at the inner strength that saw her take on all the trials that the weekend threw at her; she walked the Royal Mile with the kids, went to Edinburgh Zoo, we visited our friends in Glasgow, as well as the various hospital trips. But now, back home, she was really suffering. The bloods that she got taken in Edinburgh were apparently no good, so we had to go to hospital again on Monday to get more done, rendering the many torturous journeys to hospital in Edinburgh a complete waste of time. She basically spent Monday and Tuesday in bed unable to move and feeling poorly. We had an appointment on Wednesday morning with the oncologist to discuss chemo, which, due to her ill-health she had had a two week break from. She was determined to get to this appointment, so she could get the go ahead for chemo on Friday and start to feel a little better. 

However, on Wednesday morning, things didn't go as we had hoped. We sat in silence as our oncologist told us that given the results from her bloods, her liver function was deteriorating. The cancer had become very aggressive and in her opinion, Laura's prognosis had changed from months to weeks. I remember hearing these words and not quite understanding them, as if said in another language. I had just gotten used to a year and now everything had changed. Again. We both sat stunned. My head was spinning. The oncologist then gave us a choice. She could take the chemo and hope that it slowed the cancer a little or refuse the chemo and rely on meds to make her comfortable then go into palliative care. We asked what the implications were in regards to time for both options. She told us that chemo could extend this time but it could also shorten it. It was a huge risk. She told us that if Laura was in general good health then the chance of more time would be higher, however Laura wasn't quite in that category. She was strong of character but her general health didn't match that. She left us alone for a while to discuss this. For the majority of this time we sat holding each other, crying and confused, then Laura told me what she wanted to do. I had discussed with my brothers and sisters many times about regretting the fact that my mum had chemo. With hindsight, my mums last days would have been, with proper medication, more comfortable. But this was different, Laura was half my mums age. She had made up her mind, she wanted to do it. We decided there was no right or wrong decision here. She wanted to give herself the chance to spend more time with us and I agreed. We had to take that chance. Chemo was booked for Thursday morning. The oncologist also booked another scan and was determined to ensure that she would try make her decision the best shot she had.

On Thursday Laura had chemo and was typically run down with it, She was also still in considerable pain. I was concerned that the existing meds she had were no longer helping her. She spent the day in bed while I looked after the kids and her. That night my concerns grew as Laura seemed increasingly confused and forgetful. I was annoyed at myself as I didn't take the time to memorise what tablets she was meant to take and when. Although she had a daily dose box, she seemed to be getting them mixed up and the confusion lead to frustration and in turn, her frustration to anger. I felt hopeless and unable to help with both her pain and her condition. I was glad when she eventually got some sleep and although she struggled throughout the night, we were due a visit from our Macmillan nurse the following morning, so I knew we could discuss everything then. However on Friday morning, after I'd taken the kids to school, I noticed a yellowing at the edges of her eyes. My heart was breaking as I knew what this meant. The increasing pain was making her even more confused and irritable and in between those times she looked incredibly sad and lost. When the nurse came I gave her an update on Laura's condition before she went upstairs. After her routine check up the nurse suggested that Laura needed to go to hospital. She didn't want to go, she was heartsick of hospital by this stage but we both managed to convince her. I got her stuff together and left her and the nurse to take her stats. As we drove to hospital in near silence, our sadness filling the whole car, Laura said to me "did you hear what she said? She said I need to prepare myself as I may only have a week" I couldn't answer. I felt ill. I took her hand and turned to look at her and saw it in her eyes for the first time. Resignation. Throughout the last two years not once had she faltered. She was always wholly determined and focused. Although she had moments, this was the first time I saw that look. I had no words. All I could muster was an urge not to give up, that we love her. We drove the rest of the way in sad silence, our hearts both quietly breaking as we faced forward.

I had to leave her at A&E, with a promise I'd be back once I sorted the kids from school and arranged for them to be looked after. I watched her walk slowly away with a nurse and unable to keep my tears at bay any longer I walked back to the car where I sat upset and angry that this was actually happening. It wasn't right. It was too unfair.

I returned that evening and they took me to the room where she was by herself. She seemed less confused, whatever meds they had given her had settled her. We were told to wait for the doctor. Through the tears and sadness we discussed the kids. She talked at length about what she wanted and what I'd have to do. She discussed her plans, what she had put into place and she tried her utmost to convince me that I'd be okay. Typically she was also upset that she may have to miss one of her best friends 40th birthday party the following day.

"There is no easy way to say this". The doctor said sadly, "but there's nothing else we can do, it's best your husband takes you home to be with your family." The rest is a blur, locked in sadness. A memory too difficult to unlock. I don't remember driving home. I don't remember our conversation. We got home about 9. Laura's mum was there. They sat close to each other on the sofa, an exhausted Laura holding her mams hand as she drifted in and out of sleep. When they left, we slowly went up to see the kids in bed, then I helped her into bed. We spoke a little, too sad and tired to say more than I love you and don't worry about the kids. We said would talk more in the morning. When you are told there isn't much time left, there is always the feeling, the hope, that you have more time than you thought. Little did I know that these few sentences before she drifted off to sleep that night would be the last coherent words we would ever share.