Page 20
My TWO c
week – by
(^) Daily Mail, Monday, August 12, 2019
life
A cervical cancer
diagnosis at 54
turned her jam-packed
life upside down. Now,
in this brilliantly candid
testimony, Boris
Johnson’s estranged
wife shares her story
in the hope it will
encourage other
women not to delay
their smear tests
by Marina
Wheeler
back in the days of Solidarity, and
had picked up a range of vocab,
mainly around food, political
protest and the Virgin Mary. The
shouting man wasn’t touching on
any of these topics.
Though he was standing close to
me, I don’t think it was my mother
he was accusing of being a whore.
Still, I was rattled.
Some weeks earlier, in May, Mr K
of the Whittington Hospital had
delivered the diagnosis.
His explanation was clear and
careful. He was very sorry. I would
be referred immediately to the
gynaecological oncology team at
University College Hospital (UCH),
a world-class centre for this kind
of thing — this kind of thing being
cervical cancer.
I was unimpressed. Clutching a
leaflet, I left thinking: ‘That’s
absurd. I have no time for this.
Quite apart from anything else, I
have a book to write.’ I had already
missed my deadline twice.
On the bus down the hill,
questions kept on coming. Did the
Almighty have a plan for me? Was
it to save me from publishing a
book that was destined to be a
flop? Should I just give up?
However you figured it, this just
wasn’t going to work.
I was due to fly to Moscow with
my friend Rachel. In the mornings
we would write our books in her
apartment. Later there would be
ice cream in Red Square. Cocktails
even. We’d visit the banya — heat
up in the sauna, beat each other
with branches of silver birch, and
then plunge into a deep tub of
icy water.
At UCH they told me two surgical
procedures had been booked, a
week apart, the second contingent
on the outcome of the first.
‘Thank you very much,’ I replied.
‘But I’m not sure I can fit it in. You
see, in July I have to go to Moscow.’
This didn’t seem to be the usual
response they received to a
treatment plan.
‘The choice is yours, of course,’
they said. ‘Talk it through with the
nurse and let us know. We have a
very busy surgical list.’
H
eLen, the nurse, spoke
to me in a private room.
She quickly sized me up:
polite, strong-willed but
not really thinking straight. A
tricky customer, in other words.
She called in Karen, her manager,
by way of reinforcement.
My favourite advert used to be
‘Should’ve gone to Specsavers.’
Slapstick, but still a cracker.
now it’s the Macmillan one.
‘Cancer doesn’t care about you,’
it warns. ‘But we do.’ It’s not a gag.
It’s true. They did. From start
to finish.
For a long time, Karen listened.
‘Do you have children?’ she asked.
‘Four,’ my sister Shirin interjected.
Gently, Karen delivered the
bottom line: ‘You need to have
this done.’
She used the words ‘dependants’
and ‘survival’, and I knew my
Moscow trip was doomed. I met
my consultant, Miss O, early the
next week.
Online research established she
was at the top of her game,
surgically speaking. In person, I
liked everything about her: the
way she spoke; her thick, untamed
hair; her close-fitting bright red
dress and 3in heels.
I’ve watched Killing eve. If you
can have a crush on your would-be
assassin, why not on a surgeon
who plans to remove your womb?
Miss O rattled off a list of things
that could go wrong. The risk of
post-operative blood clots would
be mitigated by wearing surgical
stockings. For six weeks. Through
the summer.
S
He handed me a pair.
They were very white and
very tight. ‘Do they come
in other colours?’ I asked.
‘Olive-green, or maybe pink?’
Sadly not.
She asked if I had any other
questions. The op would be
Thursday morning, and Friday was
my friend Lucy’s birthday party.
Could I go? I had helped compile
the playlist and considered my
presence to be essential.
She smiled: ‘If you feel up to it,
there’s no reason you shouldn’t go.
Just take a taxi and some
painkillers, and limit yourself to
one glass of wine.’ excellent news!
What about dancing?
I didn’t make it to the party. I
had puffed up like a balloon.
I could have appeared as a decora-
tion. The gas used in the keyhole
surgery had stayed trapped under
my skin: surgical emphysema, an
unusual but not unknown
reaction. I had a long time lying in
recovery to ponder my horror-
show face and general situation. I
looked like I was recovering from
an amateur facelift.
Karen didn’t recognise me and
initially walked straight past me.
After she left, I tried to conjure
memories of holidays and happy
days, but as the hours passed,
unwanted thoughts and images
intruded more and more.
My spirits dipped. When the
evening shift began and I was
wheeled into a holding area, still
waiting for a bed, I started to
despair. eventually, and now
distraught, I pulled off my heart
monitor and headed for the exit.
I was found, of course. When I
was wheeled up to the ward I felt
drained and a bit ashamed. My
children and sister were there,
waiting. One eye still wouldn’t
open and if you touched my skin
there was a popping noise.
My kids grimaced and peered
questioningly at my face. After
hugging, we all relaxed and soon
they offered helpful ways to view
the situation.
‘You’ve always loved bubble
wrap. At least you won’t have to
hunt the house for some. Just
press your chest!’
The week between procedures
crawled by. July 4 was the big one.
I was first on the surgical list.
When I reached the ward, it was
early afternoon. The windows
didn’t open but I could see blue
sky and the top of some of London’s
highest buildings. It was a lovely
sunny day; a day to ponder life’s
twists and turns.
Twenty years ago to the day, I
had given birth, here in UCH, to
my youngest child. I told him
firmly to enjoy his birthday and
not to visit. His girlfriend and I
cooked up elaborate plans to keep
him occupied. But he turned
up anyway.
After the operation, we were both
a bit euphoric (in his case, prob-
ably helped by booze). I was alive,
there was no sign of bubble-wrap
this time and I felt, well, pretty
good. I had checked my abdomen
and the wounds were small. no
M
Y AppOInTMenT
was at noon. Cycling
through Tavistock
Square, in Central
London, I checked my
watch. I had cut it fine, so there
wasn’t even time to stop at
Waterstones for a book to read.
I locked up the bike, pulled off my
helmet and headed inside. Above the
double-doors I read the words ‘Macmillan
Cancer Centre’. Yes, this was where I’d
been told to come.
A CT scan is quick and simple, they said.
You are in and out. I skipped down the
stairs, exuding — I hoped — an ostenta-
tious energy and good health. In the
waiting area, I sat and looked around. A
sombre-faced Asian family huddled. An
older couple sat silently. I felt a wave of
doubt. These people seemed unwell.
Just then a man began to shout. ‘Kurwa
mac!’ I had spent six months in poland,