LITMIR.BIZ

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a baby. Soon her uniform is soaked with my tears.

      ‘Shh, there, there.’ She soothes me and strokes my hair. ‘You’ve been so strong. We were waiting for this. Have a good cry. Cry it all out.’ So I cry for what seems like hours. I cry out all the pain and fear, the frustration and the disappointment. I shout at the unfairness of it all and the destruction of my hopes and the devastation of my plans. Most of all I rage at the mutilation of my body, my beautiful strong body. I hate the Limpet for doing this. I hate it for ever.

      After I am all cried away, the nurses leave and I lie on my bed in agony. I feel abandoned. ‘Please God, help me,’ I pray softly, not expecting an answer. I now know what it is to feel utter despair. I wait silently and mutter to myself, ‘Help me, help me.’

      In the silence after the storm I feel a peace descend. It starts in my chest and spreads out, a warmth filling me. It is as if I am being held in a giant hand. I curl up further and whimper but I am not scared. I am back to being a baby. I feel caressed and soothed and I become aware of God being close to me. I remember the words of the Presence, ‘I will lead you through the valley of the shadow of death,’ and I try to think what came next. ‘But I will bring you through.’

      I surrender to an overwhelming desire to sleep. When I awake the anger is gone and the fear is replaced with a calm knowledge that I will never be alone again. Somewhere in the darkness and despair I can still find a distant glimpse of my God.

      Mr Peach arrives to see me later in the afternoon.

      ‘Hello, Little Lady,’ he greets me. ‘I hear you’ve had a bad time.’

      ‘Yes, but I feel better now.’

      ‘I can understand that. It’s a slow process coming to terms with this at such a young age. You’ve had to grow up very quickly.’ He smiles at me and adds: ‘You are doing very well, you know. So well that you can have a wheelchair to get around in. I want you to practise this weekend. Next week we need to begin your tests, and it would speed things up a lot if we can get you up and about.’

      ‘Tests?’

      ‘We need to check that the cancer from your bone has not got into your system. So we will do some tests to check out the rest of your body. Apart from the pain in your leg, you haven’t had any other symptoms, so that is a very good sign.’

      ‘So if the tests are clear, what does that mean?’

      ‘We will send you to another hospital for chemotherapy.’

      ‘And where will that be?’

      ‘The Christie Hospital in Manchester.’

      I feel anxious again. I didn’t realize I would be away from home but I like the sound of the hospital. I imagine it as being kind and benevolent.

      ‘How long will it all take?’

      Mr Peach looks at me cautiously and I know I do not want to hear his answer.

      A long time, I’m afraid.’ I steel myself again. ‘Two years.’

      ‘Two years? In hospital? I can’t go through that!’

      ‘You will be able to have times at home.’

      I consider the options. I should be starting to live my life, taking my A levels, going to university. I can’t just sit in a hospital.

      ‘What if I don’t have the chemotherapy?’

      ‘If you don’t have the chemotherapy then I’m afraid that you will not get better.’

      ‘You mean I will die?’ I meet his gaze again.

      ‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’ I am glad he is honest.

      ‘And if the tests aren’t clear?’

      He drops his eyes and looks at his hands. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?’

      He thinks I have heard enough, but I know anyway. I will die if the tests aren’t clear. So I sigh and ask, ‘What tests do I need?’ He tells me I will have to undergo a bone scan, a full body CT scan and some X-rays, and they will start on Monday.

      ‘So get a good weekend’s rest, in between practising your driving!’

      I am left wondering how much more I have to take. I had managed to push the thought of the cancer away while I was recovering from my surgery and now I have to face it again. I worry all day and hardly listen when my mum comes to visit and outlines the arrangements for my stay in Manchester. I look at her and notice she has lost weight and there are dark shadows under her eyes.

      ‘Your teachers have promised to come in and see you so you won’t fall behind with your work too badly.’ I feel depressed, thinking of so much wasted time. I want to be home with my brother and sister and my books. I want my pretty bedroom and my cuddly toys.

      When Mum goes I pray again. I am confused. What am I doing wrong? Why are all these awful things happening to me? I am scared of dying. I am only seventeen. ‘How long until I die?’ I think to myself. I haven’t even begun to live my life. I am only a child. I haven’t done anything, seen anything, lived anything yet. Time, time that uncertain commodity. It is time I crave. I am so young, so young. I didn’t know seventeen-year-olds could die of cancer. Maybe it is my fault. Perhaps I have done something terribly wrong to deserve this punishment. I know God loves me. But if He loves me then why am I so ill? Maybe I got ill because of what I did with Martyn – maybe I went too far. Maybe that’s why God has taken my beauty away. My life seems so fragile and uncertain now. It is as though the dark chasm of death is always before me.

      I am scared; very scared.

4

      My tests have started. They are looking for secondaries. And I must learn to fight this death to the death. I now understand a little more about what is happening inside my body. The cancer is spreading. The cells are in my blood, waiting to find a place to rest. They may even have settled down to suck out my life already. Perhaps at this very second they are getting tired of whizzing round my veins and arteries and are deciding to put down roots. If I have any other tumours then I will die. If I pray hard enough then maybe the cancer will not spread and the secondaries will die and I will live. Maybe I will escape the chemotherapy, too. This is the third miracle. The first two miracles failed, keeping my leg and then my leg growing back. I am sure this one will work; it has to. I cannot imagine God wants me to die. What would be the sense in that? I have so much to do with my life. I have the message to spread and people to convert. I cannot do that if I am dead. I guess this miracle is a bit easier than the other two. Getting rid of the Limpet and growing a leg back – well, they were pretty difficult miracles. Killing the other tumours should be a lot easier.

      Over the weekend I practised getting around in my wheelchair and learnt how to get in and out of it myself. This is called a wheelchair transfer and it is exhausting. I need to lift my entire weight with my arms, which leaves my muscles quivering. But I feel proud to have regained this little bit of independence. I can do things like go and chat to the nurses and wheel up and down the corridor. It will be great when I am allowed to go and visit Ward Six on my own! Barry is back on his splint because he has re-fractured his leg. Just Peter and Steve come to see me now, and they make me laugh, but it is not the same without Barry. I miss him a lot.

      Franny came to see me on Sunday with Pastor Tony. I haven’t seen her since the operation. We both cried a lot at first. Then, as she’s a physiotherapist, I asked her a lot of questions about getting an artificial leg. I was wondering how real they look, and she told me they look very much like proper legs and I will be able to wear normal clothes and shoes. I felt a lot better, knowing they look realistic. I had imagined going round with a wooden peg and looking really peculiar.

      We all prayed together and Pastor Tony gave me some little cards with scripture verses on them so I don’t have to spend hours looking for them in my Bible. They helped me. They said not to

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