calliemm

Love, Unbroken

My sister Deb told me a wise man once said, “Things are never as easy as they seem!”   

“True,” I mused.   

“Your husband said it,” she said.  

“He would know.”   

Bren puts on his new prosthetic leg and struggles to walk on it daily, experiencing firsthand how hard it is to do things that appear effortless to most of us. Walking is a slow, painful process and visibly frustrating for him.   

I can’t imagine what he’s going through; I have no point of reference or idea. Thinking I do would be an insult to him. I don’t want this to be Bren’s life. It is. My heart swells and aches as I watch him persevering, taking small steps despite the frustration, pain, and unfairness of it all. He never gives up or complains, not even when pushing on while undergoing chemotherapy. Things are never as easy as they seem or as he makes them look.

Watching Bren push forward with quiet determination stirred something in all of us. His resilience was humbling, but we knew he needed more than grit, he needed the right tools. His basic prosthetic leg was designed to help him walk again, which was great, and it did, but it was not enough for the life Bren was fighting to reclaim. Surfing, running, riding a bike; these weren’t luxuries, they were part of what made him feel alive. So, our friends, family, and community rallied together with one shared goal: to help Bren access a more advanced prosthetic that could support him in living a life close to the one cancer had stolen from him. And with that, the idea for a fundraising event was born, amongst our family and friends. 

8 August, 2015 

For anyone who loves numbers, last night, August 8th, 2015, marked a numerological alignment of 8-8-8. The number 8 symbolises infinity and carries the energy of abundance, continuity, and harmonic balance. It’s also associated with inner strength, personal power, prosperity, and the flow of giving and receiving. #teambrendanm chose a profoundly perfect date for Bren’s coming-home party after a week in the city for chemo. 

Throughout Bren’s struggle with cancer, our community has generously blessed our little family in every way. We are incredibly grateful. However, this was matched and surpassed on the 08/08 by an overwhelming abundance of positive energy, colour, human spirit, community spirit, joy, and pure, unconditional love that filled the room, sticking to everyone like confetti and overwhelming us completely when we arrived. 

Earlier in the day, Brendan and I spent the morning at Princeton waiting for his last few hours of chemotherapy to finish; 310 km away, a team of our family and friends, the #teamBrendanm committee, were turning an auditorium into a magical rainbow room that would later hold most of our favourite people. 

After seven days of 24-hour chemotherapy infusions, a late getaway, and a flat car battery, the chance of popping into the #Teambrendanm event to say hello when we got home did not look feasible. An accident on the freeway that slowed traffic to a standstill confirmed that we would be going home to bed. 

Roughly seven hours after his chemo infusion had finished, we walked through the front door of our house, exhausted but happy to be home. I doubted that Bren would be up for heading to the club and didn’t push it. I was tired, so he had to be. When I put our bags away I got the laptop out and set it up; he asked me what I was doing. I told him I was getting on #teambrendanm’s facebook page to see if they had put up some photos of the room. 

“Come on, we’ll go up!” He said. 

“Now!” 

“Yep!” 

So, we hopped back in the car, me with hair that hadn’t been washed in a week, no makeup, and the same clothes I’d been in since 7:30 that morning. Bren in the clothes he’d had on all day, his #teambrendanm cap and a huge smile. 

We stepped into the club’s auditorium just as the first speech began; it was perfect timing. As we entered the Rainbow Room, a cheer erupted. It wasn’t just loud, it hit me like a wave, humming through my chest, and moving through my ribs, swelling my heart to the point of bursting. When they saw Bren, the entire room seemed to exhale pure happiness. Smiles lit up every face, most familiar, some not. The joy that radiated toward us was overwhelming. It was one of the most powerful moments I’ve ever experienced; it took my breath away. 

Bren then spoke so eloquently and heartfelt that I doubted there was a dry eye in the house. I was so proud of him. He ended his speech with a request that, from my perfect vantage point, was the highlight of my night.  Bren asked if everyone in the room could do him a favour by turning to the person next to them and hugging them, as he didn’t think he could make his way around everyone to do it himself.  

The crowd let out an audible sigh, followed by a wave of chatter, tears, and laughter that moved through the room like a Mexican wave as everyone embraced in one enormous hug. Watching them come together was beautiful, perfectly capturing the spirit of #teambrendanm. 

I have never kissed and hugged so many people in one night in my life, and our brief drop-in to say hi turned into a heels-up, four-hour rare night out for the Maloney’s! Yes, I did catch my husband on the dance floor doing a one-legged cha cha. Ya gotta love that. When all is said and done, it is not the things we do but the people we do them with and how we make each other feel that matters the most.  

To every single person in that room last night and to those who wanted to be there and couldn’t be; #teambrendanm: from the most important, all the way down to the most important (I can’t steal a great line like that from my husband and not credit him for it!) we salute you. We are very grateful that you are all a part of our lives. #teambrendanm forever. 

29 August 15 

We are sitting in the Cancer Clinic reception, waiting for the results of Bren’s last course of treatment. It’s an anxious wait. Dr. V ducks his head out of consultation room 2 and waves us toward him, calling Brendan’s name as he does. He receives us personally rather than sending Krysta out to get us. 

Reviews are always nerve-racking, no matter how many times you face them. For a little over a year now, we’ve been showing up every three months. Dr. V, handsome in his striped shirt and smiling kindly, greeted us in the small, familiar treatment room. Bren and I sat side by side in the two chairs beside him, while Krysta leaned comfortably against the treatment bed behind us. As Dr. V studied the results on his computer, a look of concern crossed his face. I realised I was holding my breath and slowly let it out. Finally, he turned toward Bren.

“Brendan, your results are both good and not so good,” he said thoughtfully. 

This stings my heart. Why was there always a not-so-good? 

“The good news is that the chemo, up to now, is managing your cancer in the spots that we knew about. Nothing is bigger, and one of the tumours appears slightly smaller. The not-so-good news is that something is showing up in a rib on the left side, and there’s another spot on your left lung. I’m sorry, Brendan, the new spots indicate disease progression.” Dr. V continued gently. 

Bren has turned pale; as much as I want to focus on the good news, I crumble a little inside. With the automatic action of a man who has had to deliver this news too many times, Dr. V gently pushes a box of tissues toward Bren while continuing to talk. We both take one. We are told about a new drug; it could be the miracle we need. Bren will trial it for three months, and then there will be another review. This drug is a chemotherapy tablet taken at home, with side effects monitored by our local GP, who will report back to Dr. V. Three months of treatment at home will be a reprieve of sorts. It almost sounds too easy, too good to be true after hearing the not-so-good news only moments before. A timeline for how long this chemo tablet may help is uncertain; hopefully, it will be Bren’s miracle drug or will keep cancer at bay long-term, or at least until a miracle drug is available. 

20 Nov 15 

Today, we received a follow-up call from the cancer clinic. We had discussed upcoming radiation with Dr. V at Bren’s last review as another form of tumour management to support the new drug regime. Krysta has been liaising with the radiation oncology department on Bren’s behalf. She rang to let us know his radiation prep appointment had been brought forward to Wednesday to make sure everything was ready for his upcoming treatment, which had also been brought forward by a week. The week we were supposed to be in Queensland enjoying a family getaway. Our carefully made holiday plans fell apart, then and there, it was all I could do not to cry. 

Having the treatment moved forward was worrying. I know the radiology team tried hard to work around our plans. Initially, they thought it would be OK to leave radiation till late December or early January, but because two new tumours had presented at the last review, they thought it best to start as soon as possible. 

We were home by the time Tyz and Bades came home from school and sat them at the kitchen table for a family meeting. They thought they were in trouble. This gave way to disappointment when we told them we had to cancel our trip. We all cried. Not only for our lost holiday, but we also knew having to cancel it meant Bren wasn’t well enough to go.  We understood that getting his radiation treatment underway and getting him better was more important than a holiday, but it was hard, especially on the kids. We were looking forward to getting away from cancer, just for a week, having some fun, and being a normal family again. We thanked them for being awesome and reminded them awesomeness was like a boomerang; it always comes back to you when you put it out there. 

Dec 15, 2015 

Nine months: the window of time my husband gave himself to learn how to dance again after his amputation. His time was up. December 14th was here. The night he would dance with our daughter at her year six farewell, while I danced with our son. 

It had been a tough nine months. There were falls at home and in public. And times, he had to take his leg off on hot days, strip down to his jocks, also in public, and change the sweat-drenched sock he wore on his stump, so his leg would stop slipping off. It was hard to miss the shocked and sometimes disapproving stares from onlookers. And there were times he wanted to throw his prosthetic to the shithouse. The amputation team warned us at Bren’s last amputation clinic that a stable weight was essential for maintaining a good fit for his new leg. A stable weight was almost impossible to achieve while undergoing cancer treatment. Slowly, he made progress. He was never going to let his little girl down. The four of us would be on the dance floor together, come hell or high water!  

I remember sitting in a committee meeting to plan the formal, still a couple of months away, discussing how all the parents would dance the Pride of Erin with their children at the end of the evening. I wasn’t sure if Bren would be able to join in, so I mentioned it. Lee, a good friend and fellow committee member, looked at me and said with certainty, “He’ll dance.” And he did. 

Our two gorgeous 12-year-olds enjoyed celebrating their formal farewell with their friends. Their primary school years were over. Bren and I were happy to be there together to help celebrate. It was an incredibly proud time for the parents (and teachers), none more so than for me, when Bren took Tyz by the hand and led her onto the dance floor, and for Bren when Bades took me by the hand and did the same. 

December 27, 2015 

Due to Bren’s last radiation treatment falling on Christmas Eve, we have spent Christmas in the city away from our families. Bear with me as I recap a ridiculously busy end to 2015, starting with the kids’ formal. We picked Tyra and Baden up early from school that day to get them ready for their farewell. I had helped decorate the school hall the day before rather than volunteer my time on the day so I could get the kids ready for their formal and Bren and I ready for our down-and-back in a day trip to the city the next day for Bren’s radiation treatment. 

The day after that first radiation treatment was the last day of primary school for the kids. We needed to be there, and we were, along with their aunty Deb and their cousin Tyler. We watched as the whole school, including their cousin Luca, formed an honour guard for all the year six leavers at the 3 o’clock bell. Emotional? Yes! We laughed as we watched Bades walk through the tunnel of kids, teachers, parents, and family with his phone on a selfie stick out the front, capturing the moment forever, and cried with Tyz as she hugged Miss Smithurst, her year six teacher, knowing she didn’t want to let her go. 

Two days later, Bren and I were back in the city for his second treatment. As good fortune would have it, we ran into Dr. V as we made our way to the clinic reception to drop off a thank-you gift for him. It was nice to have the opportunity to thank him in person for all he had done for Bren throughout the year. 

We chose to stay over Friday night, so I made a secret date with Cash, a very good-looking rally car driver I had met in the city on my travels. Don’t panic, family, Cash, a rally car driver, is Bren’s alter ego. He lost his leg in a high speed pileup. He is lucky to be alive and doesn’t have cancer. We meet up in the hotel restaurant every time we come to the city. I’m Candice, a businesswoman who owns several independent bookstores around Australia. Cash and Candice enjoyed an intimate dinner together, and both slept very well before turning back into Callie and Brendan and heading home the next morning. 

We were only home long enough for Bren to attend his amputee clinic in Wingham, a half-hour drive from home, on Monday. He was being fitted with a new socket for his prosthetic leg (another advancement in his amputee journey). We were back in the city on Tuesday, with a car packed to the brim with kids, luggage, and Christmas presents. Bren was all set for his final two treatments, a day apart. Radiation was finished by 2 pm on Christmas Eve. 

When Bren wasn’t having treatment, we laughed, swam in the hotel pool, walked the busy city streets, browsed bookshops and vintage shops, and ate gelato. We may have also had the odd squabble. After promising the kids a special Christmas Eve dinner, I burst into tears when we found not one nice restaurant open for dinner. I felt like I’d let my little family down at Christmas. We settled for hamburgers at a cute takeaway joint and then returned to our room, piled on one bed together, and watched Polar Express, our favourite Christmas movie. 

On Christmas morning, we woke to our little Christmas tree sitting on the built-in luggage rack, the star on top catching the morning light coming in through a crack in the blackout curtains. There was a small stack of presents for the kids to open; the rest would be waiting for them under the tree when we got home later in the day. After opening presents, we had Christmas breakfast at the restaurant downstairs and appreciated the staff who had to forgo Christmas breakfast with their loved ones to serve us, and the other guests. Bacon and eggs were washed down with an extra hot cappuccino each for Bren and me, and a hot chocolate for the kids, before packing up the car and making our way home. 

We thought driving home Christmas Day would spare us from the heavy Christmas traffic, but we were wrong—the trip was a slow crawl the whole way. Lunch ended up being roast lamb and gravy rolls from a roadside service centre. We made it home, and were in our living room opening the rest of our Christmas presents and eating Maccas for Christmas dinner just before the sun went down. A new year was just around the corner.

2016, Happy New Year 

We had a great feeling about 2016. Bren had adapted well to chemo at home, without the constant stress of having to travel to the city for 3-to-7-day chemo infusions and the 7-to-10-day recovery time needed to cope with the aftermath. Our lives felt almost normal again, and Bren felt well for the entire three months. His hair had grown back and was now silvery grey. Dr. V had warned us this would happen as it was a common side effect of the new drug Bren was taking—a side effect he was happy to deal with.

Besides not having a leg, it was no longer obvious Bren was a cancer patient. Even though the chemo tablet made him extra sensitive to sunburn, he was outdoors all the time. He just had to lather himself in sunscreen first. He was tanned and toned, and still quite fit, all things considered. It felt like a weight had lifted. The only downside was that his bodily fluids were hazardous, so the kids and I were not allowed to use the same bathroom, and cleaning his bathroom had to be done with extreme care. Intimacy also required protection, which we may not have always adhered to. We knew that wasn’t smart, especially for me. But it was what it was.

We squeezed every drop of fun out of the kids’ holiday we could, spending long days at the beach, or catching up with family and friends. Bren was in his element, never passing up a chance to bodysurf or paddle his board out the back to catch waves on his tummy. He held on to the hope that one day he’d have a waterproof prosthetic leg and be able to stand up on his surfboard again.

The beginning of the new year on the new regime seemed easy, compared to past treatments. February’s review was the second time in almost two years that only good news was delivered. So far, chemo at home was managing the cancer well. We began to relax and enjoy Bren gaining his strength. Besides still feeling more exhausted than he thought he should, especially when training and a dull toothache that came and went, he was in good shape. Cancer was taking a back seat again and was no longer controlling our every move or thought. We were winning. If we had to live like this for the rest of Bren’s life, it would be a good life, and we would live well. 

As we happily moved through 2016, my husband focused on improving his mobility. He exercised strenuously every day and was diligent with his amputation clinics. He was also researching how to modify his old VW Beetle so he could start driving a manual car again. He wanted to get back behind the wheel so bad it hurt. 

The kids started high school in February, a week late, after we took them to Melbourne over the first week of school for a family wedding. We had the best time in the little seaside town of Ocean Grove, located on Victoria’s Bellarine Peninsula. We enjoyed breathtaking views as I ferried us around pretty beaches that were too cold for us Northerners to swim at and enjoyed the little towns quaint shops and cafes. Bren and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary on the day of his brother’s wedding. It is a holiday we will always remember.  

October 1,  2016 

October is Bren’s birthday month. He will be 44 on the 18th. The other day, he mused about how birthdays hit differently when you have cancer. Instead of worrying about being another year older, he is beyond happy and grateful and is hoping and praying that there will be more to celebrate. 

After a visit to the dentist last Thursday for a toothache that had turned from an occasional dull ache to persistent pain and numbness in his jaw, we were told the pain was not a dental problem. An urgent, unscheduled review with Bren’s medical team was required. There is a new tumour in Bren’s jaw. There is also a new one in his L2 (spine) and another rib. The cancer continues to progress, which means the at-home treatment is no longer viable. The good news is that although the chemo tablets aren’t stopping the disease, they have slowed it down. Dr. V has a colleague he works closely with at another hospital on the other side of the city who is on a team starting a new cancer trial. It has only been going for two weeks. Bren is eligible to take part in that trial. It sounds like a groundbreaking treatment and may change the way cancer is treated in the future. He is getting in on the cutting edge. We are daring to be excited and will hear from the trial team soon. Bren needs to be assessed by the new team before being formally accepted into the program. Between now and then, he will have radiation on the spots that have come up to help control any tumour-related pain and, hopefully, reduce some activity in the tumours that have presented. 

It is at this point we say goodbye to Dr. V and the team we have come to know so well at the Cancer Clinic. Although he reminds us, he is only a phone call away, we will not see him again. 

Scars 

for Bren

Battered by winds of my deepest despair, 
I stumbled and fell, gasping for air. 
The weight of each lesson leaving me cold, 
Shattered spirits left stories untold. 
Deep in the silence, a whisper arose, 
A flicker of courage that only pain knows. 
“You are not broken,” it softly declared, 
“The strength that you seek is already there.” 
Through tears, I stood, though fragile, unsure, 
Each step a reminder of all I endured. 
Cracks in my armour let the light through, 
A testament forged by the trials I knew. 
Now I stand taller, though scars mark my skin, 
Proof of the battles I fought deep within. 
Every hard lesson, though bitter, unkind, 
Carved out the strength I was destined to find. 

***