calliemm

Love, Unbroken

Life was busy as we fell into a new and comfortable family rhythm between the end 2011 and the beginning of 2014. We were happy. Bren took retrenchment in his stride and settled into his new job at Edsteins. I was juggling the kids’ usual school week routines with our online stores, and we spent the weekends adventuring the same way we always had.

Bren was training hard and training me harder. He might have argued that point. CrossFit had become our new obsession. I was fitter than ever and had my six-pack back. My husband had never lost his. I still couldn’t do double unders without whipping my shins till they bled, which frustrated me. I was a good skipper at school. Mind you, school was a long time ago.  A persistent injury in Bren’s right thigh and buttock was refusing to heal. Recovery was slow, despite all the effort he put into strengthening it so he could enrol in a personal training course in the city. Instead of improving, the injury only grew worse.

Then Shit got real. 

June 2014 

Dr. Whittam was younger than I’d imagined. He was relaxed in his approach and made us feel comfortable, which was quite a skill considering why we were there. He greeted us warmly and asked Bren for the scans he was holding.  

Flicking them onto the lightbox effortlessly, without looking where they were going, you could see he had done this a thousand times before. We could also see something was wrong the minute the lightbox lit them up. Two noticeable dark patches, one on each femur, could be seen clearly. I gasped involuntarily as my head turned sharply toward my husband.  

“Brendan, if you have a stress fracture, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen,” Dr. Whittam said, nodding toward the scans. “We need to get you an MRI to determine those hot spots, so we know what we’re dealing with here.”  

“OK,” Bren said calmly, his voice thick.   

He was the colour of the white sheet on the treatment table behind us. Bren had been experiencing a niggling, recurring pain in his right buttock and thigh for the best part of a year, maybe longer. As an athlete, he was used to pain from sports injuries and generally worked through it. After several appointments over many months, his physio had done all he could to try and correct the problem. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong muscularly. It was time to see a doctor. By now, Bren thought he might have a stress fracture in his femur. Although that would be considered highly unusual, he couldn’t think of any other non-muscular ailment that would cause radiating pain between his mid-thigh and bum. After a visit with our family GP, Dr. Chris ordered some scans and referred Bren to a local Orthopaedic surgeon. I was getting scared. Whatever my husband had, had turned deathly serious.  

Dr. Whittam walked back to his reception area with us. His two receptionists were chatting as we approached the counter. They stopped their conversation abruptly to focus their attention on him.  

“See Mr Maloney gets booked for an MRI, and I’d like to see him in my Taree rooms on Friday.” He said, passing the younger of the two Bren’s scans and a scribbled note while directing his instruction to the older woman.  

She looked at him with raised eyebrows and a, ‘How will we squeeze that in?’ expression. She didn’t vocalise her thoughts, knowing she would have to make it happen somehow. As the younger girl returned Bren’s scans, Dr. Whittam patted me on the shoulder and gave me a sympathetic smile. My heart sank.  

I can’t imagine what was going through Bren’s head. Whatever he was thinking, he remained calm—grace under pressure. The trip home was quiet and felt longer than it should have. We were in shock. Finally, Bren broke the silence.   

‘Knock, knock.’  

‘Who’s there?’  

‘Bed’  

‘Bed who?’  

‘Bed, you can’t guess who I am!’  

I got the giggles as I glanced across at him. His eyes were on the road, hands on the steering wheel, and a big smile lit up his face. I don’t know how he managed that.  

‘Knock, knock,’ I said. Our kids were ten—knock-knock jokes were in endless supply in our house.  

‘Who’s there?’  

‘Broken Pencil.’  

‘Broken Pencil, who?’  

‘Never mind, it’s pointless!’  

We were still laughing as we turned onto Old Bar Road. Tyra and Baden were due to arrive home from school shortly after we got home, so we had to appear as if everything was OK when they walked through the door. Over the next couple of days, life went on as usual. I had the kids to organise, there were online orders to ship, errands to run, and chores to do, and Bren had part-time work to get to. Edsteins, the company he worked for, were already being supportive because of his injury. They were letting him reduce his hours to what he could manage physically. His pain was getting worse, and standing for long periods aggravated it.  

He was at a mate’s funeral on the Wednesday after his ortho consultation with Dr. Whittam, Glenn had passed unexpectedly after a very short battle with cancer. As Bren left the wake, he took a phone call from the doctor’s Taree receptionist. They had brought his appointment forward and wanted to see him that afternoon. Bren knew he couldn’t get to the doctor’s office from Port Macquarie before they closed. When he explained this to the receptionist, she asked him to go to the Forster rooms the next day, which worried us, as he had an appointment at the Taree rooms the day after.  

We arrived at Dr. Whittams’ Forster rooms early on Thursday, anxious to know why we were called back to see him a day early. Oddly, we found ourselves in a dark, empty office, except for the two receptionists. They looked at us with surprise when we approached the reception desk. One of them asked what we needed. We told them we were there to see the doctor. The older of the two said, shaking her head, “Oh no, the doctor isn’t here today. He has surgeries all day.”  

We explained how the Taree office had organised us to be there. A brief phone call and some awkward glances in our direction followed. A few minutes later, the younger woman came to where we were sitting and showed us to the doctor’s office.  

“Doctor will be with you shortly. He said he would pop over and see you between surgeries,” she said apologetically. She then hurried out of the room.  

Brendan and I felt odd sitting alone in the quiet, poorly lit office—like we shouldn’t be there. Sitting side by side, we didn’t speak. But we both knew this was not how good news was delivered. We sat frozen, pale, shaken and too afraid to open our mouths for fear of what might come out. 

Barely breathing, it felt like we were in a twilight zone. Things appeared normal, but we knew they weren’t quite right. A foreboding feeling had settled around me like a cold, dense fog. Our lives were about to change forever, and not because of anything we had done. I heard a voice in my head reminding me to breathe.  

Dressed in scrubs, the doctor hurried in shortly after we sat down. It felt like an eternity. He sat, pulled his chair toward us and brushed his still thick, black hair over his head with a flick of his hand in what seemed like a nervous gesture. Looking at us very seriously, he thanked us for coming in. He explained that he didn’t want to give this news over the phone. I heard myself exhale heavily. I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath. Brendan was bracing himself. Sitting stiffly upright, straight back, hands clenched tightly together. He was stealing himself for what was coming.  

“I’m sorry, this looks nasty Brendan.” Dr. Whittam said.  

I felt my world fall apart in a single broken heartbeat. Tears filled my eyes—not wanting to acknowledge the truth by sliding down my face, they did anyway. I saw Brendan’s body slump a little out of the corner of my eye; the breath squeezed from his lungs abruptly—as though he had just been hit in the guts by a sledgehammer. His chin shook slightly as he took a minute to gain composure and strength. That minute felt like an hour passing. Bren cleared his throat nervously, and when he found the words, he asked what would happen next. After pointing out the two hot spots again on the scans Bren had brought back with him, Dr. Whittam turned back to us. It was going to be a serious conversation.  

“There is only one person I would trust to send you to, with what I think this is Brendan,” he said matter-of-factly. “He is an Orthopaedic Surgeon in the city and is the best in the country. I will organise an appointment for you as soon as possible with the people down there, where he has weekly clinics.” We would find out later that the doctor Bren was being sent to specialised in sarcoma cancers. 

“OK, so that’s 3 or 4 hours away?” Bren said  

“Correct.” 

“Is that the closest hospital for treatment?”  

“Yes, if this is what it appears to be. It would be the best place for you to have treatment.” 

“OK then, let’s do it.” 

With that, the doctor held his hand out and shook Brens’.  

“I’m sorry to have had to tell you this, Brendan; I didn’t want you to hear it over the phone.” 

“Thank you,” Bren said.  

“If there is anything I can do for you in the future, don’t hesitate, even if it’s just to have stitches removed after your biopsy.”  

Dr. Whittam wished us well and said goodbye. We left his office dazed and spiritually bruised but not confused. Bren was in trouble. Being referred to one of the country’s best orthopaedic and sarcoma surgeons and getting in to see him quickly was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, we were grateful for the best care available; on the other, it confirmed our worst fears. It wasn’t good.  

Bren was still driving at this stage, although his pain was getting worse by the day. As we walked to the car, I asked him if he wanted me to drive. I didn’t know how he was still standing after that news and didn’t think he would want to drive. It was a thirty-minute trip home.  

‘What are ya, crazy,” he said in mock horror.  

We laughed as I got in the passenger seat. I preferred to be a passenger, and he preferred to be the driver. I didn’t enjoy driving, and my husband was meticulous in his teasing about how bad I was at it, even though we both knew I wasn’t bad at all.  

“Shit!” I said, not wanting to look at him as we drove out of the medical centre carpark.  

“Shit, Babe—Shit.” He said.  

I had tears rolling down my cheeks; he grabbed my hand and squeezed it.  

‘We’ll be OK.’ He said.  

I couldn’t find my words. All the way home, the word F#CK went around my head on a loop.  

F#CK! F#CK! F#CK! F#CK! 

June 13, 2014 

Bren and I found ourselves at Ryan Oliver Cancer Clinic (ROCC), a newly renovated cancer wing at Princeton Hospital in the middle of the city on Friday, June 13. This is not a date for the superstitious. Fortunately, we weren’t.  

The clinic didn’t feel overly clinical or hospital-like, which made it a little easier to be there. Still, saying we were worried as we walked through the large sliding glass doors is an understatement. With thirty minutes to spare before the appointment, we stopped at the ground-floor café to grab a coffee, trying to settle our nerves before heading up to level two for Bren’s first consultation with the orthopaedic surgeon. 

We knew the pain in his right leg was a mass inside the bone and were scared about what it might be. Now, at the clinic, to find out what was wrong, we were among strangers in unfamiliar surroundings, which was daunting. Feeling a little rudderless so far from home, our kids and family, we sat to wait for a receptionist to call Bren. My hands were shaking. 

“Brendan Maloney?” called an unfamiliar female voice.  

“Here,” Bren replied anxiously; standing, he grabbed my hand. 

She waved us to her and stood waiting to introduce herself. Her manner was friendly, but her voice was firm, with a sense of urgency and a clip of no-nonsense professionalism. She had a job to do. 

“I’m Sandra, Dr. Brach’s CNC,” she said (I would google what that meant later: Clinical Nursing Consultant). I will liaise with you on all matters regarding your appointments. If you have any questions, you can reach me by email or at this number.” Sandra handed Bren her card as we walked toward treatment room 4. Dr. Brach was sitting at a small desk in front of a computer and stood to shake Brens’ hand as we entered the room.  

“Hello, Brendan, I’m Dr. Brach; you can call me Thomas,” he said cheerfully.  

“Nice to meet you Thomas,” Bren said, “This is Callie, my wife.” 

Dr. Brach reached across and shook my hand with a smile. He was tall, solid, and imposing, with a bit of softness around the edges. His grey hair and spectacles gave him a grandfatherly air that quickly warmed us to him.  

Niceties over, the conversation soon changed to why we were there. On the other side of the corridor, there was a room the size of a small sports field, packed with patients waiting for their names to be called. And they all looked as worried as us. Our consult slot was information-rich and time-poor, but even so, we felt unrushed.  

“Brendan, even if this is as nasty as it looks, there is reason to hope for a good recovery. The spectrum of possibilities for what I think it might be starts at highly treatable,” Dr. Brach said encouragingly, wrapping things up.  

“That’s a relief,” Bren said, nodding.  

The mass was confirmed, but the type of cancer was still to be determined. A biopsy would tell us if it was benign or malignant. And that would determine what the treatment plan would be. As we got up to leave, Dr. Brach shook Bren’s hand, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder as he did. “We’ll know more after the biopsy results, Brendan,” he said.  

He then looked at me and smiled, “Medicine has come a long way, and people are living with cancer now just like they do with heart disease.” He said, handing me a tissue when tears started to roll down my cheeks. He smiled at Bren and nodded in my direction.  

“It’s at this point they cry—every time,” he said, looking at me kindly. “Let’s see what the biopsy tells us, and we’ll go from there. Sandra will keep you informed about when that will be.” 

We were in the car heading home by mid afternoon and home by dinner. I could smell lamb roast wafting through the front door, beaten to the car by two excited 10-year-olds as we pulled into our driveway. I quietly thanked the Lord for Margarets’ cooking. It had been a long day.  

“I got an award for spelling today,” Tyz said proudly, swinging my arm back and forwards by the hand as we walked in the front door. Bades was helping his dad carry all the pamphlets and paperwork they had sent home with us from the clinic. Margaret was in the kitchen busy dishing up baked veg and spooning gravy over slices of lamb as we bustled into the living area. Bren walked over, put his arm around her shoulders, and pinched a baked potato off a plate, kissing her cheek as he did.  

“I’ve saved the shank for you,” she whispered a little too loudly, smiling.  

“Don’t tell the kids.” He said, laughing; “they’ll crash-tackle me for it.” 

“What is it,” they said almost at the same time.  

“Mind your beeswax,” he laughed, “Nan was talking to me.” 

I smiled at Margaret thankfully as I set the table. It was good to be home. 

June 23, 2014 

Ten days after the consultation, we returned to the city for Bren’s biopsy; Margaret came with us, while my sister Sue stayed with the kids. We had booked two nights’ accommodation as Bren would be in hospital overnight. 

I was on driving duty, and I imagine Bren was more nervous than me, and not just about me driving. He didn’t show it if he was. He just teased me a little. If teasing me took his mind off other things, I was happy for him to keep it up for the entire trip. He didn’t—he was asleep before we had driven an hour down the road.  

Monday started early after a restless night’s sleep for all of us in our tiny motel rooms. Margaret helped settle Bren into Princeton’s Procedure and Treatment Unit while I parked the car and grabbed us a couple of coffees. Bren was nil by mouth and anxious. He sat with Margaret and me in the reception area, facing a long and uncomfortable wait. 

We had arrived at 6:30am. Bren was called for his procedure at 2:30pm. I spent the rest of the day at the hospital, waiting for him to come out of recovery. He was back in his room by late afternoon. I did what I would continue to do many times in the weeks, months, and years to follow. I kept my husband company and read or journaled.  

Margaret came back to the hospital just after Bren was wheeled into his room. She had spent the afternoon with his sister, Elle. We stayed with him at his bedside for about an hour when we were finally allowed to see him. Bren was still groggy from the anaesthetic and wasn’t coping well with his wife and Mum fussing over him. We were happy to tuck him in and leave him to rest. Dr. Brach had not done his rounds, so we had no new information.  

We picked our patient up bright and early the following morning. Bren was still very sore, but at least he had been given a crutch to relieve pressure on his leg. Conveniently, there was a Macca’s on the corner near the hospital, so we stopped there for breakfast to let the morning peak hour traffic pass. It was there, Bren let us know things would get worse before they got better.  

I returned from the bathroom, sat beside him, and sipped my coffee. He looked at me and took a deep breath, “Dr. Brach said on rounds last night that it looks nasty,” he said.  

Nasty was a word we had heard before, at the first visit with Dr. Whittam, and then at the first clinic appointment. It seemed like a small word for what it implied. I felt my heart stop, and there was nothing, just numbness. I looked at Bren’s Mum—her face had turned pale. She was trying to hold herself together and fight back tears. Bren and I rested our heads together, tears falling unchecked across our cheeks.  

After taking a minute, we gathered ourselves and prepared to head home as if responding to an unspoken command. It was my turn to suck in a deep breath now. I wanted it to be a lie, a mistake. Bren asked if I was OK. I said yes, and then he asked his Mum, and she said yes. We weren’t. We collected our rubbish, binned it and left. Knowing Bren had cancer in that moment wasn’t momentous or dramatic. It was painful, bewildering and factual. As we made the drive home, Bren reassured us more than once that he was OK, especially when his mum or I fussed over him. We stopped to stretch our legs about an hour and a half into the trip. As Margaret reached out to help him navigate a few steps outside the shopping centre, Bren looked at us both, slightly amused. 

“I’m bent, not broken,” he said with a smile. “Relax, I’m OK.” 

Now, there was nothing left to do but wait for the biopsy results and pretend everything was OK. Bren took a few days off work to allow his wound to heal. He was taking long walks and doing upper-body training to maintain his fitness. The incision in his leg from the biopsy wasn’t small, so we assumed they had taken a good look at the damage the mass had done to his femur.  

Thankfully, the kids were busy with school. We didn’t tell them yet that things were worse than we thought. We were no longer expecting a benign result. Things were going to get difficult. But for now, we continued to put one foot in front of the other. We were taking things one day at a time and that was hard to do. My natural reaction was—what do we do next? I wanted whatever was in Brens’ leg out. I wanted him to get better and felt like I had no control. I knew I was in a heightened state of stress and was determined to keep it under control. I had to be patient. A multidisciplinary team had to be coordinated; logically, I knew that would take time. I was scared shitless, what if we didn’t have time?  

Every other day after the biopsy, I felt like I was having a silent meltdown inside my head. The shower was my solace. It was where mini breakdowns could consume me. I would let hot water run over my body while sitting on the shower floor and cry convulsively into a face washer. It was like releasing a valve that allowed me to keep going. When I could, I would focus on my breathing to recalibrate, and then I’d think about what Bren was going through and how he must be feeling, and the wave would crush me again.  

Dear God, please help us. I’d silently say that to myself every day. I have a personal relationship with God that has nothing to do with any organised religion. When things are good, I thank him. And I ask for help when I need it. I have never needed it more than now. 

July 5, 2014 

The last thing you want to hear your husband say when getting his biopsy results is, “f#ck!” They are not what we were hoping for but are what we expected. It is a sarcoma cancer that has begun in Bren’s femur. Oddly, he has a tumour in both femurs—in the same spot. The right-side tumour is the biggest of the two.  

It’s a serious diagnosis and was hard to hear, but now we know. The next step is to get Bren better. There is no treatment plan yet, but one should be ready soon. We are staying positive. We have to; it’s the only choice we can make. That and Bren’s ‘let’s get on with it’ attitude keeps us going. He is physically fit and strong, something to feel good about and a huge plus for his treatment and recovery ahead. 

We are grateful to have a wonderful family, the best friends, colleagues, and community supporting him and our little family. And Bren is getting the best medical treatment available. He will receive treatment in a purpose-built cancer clinic with a holistic approach and cutting-edge technology capable of treating this rare, aggressive cancer. The 8-hour round trip by car for his oncology clinics and treatment will be worth it. If anyone can beat this, Bren can. 

July 11, 2014 

Three weeks have passed since Bren’s biopsy. The waiting has been fraught with inexplicable anxiety. A minute moves slowly when you’re waiting on a lifesaving call. Not knowing what’s happening with his treatment plan is frustrating and scary.  

Impatient, I called the doctor’s office to find out when treatment would start. I spoke to Molly, a pleasant, helpful girl in reception, who assured me we would know what was happening soon. I hoped soon meant tomorrow.  

Throughout the past weeks, Bren has remained calm, upbeat and strong. I often wonder if I would show that much courage if I were in his shoes. I hope so. Waiting has been challenging and out of our control. I am trying to practice patience. I keep telling myself everyone is doing everything they can, and we will have news soon. I hope that’s true, but I don’t know everyone, and everyone doesn’t know us. I don’t want my husband to slip through any cracks. My thoughts are becoming irrational. 

Besides Bren being Bren, a few things get him through the tough days. His ability to laugh and our ability to laugh together help maintain a sense of normality which is hard fought for right now. Humour is our go-to when things get tough. Laughing helps. So does catching up with friends, listening to the kids playing in the street, doing chores, hanging out in the backyard, and having a picnic lunch in the sun. 

The tumour is compromising Bren’s leg in his right femur. The bone has cracked and could snap with any unexpected pressure. If that happens, the bone will no longer contain the cancer cells in that area. Unconfined, they could invade his whole body. That would be devastating. Suffice it to say we are not venturing out unless necessary until the tumour is gone. That could still be away off.