calliemm

Love, Unbroken

Monday, September 15, 2014  

#teambrendanm  

The past month dragged on slowly, but it was time. This week was a crucial one. The tumour would finally be gone, hallelujah! Everything depends on this surgery. Our biggest hope is for Bren to get his life back. 

Pre-admittance didn’t start until 2 pm, so we didn’t need to leave home as early as usual. This gave us extra time with the kids before we had to say goodbye. We are going to be away from them for longer than ever before. Tyz did her best to stay strong, fighting back tears as we prepared to leave. Bades hugged me, his shoulders broader now, shaking as he sobbed, his face buried in my chest. Soon, we were all in tears as we said our goodbyes. Bren comforted and hugged the kids, then turned to hug his Mum, who looked pale and worried as she held her boy tightly. Leaving them was so hard!   

As we drove out of Old Bar, Bren turned to me and said, “Good thing you didn’t check Facebook this morning!” Curious, I asked why. He replied, “Sue posted a special message from Tyz and Bades. You would still be crying if you’d seen it.” He didn’t say more, and I couldn’t check the message, I was driving. Little did I know, this Facebook post was just the start of a flood of messages on our profile in the coming days!   

By the time we had settled into our little motel room that night, we discovered that Bren had been receiving not just messages from family and friends, but an entire movement was taking shape. Our community had started a massive wave of support and positivity on social media, rallying behind Bren. #teambrendanm was born.  

As we rounded the round-about at the Old Bar turn off, our Kombi escort driven by Kombi enthusiast and friend, Bob Cameron, turned right as we turned left to head for the city.  There at the roundabout was an enormous sign that read: We love you Uncle Bren; Jord, Teagz, Torz, Brad, Kahli, Clay, Lu and Tyler. #teambrendanm. There were tears. 

About two hours into our trip, on the F3, we saw another large #teambrendanm sign on the Kalmers Road overpass. We later learned that our niece, Tori, and her boyfriend, Brad, were behind it. I pictured Brad risking everything, leaning over the overpass barrier to hang the sign. There were more tears, not ideal when driving on the freeway. At that point, I still hadn’t grasped the extraordinary scale of what was happening, as this was only the third message I knew about, starting with the post from Tyz and Bades, and all were from family.  

When planning to be away for the week of Bren’s operation, our mothers and my sisters asked if I needed someone with me on the day of Bren’s surgery for support. I confidently said I would be fine. I truly meant it; I thought I had everything under control. But we were already exhausted when we arrived at the hospital car park after a 3-hour trip, with a 3-hour pre-admittance process still ahead.  I was rethinking my decision to go it alone. 

During the consultation with Bren’s surgical team, we were hit with devastating news. Instead of removing just the top of his knee and a 10 cm section of his femur, as we’d been told earlier, they would need to take Bren’s entire knee and 20 cm of his femur. The tumour needed to be removed with clear margins, and this was the only way to ensure that. 

Our biggest fear going into this operation was whether they’d be able to remove all the cancer cells. Hearing they had to take so much more than expected to do that made my stomach turn. 

After the consultation, Bren had blood taken, followed by individual sessions with the occupational therapist and physiotherapist. I stayed by his side through every step of the day. 

Back in the nurse’s room almost an hour later, it all began to crash in on me. The reality of what lay ahead, thinking about this massive, life-changing surgery Bren was about to undergo, made me feel dizzy and sick. The reactions from every doctor and nurse we spoke to didn’t help. Their wide eyes and repeated, “Wow… you’re in for a big one,” only magnified the weight of it all. I could barely breathe. Bren sat beside me, calm, steady, composed. As he always did. I kept wondering how he did it. How was he not coming apart the way I was? 

Once Bren’s appointments with the team were over, we waited in the reception to complete the final paperwork. My hands shook as I fanned myself with a knee reconstruction pamphlet, trying to stop the room from spinning. 

“I feel faint,” I whispered. We hadn’t had a chance to eat and that wasn’t helping.

Bren turned toward me, concerned. “Will you be okay tomorrow?” he asked gently. 

Of course, he was worried about me. Not himself. Not the pain or fear he must have been pushing through, but me. 

“I will,” I said, managing a smile. But inside, I wasn’t so sure. 

#teambrendanm–unconditional love, support, and positivity 

After leaving pre-admittance, we grabbed dinner at a pizza place on Prince Street and settled into our motel room. We had barely unpacked when there was a knock at the door. Surprised and wondering who it could be, I opened the door to find Adam, the night manager standing in the doorway. He greeted me with a smile but said nothing. Confused, I said, “Hello,” as he subtly motioned with his eyes to his left. I was puzzled, not understanding what he wanted. Then, to my surprise, my big sister Sue appeared at the door. Shocked, I blurted out, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!!” Sue, laughing, gestured to the other side of the door, and my little sister Deb came into view. Overwhelmed, I burst into tears. “We thought you might need us,” they said. We did!  

I had been texting them throughout the day, updating them on how we were going. Just minutes before I had let them know we were safely back in our room. Meanwhile, they were in the reception area, having a #teambrendanm photo taken with Adam. That night, Bren and I realised my Facebook profile had blown up with messages of love and support from our families, friends, community, and even some celebrities. The #teambrendanm movement had taken off. The messages made us laugh and cry. Brendan spent the evening before his surgery immersed in this wave of love and support, crammed on a small double bed in our tiny motel room with his two sisters-in-law and wife, scrolling through an endless stream of messages.  

Tuesday, September 16, 2014 

Today, the goal is getting Bren on the operating table, removing the tumour, and ensuring he returns to his bed safe and sound, albeit with some significant titanium parts. The thought of having my husband back, strong and tumour-free, was a dizzying relief.  

Before the surgery could go ahead a consent form would need to be signed. The duty doctor hesitated to let Bren sign it because neither Dr. Brach nor his registrar had discussed the operation details with us. Acting on this, the duty doctor referred the form to the registrar. In a brief meeting with us, the registrar clarified that there was no choice to make, really. 

We were aware of the situation. This was the option. We weren’t looking for a second opinion; we were already in the hands of the best. The choice was simple: undergo the surgery or face the direst consequences. The registrar’s review was more of a formality, yet such formalities exist for a reason. Despite knowing Bren would proceed, we appreciated the duty doctor’s thoroughness, even at the risk of taking up the registrar’s valuable time. Bren was about to undergo major, potentially life-saving surgery, and that deserved the extra attention to detail the duty doctor was requesting.  

With the paperwork finally sorted, it was time for Bren to don his gown and wait for the orderly to take him for surgery. In those quiet moments, while watching my husband brace himself for what lay ahead, I absorbed his inspirational strength as I watched him put it into action. I encouraged him, saying, “Put your game face on, Babe.” He was already there, embodying courage and determination. With his feet firmly on the ground, shoulders squared, elbows on his knees, and a focused gaze, he was ready. I watched him go through his pre-race routine, rubbing his hands together, twisting them one way and then another, and psyching himself. He was quietly going over the challenge ahead and seeing himself crossing the finish line. It was a familiar sight from his triathlon days, but the stakes were higher now.   

Witnessing his strength and determination was a privilege. This surgery was more than just removing a tumour and reconstructing his knee and femur. It was also about giving him more time with his family and saving his life. I was scared. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might be visible through my shirt. Bren, on the other hand, seemed calm. He was pure grace under pressure, as my sister Deb liked to say. That sums him up perfectly. 

After a few hours, Bren was wheeled back into his room to Sue and my cheers. Deb left earlier in the morning for a meeting in Canberra and expected to return before Bren came out of surgery. We hadn’t expected him to be back in his room before she was back.   

Groggy but lucid, he was making jokes and smiling. The nurse said Dr. Brach was pleased with the surgery, saying it had all gone beautifully.  

Seven days post-operation, Bren walked out of the hospital on crutches. In pain, yes, but on his own two feet. His nurses and the physio gave him a little farewell. Gino, who had cleaned his room and often offered a song and conversation, came to say goodbye. The mutual affection between Bren and everyone who cared for him was evident. They all agreed he had been an exceptional patient. 

Saturday, September 27, 2014 

Dr. V, Bren’s oncologist, phoned yesterday. The tumour pathology had shown to be 50 to 60 % dead on removal, indicating that chemotherapy has had a generally good effect. But it could have been better; perfect would have been 100%.  Having said that, the team is happy. Another round of Chemo will begin on October 7. Bren will be an inpatient for three days every three weeks for nine weeks. I think inpatient treatment is due to his recent surgery. He will still be healing from that when the next round of chemo starts.  

September 29, 2014   

Those who have shared a meal with me know I’m an expressive eater and might even say I’m loud, but not in the sense of chewing loudly. I genuinely love food and hum with satisfaction as I eat. A contented “Mmmmm” with every other bite. It’s been an inside joke in the family for years. I embrace it openly. The louder I am, the more I enjoy what I’m eating.  Those who have slept in the same room with me, know I do this when I fall asleep, too. As I drifted off the other night, a contented “mmm” escaped, making my husband laugh, which startled me awake. My drowsy grumpiness made him laugh harder, prompting me to thump his arm. He laughed even harder until I caught the giggles and couldn’t stop laughing with him.  Over the years, Bren and I have shared many nights laughing like this at silly things, like most couples do. Cancer hasn’t changed that. We’re still the same couple we’ve always been and are determined to remain that way.   

Interestingly, getting mad at each other hasn’t been rare during Bren’s illness. We have had lots of disagreements, though I don’t remember what any were about. I do remember feeling guilty the first time I got mad at him after his diagnosis and confided in my sister Deb. She didn’t make me feel any better. She shook her head and said, “Aww, leave him alone.” I playfully retorted, “You wouldn’t say that if he gets mad at me.” She just laughed and said, “No, I wouldn’t.”   

Joking aside, Bren and I spend most of our time together these days, and yes, we sometimes get on each other’s nerves. I don’t see him as just a sick person, even though I know what he’s going through is horrendous. I’m his wife and his caregiver, which isn’t always easy for either of us. On his good days, we sometimes irritate each other—and that’s okay. We’ve always been open with our feelings, and still are. You can argue with a cancer patient, especially if they’re your partner. I know because I have. And honestly, he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

September 28, 2014  

Dear Brendan, 

Your recent pathology was finally presented at our bone and soft tissue sarcoma meeting. And the margins were unequivocally clear. 

This is good news. 

You will need to have ongoing management of your disease elsewhere in terms of surveillance of your lungs to see what happens there, but I would leave that management to your oncologist, Dr. Vechi. 

I will see you for a follow-up of your leg, as organised, in terms of getting things going. 

Kind regards, 

Dr. Brach 

November 21, 2014  

This week, Brendan met his thoracic surgeon, Dr Chen, a distinguished Professor of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Despite Dr. C looking like a teenager, I imagine he’s in his late thirties, at least. His team is looking at scheduling the lung surgery sometime between December 8th and 18th. The timing has to accommodate Bren’s recovery from his latest round of chemotherapy, Dr. C’s other surgical commitments, and his upcoming trip to Milan. We’re keeping our fingers and toes crossed because those in the know have assured us that Dr. C is the best in his field, and we want him to lead Bren’s procedure.   

The surgery will involve removing the lower lobe of Bren’s right lung, which is more extensive than we initially thought. However, this won’t negatively impact his lung function; they’ll continue to work normally. Bren should be cancer-free by Christmas.   

No sooner were we home from the meeting with Dr. Chen than we were back in the city again for Bren’s next lot of chemotherapy. During this treatment, Dr. Brach paid Bren a bedside visit to examine his leg and address other queries. Dr. Brach’s tight schedule rarely allows for such visits; typically, his registrar handled bedside visits. Dr. V even expressed surprise at Dr. Brach’s visit. Saying Bren must be pretty special to have him visit on ward. 

Now might be the perfect time to confess I have a little crush on Dr. V. He’s kind, gracious, caring, calm, patient, and good-looking; one of the nicest people I’ve met. I shared this with Bren, who jokingly replied, “I’d have a crush too if I were you; he’s saving my life.”  

December 2014  

This Christmas was wonderful. Our home had been decked out for the season all month long, except for the outdoor lights—which, true to form, we managed to put up just in time to switch them on Christmas Eve. 

Our main tree is always laden with ornaments I’ve collected over decades, each holding a memory. Every Christmas Eve, we add four new ornaments as the “first gift of Christmas.” Then it’s into Bren’s Beetle, strung with fairy lights, for a drive to admire Old Bar’s Christmas lights. 

Once we’re back home, Bren and the kids head to bed, and I stay up into the early hours wrapping presents. How did this become Mum’s job every year? And honestly, where are the elves when you need them? No matter how much I plan, I never finish the wrapping before Christmas Eve. Everything felt a little lighter and brighter this year because Bren had clear margins.

January 2015  

Thoracic Review  

Our drive to the city today was surprisingly smooth, a welcome change from the nightmare of previous trips. For the first time in seven months, Bren was back behind the wheel instead of sitting beside me as a passenger. Watching him drive made me realise how easily I take everyday things for granted. I hadn’t grasped just how limited his life would become after his cancer diagnosis until treatment slowly began stripping away what he could and couldn’t do.

We arrived shortly before his 11 o’clock appointment, with just enough time to reach Professor Chen’s rooms. Even if we had needed to rush, Bren’s leg was still healing, hurrying wasn’t an option. As it turned out the doctor was running late anyway, so it didn’t matter. We weren’t stressed; this was only a routine check-up.

Bren was eager for this appointment, hoping to get the green light to swim again. He had been diligently keeping his scars dry following his lung surgery over the past month. When Professor Chen called us in, his kind, quirky and unassuming nature put us at ease immediately.  He took Bren’s X-ray from us and placed it on the lightbox. Turning to Brendan, he declared, “Perfect X-ray.”  

I felt an overwhelming surge of happiness, and could have kissed the Professor for giving us such good news, but didn’t. I’m making no apology for the amount of times I’ve felt moved to kiss one of Bren’s doctors. As Professor Chen’s smile faded, he focused on the paperwork in front of him. “Ahh, we have pathology results, too!” he announced. I held my breath. The wait seemed endless as Professor Chen sifted through his papers until he found the results. After a moment of reading, he looked up at Bren and declared, “All Margins from where the two sarcomas in your lungs were removed are unequivocally clear!” He paused, then added, “I don’t know what else to say. This is good news, Brendan. And a long way to travel for a 10-minute consult; Happy 2015!”  

“Now just forget about it!” Professor Chen said, repeating his advice from 4 weeks earlier. This news was such a relief and a reason for celebration, marking another high point in Bren’s recovery.    

After reviewing the results, Professor Chen took a moment to dictate into a small recorder for a report to be sent to Dr. V. The details were complex, contrasting with Bren’s appearance; tanned and well, with the only indicators of his ordeal being his bald head and additional scars alongside the one from his spleen removal when he was a child.    

Before we left, the Professor suggested we see Claire, his thoracic CNC. He thought she’d like to say hello. Claire was just in the next room. Professor Chen knocked and ushered us in. Before leaving, he said to her seriously, “You’ll have to bag Brendan’s wound.” He left the room with a twinkle in his eye and a smile, quickly saying goodbye and shutting the door. Claire, momentarily concerned, donned scrubs and gloves and approached Bren. In her lovely English accent, she said, “Give me a look, Brendan.” Bren and I were puzzled, as the professor had already examined the wound and found it perfectly healed.    

Claire lifted Bren’s shirt to inspect the scar and, almost laughing, exclaimed, “That bugger! There’s nothing wrong with it, Brendan. I thought it had dehiscence.” It was a light-hearted moment.  

Bren told Claire that the professor had already checked his scar and found everything was OK. I said that Professor Chen seemed cheeky, perhaps wanting Claire to have one last look at Bren’s scarred but still impressively toned chest and six-pack. This comment made Bren blush. Claire and I laughed, she felt like an old friend and hugged us both as we left.  Bren’s cancer recovery brought plenty of unexpected gifts along with the horror, including meeting wonderful people like Claire and the professor. Strangers who had woven their way into our hearts during Bren’s illness, offering friendship and support where we least expected it.    

As we left, I thought how lucky we were. We were the patients Professor Chen could share a joke with, a light moment in a day that’s most likely short on smiles. I felt grateful, and I’m sure Bren did, too. An eight-hour trip to the city and back for a 15-minute appointment might seem a lot, but it was a small price to pay for getting Bren’s life back, especially when the good news was delivered in such a fun way.     

**** 

I can’t explain my relief when Professor Chen told us we could now ‘forget about it’. I had thought of nothing but cancer and what it was doing to my husband and our family, for seven long months. It was my every waking thought. Having that weight lifted gave me feelings of euphoria so overwhelming that I felt the room spin and saw tiny stars dance across my eyes. For a split millisecond, I think I lost consciousness and went to another place where only good things happen. 2015 was going to be a good year!