From Medicine to Miracle: How My Faith Overcame Cancer

I stretched out my leg again and Dad noticed.

‘Is it still hurting you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it’s very sore tonight,’ I said, as I winced in pain.

He told me that the following day, Boxing Day, he would ring Barry Peach, an old friend of his from medical school and an orthopaedic surgeon at our local hospital.

‘What’s an orthopaedic surgeon?’

‘A specialist doctor – someone who looks after bones and joints.’ I filed the information away for medical school …

Sitting here in Mr Peach’s tidy office, I replay in my mind my last run with my brother. The examination has now been completed and X-rays of my knee carried out. With a theatrical gesture, Mr Peach pins the picture up on a white illuminated box fixed on the wall in front of me.

‘See here, Little Lady,’ Mr Peach is pointing at the box, ‘this is the problem, just here.’ I look at the outline of my knee joint, labelling the bones for practice. ‘Patella, tibia, fibula and femur,’ I whisper under my breath, and Mr Peach smiles. And I see it – a large, white, hard lump, sitting on my bone in the wrong place.

‘A limpet,’ I think to myself. ‘It looks just like a limpet clinging to my leg.’

My mouth is suddenly dry and my palms begin to sweat. I feel hot and cold and very, very scared. My heart is pounding in my chest as if it will burst. The voices of my dad and Mr Peach seem to recede into the distance.

‘O God, don’t let it be cancer,’ I pray, more fervently than I would have thought possible. I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the Limpet is cruel, ugly and evil.

I lean forward and peer at it harder. Maybe by looking hard enough I can wish it away. I inspect my enemy and prepare myself for the fight ahead, for a fight I know there will be. Somewhere, deep inside, I know the Limpet will change my life beyond recognition. A terrifying and unknown beast, I realize it has the power to kill me. I know what it is. It is a tumour. It is Cancer with a big C. I’m dying.

‘I am too young, Limpet,’ I cry inside and I see I am hopelessly ill-equipped for this battle. I am a novice, a frightened soldier facing war for the first time.

‘Why? Why me? Why now?’ I ask despairingly.

The Limpet remains coldly and complacently silent.

God doesn’t answer me either.

2

In the distance I hear faint strains of music. I try to place the tune and recognize ‘Auld Lang Syne’. I open my eyes slowly. Lying flat on my back, I see a system of pulleys and ropes above me. I make to sit up but cry out as I feel agonizing pain in my left hip. Then comes the reassuring touch of another human hand.

‘It’s okay, Mary, you’ve had your operation.’ The nurse’s voice echoes, sounding too loud. ‘Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year.’

I am in the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool, and I have just had my biopsy operation. My Boxing Day consultation with Mr Peach was five brief days ago and the very next day he admitted me to Ward Eight. It is midnight on New Year’s Eve and I am waking up after surgery. I drift back into a heavy, drugged sleep.

Later, I awake on the first morning of 1983 with no idea what lies ahead for me this year. I manage to pull myself far enough up the bed to view the contraption that I seem to be a part of. My left leg is swathed from hip to toe in a heavy layer of bandages. A tight ring, made of leather, encircles the top of my thigh and is attached to a metal frame. The frame seems to be part of the pulley and rope system and a set of heavy metal weights finishes the whole thing off. I shift my position and pain shoots through my body. I realize it comes not from my leg but from my hip which is covered in dressings and has a large tube coming out of it. As I begin to panic at my strange and new surroundings, there is a knock on the door and Mr Peach sweeps in with a broad smile on his face.

‘And how is my Little Lady today, then?’

The contraption, he tells me, is called a Thomas Splint and will be with me for a while.

‘The operation was bigger than I thought would be necessary. We had to cut a lot of bone marrow away under the lump. There’s only a tiny wafer of bone left. That’s why you need the splint.’

‘So what did you fill the hole up with?’

‘We packed it with bone chips from your hip.’

‘Is that why my hip hurts, then?’ I am piecing together this puzzle.

‘Yes, that’s a bone graft and I’m afraid it will be very sore.’ He looks at me apologetically. ‘Be brave, Little Lady!’ I nod seriously, for I would do anything he tells me.

‘I have some more news.’ He is grave now. ‘Because the bone will be so weak, you will have to use a calliper to walk.’ I know what a calliper is. I have seen musty old photographs of my father wearing one after he had a leg operation as a child. My heart sinks and I try to imagine how I will manage at school and university. As if reading my thoughts, Mr Peach says I should delay my university entrance by a year because of the difficulties of getting around.

Anxiously, I ask Mr Peach how long I am going to be in my Thomas Splint.

‘I’m afraid it will be quite some time. Probably six weeks at least.’

‘How will I manage? It’s so uncomfortable!’

‘You will get used to it,’ he reassures me in his kindly way, ‘and we will help you all we can.’

It feels as if the bottom has dropped out of my world. I realize I will miss my mock A level examinations, maybe even my A levels themselves.

Mr Peach goes on to explain about the tubes draining my wound, the catheter in my bladder and the intravenous drip in my arm. I feel overwhelmed by my new situation but he pats my hand, inspiring me with confidence as he says: ‘Just think what a better doctor you will be for this.’

‘I know, I’ll be the best orthopaedic surgeon ever!’ I enthuse.

‘Well, you will need to get some muscles then, Little Lady!’ he laughs, and leaves the room that will now become my prison for the next six weeks.

Visitors arrive in droves. My mum and dad visit me often, appearing strained and worried. I reassure them by saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine with my calliper.’ My brothers and sisters, friends and school teachers drop in, too. I am in a great deal of pain, particularly from the hip graft, and I have lost a large amount of blood so I tire very easily. The immobility and discomfort from the Thomas Splint cause me to sleep badly and I soon feel very discouraged.

My sister Franny visits and she brings me cards with scripture verses and inspirational texts. ‘Why is this happening to me now?’ I ask her when the pain and tiredness become too much. ‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘But I do know that it says in the Bible that all situations can work together for good.’ She helps me find relevant and uplifting passages of scripture and they emphasize to me why I need to have a close and personal relationship with God.

The focus of my prayer is on healing. Mr Peach explains the bone tumour has been sent off for further tests. I know there is a chance that the results could show cancer but I am determined to prove the Lord in all this and I believe God can transform the Limpet into a benign and harmless lump.

So I ask for healing and I spend more and more time praying for it. I read the gospels through, concentrating on the miracles to see how they are done. I realize that having faith is an important factor. A priest visits me and prays over my leg, placing his hands where I had the operation, now a mound of thick crepe bandages.

‘Lord, we believe You can heal Mary,’ he prays in a quiet intense voice. ‘We ask You to glorify Yourself and make Mary well.’ Then he prays in the words of the Spirit – the language of tongues. I am fascinated to hear the soft, unintelligible noises and they soothe my troubled mind. I am convinced that because the Spirit of God is present our prayers will be answered.

I have made friends with the young house officer on our ward. He breezes in, always cheerful and considerate.

‘How are you, Trouble?’ he says in his soft Irish voice.

‘Fine, Dr Murphy, fine.’

‘Call me Jimmy, as you’re going to be a med student.’

‘Did you know God’s going to heal me, Jimmy?’

‘To be sure He will, but maybe it will be through modern medicine.’

‘Nope!’ I exclaim. ‘You see, I love the Lord and He won’t let me suffer! I’ll walk out of this hospital on two strong legs!’

He is the first of many visitors and nurses to whom I witness in this way.

A few days after my operation, several nurses on the ward realize I am feeling lonely and isolated in my side room. Ward Eight is a female orthopaedic ward and all the patients are immobile and elderly. Although I get plenty of visitors during the evenings, my days are long and tedious. Fixed in one position in my bed, I can’t go anywhere. I find it difficult to concentrate on books and I have listened and re-listened to my music tapes. Early one morning the door bursts open.

‘Surprise!’ shout three voices in unison and three young lads file into my room in wheelchairs.

‘I’m Steve.’

‘I’m Pete.’

‘And I’m Barry.’

‘Well, I’m Mary!’ I reply, eagerly. ‘But what are you all doing here?’

‘We’ve come to sympathize,’ says Steve. ‘We all had Thomas Splints for weeks so we know how awful it can be.’

‘So what did you all do to your legs, then?’ I ask.

They tell their stories which are basically the same: motorbike accidents. ‘Barry’s was the worst,’ says Steve. ‘He almost lost his leg but Mr Peach saved it.’ Barry smiles shyly at me. He seems the quietest of the three.

‘I had my splint for twelve weeks,’ he says, ‘and my leg’s still in a brace.’ I look at his leg extended in front of him, two large pins through his bones fixed to a metal contraption. ‘At least I have my leg, though.’ He smiles again at me.

We swop stories and they give me hints on how to cope with my splint. The room seems very quiet and empty when they have left. I am in a great deal of pain from the hip graft and the splint becomes more and more uncomfortable. It seems that, no matter which way I move, the leather of the ring bites into my soft flesh. I ache to be outside in the bright fresh air of crisp winter days. There is a tiny window in my room, but behind me; it feels as if light and colour have disappeared from my life. However, as the days progress and friends and neighbours hear of my predicament my room begins to fill with cards and flowers.

‘Just a few days more,’ I think to myself, ‘and my prayers will see an answer.’ The biopsy results are due and I am sure that God has healed me.

The Ward Six boys visit me often now. I begin to witness to them, explaining God can change them and heal them.

‘Why did God allow my bike to crash, then?’ asks Peter. ‘He certainly wasn’t looking out for me that day.’

‘And what about my short leg?’ asks Barry in his soft cheerful voice. ‘I will always have to wear a boot, which will make me look awful.’

It troubles me that I feel so much doubt when I look at the problems in life which really hurt. How could God allow these young boys’ lives to be damaged for ever? I am told I must not doubt God and my faith will heal me. And yet peace eludes me. I feel worried and anxious, ill and tired.

January 6 is a special day in the Catholic calendar. The twelfth day of Christmas coincides with the feast of the Epiphany. Nobody visits me. The hours pass and no-one appears. I feel even lonelier when I think about everyone being busy taking down Christmas trees and packing away decorations for next year. The crib figures will be carefully placed in their straw beds and stowed away.

In the evening, Dr Jimmy comes into my room.

‘Jimmy,’ I ask him, ‘do you think God wants to heal me?’ He looks at me and I am stunned to see tears in his eyes.

‘Oh, Mary,’ he sighs, ‘I don’t know the answer to that. I wish I did.’ He seems troubled, but then I know from our conversations that life as a house officer is not easy.

‘So why are you here so late, Jimmy?’ I continue, trying to sound cheerful.

‘Well, I’m a vampire tonight,’ he laughs, seeming to have recovered his usual good mood. ‘I need to take your blood, Little Lady.’

‘Why do you need to do that?’ I know this is out of the usual routine.

‘Well, tomorrow we have to take you to the operating theatre.’ He pauses for a few seconds. ‘To … check your dressings.’

‘Do I need to go to sleep for that, then?’ I ask, surprised, as the nurses have checked my dressings several times already in previous days.

‘Yes, you do – it could be painful,’ he replies slowly, concentrating on his task.

‘So what’s the transfusion for?’ I ask curiously, noticing a form requesting a blood cross-match. After a moment’s silence, Jimmy looks up from my arm.

‘You ask too many questions for a patient. You might bleed when we take off the dressings.’

I meet him directly in the eyes and he looks away. I know he is not telling the truth but inside me a voice urges silence ‘It’s not the appointed time’ – the words flood into my mind from nowhere. The question forming on my lips dies and I look at the young doctor again. He smiles awkwardly.

‘Okay, Jimmy,’ I reply instead. He relaxes visibly – and I feel a wave of fear flood over me.

‘Get a good night’s sleep now, won’t you,’ he advises, leaving my room.

When he has gone the silence is heavy and oppressive. I know something is going on and I feel bewildered and lonely. Closing my eyes I try to pray, but the words will not form. ‘Jesus,’ I whisper. ‘I am scared, so scared. Please help me.’ I lie back against the pillow and close my eyes against the troubling world. The nurses bring me my tablets and I gulp them down eagerly. I want to be asleep and away from my anxiety. I pray quietly to myself and repeat over and over again the words that I have read in the Bible: ‘Be not afraid, be not afraid.’ Soon the fear is swallowed up in sleep.

I awake suddenly and, despite the heavy dose of sleeping tablets and painkillers, I am immediately alert. I am filled with a sense of expectancy. The room is becoming light and soon I am bathed in the brightest, purest light I have ever known. I know there is a physical presence in the right-hand corner of the room. The Presence is very tall and strong, reaching almost to the ceiling. For a few seconds I wait fearlessly as I know, somehow, that I am not in danger. I become aware of a deep peace filling me and I feel warm and joyful inside. The Presence moves towards me and instinctively I shuffle to one side to make more room. He sits on the edge of my bed and I am awe-struck by his physical size and strength. Suddenly I feel very, very safe. The peace within me becomes more and more overwhelming and streams of silent tears roll down my cheeks. Unexpectedly, sounds begin to form in my mouth. I do not know what language this is, so strange and unfamiliar, but I cannot seem to stop it. The words soothe me completely. They form clearly in my mind and I know they are being spoken to me directly by the Presence. Who or what is he? I do not know, but he is not of this world.

‘Mary, I will lead you through the valley of the shadow of death,’ the Presence says, ‘but do not fear any evil, for I will bring you through.’

I know the words to be true and I sleep deeply and peacefully, sensing I am being watched over. When I wake I am aware that today, Friday 7 January, is to be a day like no other. I recall the previous night’s experiences completely, calmly and naturally. I have glimpsed another spiritual realm, more powerful than any earthly state, and I wait for something to happen.

My room remains quiet for several hours, the usual hubbub of breakfast being denied me because of my visit to the operating theatre. A little later there is a tap on the door and Mr Peach enters. As soon as my eyes meet his I know something is wrong. He sits on my bed, exactly where the Presence sat, and takes my hand in his. I look at him trustingly.

‘Well, Little Lady.’ He speaks softly. ‘You must be brave. That old lump – well, it was a nasty old thing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid the lump was cancer.’

My world stops. I turn my head away, my mind searching frantically, desperately, for an alternative.

‘Oh, God, no, not cancer.’

‘There is an operation we could do. It wouldn’t guarantee anything – but it would give you a chance.’

‘What sort of operation?’ I ask hesitantly, unable to imagine anything more extreme than what I have already undergone.

‘We could remove your leg.’ The words fall out cautiously.

‘My leg? You would take my leg? My whole leg?’

Mr Peach nods. His eyes, holding mine, cry with me.

‘Yes, my Little Lady,’ he whispers. ‘We need to amputate your leg.’ His hand holds mine tightly and I draw strength from him.

In a moment’s silence I contemplate all I had planned. My whole future: becoming a doctor, marrying, bearing children. In a few anguished seconds I see my world collapse.

‘How can I still be a doctor? With one leg? Is it possible?’

Mr Peach looks at me thoughtfully as he balances hope and realism.

‘It is possible … I have a friend, an orthopaedic surgeon. His leg was amputated because of cancer.’

‘And if I don’t have it? What then?’

‘If we don’t operate you will certainly die.’

Time stands still as I take it in.

‘And …’ I pause. ‘Will I live if my leg is taken?’

‘Possibly. There’s a chance at least. You will need to have chemotherapy, though.’

I have heard about chemotherapy. My friend’s sister nursed on a leukaemia ward and she told us about drugs that make patients bald and infertile.

‘If I have chemotherapy, will my hair fall out?’

‘Yes, every last hair.’

‘And will I be infertile?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ he replies carefully. ‘You will not be able to have children.’

I consider the options, minutes seeming like hours.

‘Shall we operate then?’ Mr Peach asks me.

‘Yes, take my leg. I don’t want to die. I’ll be okay, you’ll see.’

He assents gravely and looks at me. ‘It’s a brave decision, Mary, but I would choose the same.’

‘And I will be a doctor, Mr Peach.’

He is visibly relieved the decision is made.

‘I believe you,’ he says, ‘I truly believe you.’

‘Shall we pray, Mr Peach?’ He looks surprised.

‘Yes, let’s do that. Let’s pray I will do a good job and you will get through all this.’

So the surgeon and the patient hold hands and pray the Lord’s prayer together. ‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth …’

Even as I say the words I wonder: ‘Surely this is not Your will, for I cannot believe that?’

‘Your mum and dad are outside, Mary,’ Mr Peach tells me, and I panic.

Now I realize why my family didn’t visit the previous day. They were at home, being told the awful news.

‘But how will they ever cope with this?’ I ask, knowing their dreams for me will also be shattered.

‘They are strong, Little Lady, like you.’ I agree, trustingly, willing to place everything into the hands of somebody strong and capable.

Mum and Dad enter the tiny airless room. I feel guilty; guilty that I have brought all this sadness upon them. Mum walks over to the window, tears blurring her unseeing vision. Dad sits on the bed and squeezes my hand too tight. They speak but I cannot hear them. I talk but I do not know what I say. They cry a lot and I realize I have never seen my dad cry before. They reassure me and tell me things will turn out but I feel older than them.

Falteringly I begin, ‘I know about my leg. I have cancer. It is serious. I could die. They say they will take my leg and I can’t have children and my hair will fall out.’

But then I add: ‘You know that stuff about God and all that? Well, I still believe it.’

Strangely, as well, I do. I know I have already glimpsed beyond the grave.

‘I will miss my leg,’ I say simply. There is no other way to tell it.

A little later, I say goodbye to it. I reach forward and strain to touch my foot, the only part of my leg not covered in bandages. I tickle my big toe.

But God always answers prayers and God can do anything, say the priests. Does that mean maybe I won’t have to lose my leg? I can still pray for a miracle. The cancer might disappear. Yes, that’s it, I decide. God will glorify Himself by transforming the cancer. All things are possible, the Bible says, and I believe those words. I have to, for the alternative is unthinkable.

I am given a tablet. I feel sleepy, so sleepy. I am wheeled down a corridor. I look up and see my dad striding alongside. It is cold and draughty and I see bright lights above me. A kind man talks to me and lifts up a syringe. As I drift into unconscious blackness, crying, I feel a finger reach over and tickle my toes. I believe with every fibre of my being that, when I wake up, my leg will still remain.

I awake into a world of silence. It is pitch black. I think I am dead. Then I remember the surgery. I strain to become aware of some bodily sensation. I try to focus my mind.

‘Where are my hands?’ I think, and I feel them. Slowly and heavily, I lift them. They are like lead weights. I reach down towards my leg but then another hand catches mine and restrains me. I do not fight, for I cannot. I let my arms flop down on the bed. My brain is beginning to work again.

‘My leg, how does it feel?’ I wonder. Then I become aware of a tickle on my left foot; it is my big toe. Yes, I can definitely feel it! My leg is still there. I concentrate with all my power. Every inch of my leg is there; toes, heel, knee and thigh. I feel the reassuring pressure of my heel on the mattress and the blankets touching the tip of my toe, the throbbing pain in my knee and the biting metal of the Thomas Splint.

‘Thank you, God,’ I pray. ‘Thank you that the miracle worked and I still have my leg!’ I drift back into the most wonderful of dreams, smiling.

When I open my eyes again the dawn is breaking and a pale light fills the room. Mum and Dad have been here day and night for me but, at this instant, I am alone. The figure who sat with me through the night is gone. I remember my leg has been cured. I can feel it, warm and still beside my good one. I try to move it … but it seems to be paralysed for some reason. Perhaps, I think, it is fastened to a splint. I reach down with my hand to explore. I put my hand on my thigh but I feel the cotton of the sheets. Blindly, I grope around but I cannot find my leg. I strain and lift my head, and see the truth.

I can hear a voice screaming and screaming. I wonder whose it is and then I realize it is mine. A nurse runs to me.

‘My leg! Where is my leg?’ I scream and do not stop until my mother steps back into the room and her kind voice breaks into my terror.

‘Mary,’ she sobs, ‘your leg is gone.’

‘But I can feel it, I know it’s there!’

She says gently: ‘That’s not really your leg. It is your phantom leg. It is a trick of your mind.’

This mental torture is more agonizing than anything I will ever know again – anguish at the deception of my own body. I have no leg now, only a sensation of one. I want to feel nothing. I do not want a reminder of all I have lost. Even the tumour pain still mocks me; the evil Limpet which caused this grief still reminds me of its presence. Not so much pain, more the suggestion of pain. Worse than pain. Impossible to put into words.

‘The miracle,’ I whisper to my mum but she can’t hear me. She smoothes my forehead with a cold damp cloth. She shakes her head, not understanding.

‘It didn’t work, Mum. The miracle didn’t happen after all.’

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