She had a dreadful night on Wednesday night, ending up in Canberra Hospital emergency at 1.30am when her pain could not be contained at home any more. She was dehydrated from vomiting and desperately frightened. They stabilised her while Nick stayed by her side, his second night with little or no sleep. Mae's Dad Ric and his wife came in the early hours to stay with her while Nick went home to pack for their journey to Sydney. Then in the morning, ambulance transport was wisely declined (given how long it was likely to take) and they drove in convoy to St George Hospital, Kogarah. Nick slept on and off in the back seat of his own car, Mae in the passenger seat and Melissa driving, with Ric leading the way in his car. They arrived by 11.30am, Nick and Mae utterly strung out and exhausted.
Thursday was a tough day. St George Hospital is a big old institution, a busy public hospital in dubious repair, with labyrinthine corridors and frenetic staff. Mae was traumatised by her ghastly night, terrified of what was to come and not feeling at all confident. David and I did our best to comfort and support them both. The time leading up to major surgery is awful.
By Thursday night she was calmer, had met her surgical team, had been tested and prepped as best as possible. Nick had cat napped himself back to a reasonable level of emotional and physical functioning. At one point late in the afternoon I quietly slipped an important little package out of my handbag and into his hands. On his instructions, this had been couriered from the Blue Mountains that morning. We left and went back to Surry Hills about 9pm.
Here is the photo Nick took, not long after we left.
Accompanying his photo, a text: "she said yes!"
The next morning he described how he had chosen a quiet moment after we left, between nurses doing obs and while the other three older men in the four bed ward were temporarily not snoring, hacking or complaining, had gone down on bended knee beside her bed and quietly proposed. Her response was in the affirmative, followed by words to the effect that it was by no means too soon. And I quote: Yes! About fucking time!
Who knew my own dear innocent youngest daughter would ever use such language? Their reverential moment was soon impinged on by the demands of a factor known as "pico-prep". Those of you who have had a colonoscopy or bowel surgery will be familiar with this particular form of interruption to one's equanimity. Not ideal, said Nick. But, well, that's our story. That's how it is in our story now. David and I really like Nick, he will be a lovely husband.
Word spread around the ward staff like a grassfire and by the time Mae was being readied for the procedure early on Friday morning, there were congratulations, hugs and smiles from every nurse, doctor and even Prof Morris himself. Out in the corridor, the Prof, as everyone calls him, took my hand, looked right into my eyes and gently told me that this huge form of surgery was the best course of action for Mae. It is the best chance of saving her, he said. We went back into the ward, Nick with the ring on his own littlest finger, we all tried to find some words of love and comfort to reassure her and suddenly, she was being wheeled away.
Surgery went for 9 hours. Ric and Melissa went back to Paddington to recuperate while David and I stayed with Nick at the hospital. From time to time there were updates emanating from the operating theatre, each slightly more reassuring than the last. By 5pm we were told it was essentially complete, the tumours gone, the chemotherapy wash achieved, the stoma to be temporary. Histology should tell more of the story by early next week. Now, there are just the post-operative challenges, the procedure has gone as well as could be expected. She has survived. I began to allow myself some hope that perhaps she might be saved. Perhaps she might be able to have her life back, to have the health and peace that I used to simply take for granted. But it is still a little too early for celebration. What lies ahead of her is still very, very tough. Not the least of it is the grief that she will never have a pregnancy.
I was able to see her briefly, in intensive care, a couple of hours after the surgery. She looked like she was sleeping. Tubes, monitors, drains everywhere. But recognisably Mae, warm, breathing. She is heavily sedated, ventilated. She will not be allowed to wake until tomorrow. She will want a photo, I said to her special nurse. Nick said, she's a vet nurse, she wants to see a video of the operation too. May we take a photo? Really? the nurse replied, we've never been asked that, I'll check! She came back a few moments later. By all means, take a photo. So I did but it won't be seen by anybody until Mae says it can be. They shook their heads - she wants to see the VIDEO! Wow! She's brave.
It feels like a huge weight has been lifted. It feels like this is the first day of a new life. I found I could smile again. Here's a black humour hospital photo to smile about.
And here is something else to smile about, yesterday we were able to see Julia, Kathryn and gorgeous boy Lorenz, who is a great little character. They came over for morning tea, together with Peter and Elaine. But I was so preoccupied I could barely speak. This sweet little photo was a lucky snap in a tense morning.
Thinking of you all, and congratulations to Nick and Mae. All our love M&K
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