The Mind is a Strange thing. Thank you Macmillan

Macmillan Nurses and a story

I was saying in another thread what a strange thing the mind is. I lost my wife 20 years ago after nursing her at home for 9 months. She had oesophageal cancer which was operated on but it then spread to her liver. During that time I had help from the district
nurse and regular visits from a couple of Macmillan nurses. This also about their kindness. Excuse the rambling.

When I wanted to contact the district nurse one weekend I realised that I had not got a contact number. So I went down to a small local hospital where they had an emergency out of hours doctor. I asked at reception for a number but they would not give it.
I quietly slipped into the doctors surgery as I knew it was about to start and there were a few waiting. A few mins later the doctor entered and was obviously surprised. I explained the problem and he refused to give me the number. I walked to his desk and
picked up his phone and gave it to him. I told him that he might as well call the police in that case as I was prepared to completely trash the surgery and that he would not be armed but that the first thing to go would be his tall glass cabinet followed by
his computer. At that point he said OK. He wrote the phone numbers on a piece of paper and what really amused me was when he said ‘don’t tell where you got this from’. He seemed more afraid of them than of me.

One of the district nurses was clumsy and I would not let her tend to my wife although she was well meaning. Another gave me her home number and said if you need help day or night ring me personally. I will pull my jeans on over my nightie and be there in
ten mins. When I did need help at 1am in the morning she was true to her word.

Both the Macmillan nurses were great and very helpful. One in particular Siobhan was particularly kind and helpful some 18 months after my wife’s death and I recall on one of her visits saying to me in private that when my wife was not present in the room
and I was on my own when she walked in she had rarely seen such hurt in a person’s face. I had a 14 year old daughter and a 22 year old.

On the morning after my wife had died my eldest went to register the death whilst I went into my workplace to take in the details of the construction design I was working on – the drawings I had already e-mailed as I would be away for a few weeks with my
youngest after the funeral.

I can remember being seated in the sitting room at home later that morning and being unable to remember what I had done earlier that day. My eldest had to tell me that I had spent an hour at work. Slowly I was able to piece it together. I was very busy at
work or away with my youngest over the next 18 months and I seemed to cope well. Then my workload dropped off and as soon as I was less busy I went into depression. Work colleagues were worried about me as they could see what I saw in the mirror every morning
– grief and misery without knowing why or being able to control it. I eventually went to see my doctor who checked my blood pressure which was sky high. I told him that as the only way I could sleep at night without choking on my tears was to drink heavily
and that I was not surprised my blood pressure was high. There followed a series of appointments with a psychiatrist who kept wanting me to take drugs. Eventually I agreed to take them for a short period in the hope that it would enable me to sleep without
alcohol. Boy am I/was I glad I decided not to take them long term. It was like being a zombie. No highs or lows. I actually preferred my grief!

After 9 months of depression I went to the hospital as I was still having checkups with my oncologist having been treated for testicular cancer a few years before my wife’s death. That was when my fairy godmother came up trumps. Siobhan the Macmillan nurse
happened to be in the hospital reception area. When she saw me she came and sat with me and asked how I was. I said fine lass. She looked me in the eyes and said ‘but how are you truly’? I told her that I was looking after the youngest, who was about turned
16 by this time, but once she was able to stand on her own two feet I really did not care whether I lived or died. She asked to join me whilst I was in with the oncologist who was a great chap. When she came out she asked if I would go to counselling if she
could arrange it at a hospice about 12 miles from home. I had nothing to lose did I.

I found the counselling sessions really hard and upsetting. I went mainly on my own time as I had masses of time owed me from work. Quite often after these sessions I would phone my boss and say I will be a couple of hours as I am going for a walk as I am
upset. After probably 8 sessions I had been made to realise that what was causing my depression was my guilt at surviving when my wife hadn’t and particularly as I had previously had cancer and walked away from it. My counsellor then asked that I brought in
all the photos of my wife and of us together. The next sessions I talked about my wife and we looked at the pictures for over an hour. That was my last session and it was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My face was there again looking at me
from the mirror. In work a number of the lasses would hug me and say things like welcome back Alan – we have missed you. They were glad to have the old me back too.

The story of how I went on from there is a tale of a love of life, fun and friends including the singles group I ran and the friends I still see regularly who have had trials in life themselves as many have.

For the last 18 years I have given a £100 to both McMillan and to the hospice that I attended.