From Medicine to Miracle: How My Faith Overcame Cancer. Dr. Self Mary

      from MEDICINE to MIRACLE

      HOW MY FAITH

      OVERCAME CANCER

       Dr Mary Self and Rod Chaytor

Dedication

      This book is dedicated to

      Dr Robert Clewlow,

      father and physician

      CONTENTS

       COVER

       TITLE PAGE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       EPILOGUE

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

       ABOUT THE AUTHORS

       COPYRIGHT

       ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

      I didn’t die I lived.’

       And now I’m telling the world what God did.

       God tested me, He pushed me hard,

       But He didn’t hand me over to Death.’

      Extract from Psalm 118, ‘The Message’ version

1

      ‘Trust you, Little Lady, to be different!’ exclaims Mr Peach. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything else from a doctor’s daughter, though!’

      I look into the eyes of an expert. He gives me a broad smile and turns to my father who has brought me to hospital. They begin an earnest conversation in hushed tones, using unfamiliar words. I listen for a while, not wanting to be excluded. I hear snatches of words that sound important but I don’t know what they mean. I do not really understand the atmosphere of alarm I have created since I told my dad about the lump on my leg.

      I just feel relieved they have not mentioned the dreaded ‘C word. I push the thought from my mind. I don’t know anyone young with cancer. Seventeen-year-olds don’t get cancer, so I switch off and daydream. I seize the opportunity to examine the room of this kind and clever doctor whom I already hold in the greatest of awe. Tall, strong and imposing, he seems to fill the room completely and yet his manner is so gentle. I like to be called ‘Little Lady’. It means he sees me as an adult. Yet underneath the surface I am as scared as only a child can be.

      It is Boxing Day 1982. We are in Mr Peach’s office at the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool. It is large and square with a solid desk in the centre. A grinning life-sized skeleton stands sentinel in the corner. Interesting pictures of bones and joints line the walls. I recognize some of the names from my years as a nursing cadet in the St John Ambulance Brigade and I look dreamily around as I long for the day when I, too, will have an office like this.

      Mr Peach wakes me from my reverie as he approaches, swinging a small metal hammer. Instinctively, I draw back, my eyes wide with alarm. He laughingly explains: ‘It’s a patella hammer – to examine your knees. Hop on the couch now and let’s see that leg of yours.’

      Gingerly I stand and limp over to the examination area. My left knee is now so painful that my ‘hop’ is stiff and awkward.

      Deftly, Mr Peach examines my knee. He tells me what he is doing and I feel proud when he acknowledges that I will have to learn to do this soon. He knows I want to be a doctor. I flinch as his hands encounter the lump I discovered on my leg two days before. I see a concerned look spreading over his face and my heart misses a beat. Why is everybody so twitched about this thing?

      ‘So tell me how you found this, then,’ he asks me, prodding my knee.

      ‘I went for a jog, and when I came back my leg was hurting. Then I noticed the skin was red and warm and I could feel this lump.’

      ‘So it has never hurt you before, then?’

      ‘Yes, maybe a couple of times over the last few months, but it has never hurt as much as this before and I only noticed the lump on Christmas Eve.’

      I think back to the first time I became aware of the throbbing pain in my knee …

      It was a perfect autumn day, although late in the season. The sort that stands out in the memory with all its bright colours and bonfire smells. All Saints’ Day, 1 November 1982, and my younger sister Helen – known as Hellie – and I took a break from revising for our examinations. We had been working companionably at our studies, she for her O levels and me for my A levels, for many months now. We had settled into a pleasant routine of sitting together, surrounded by our books, taking turns to make each other hot drinks. We had grown very close since our older sister, Frances – who I call Franny – left for physiotherapy training college. We had earned some time off so Mum and Dad planned this half-term trip to the Lake District for a treat. We awoke with an impatience and urgency to be away from the dreaded revision, only to be told by Mum and Dad: ‘We’ll leave straight after Mass.’

      Hellie and I looked at each other conspiratorially. She is much braver than me, so she always does the talking.

      ‘Oh, Mum,’ she moaned, ‘do we have to go to Mass today?’

      ‘Yes,’ Mum replied, in her no-arguments voice. ‘It’s a holy day today.’

      Hellie and I pulled long faces at each other before she started to dig me in the ribs, fighting for the most room at the mirror to complete her tedious make-up routine. She can be very vain and spends ages looking after