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

‘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.