JANUARY 2004

HOPE STILL SURVIVES

Hope.... How can there be any "hope" when I have been told by doctors, surgeons, nurses, friends and family that my cancer is incurable and in time it will have complete control of my body and world. But the doctors have given me another chance to fight this damn war, with medical help behind me.

At this very minute I could be "cancer free". How can I be, if I have a tumour lurking in my body? The tumour's not there anymore. I went against everything I'd said and put my trust back in the doctors and surgeons.....

The tumour was beginning to make itself known. I was on a cocktail of twenty tablets a day. I was up every hour of the night; in and out of the bathroom (it was sitting nicely on my bladder). I tired to ignore it, but it was obvious to everyone that I was in pain and something needed to be done before it got too out of hand.

My case was approached by a rather optimistic surgeon, who believed that if he could just take a look inside me, and have a route about, there was a real chance that he could remove the tumour and give me back that 'quality of life'; the one thing we're fighting for now.

At first when I heard his proposal, all I could feel was anger. Had no one listened to me? I didn't want doctors taking over again. I didn't want to be tampered with anymore. I just wanted to get on with my life for as long as possible. And if there was pain, I was just going to have to deal with it.

I was all for not going to the meeting with the surgeon. I didn't want to hear what he had to say. My decision was final. But when is anything I do final. In the end I chose to go and talk to him; I felt I had to, for all the other people who were involved.

So on the 17th of November we headed back to London. I tried to be as open-minded as I could during the meeting (it's easier when you have a huge hole in the side of your head - maybe the brain surgeons could have left me a zip so I could be completely open-minded from time to time). It was tiring to try and think logically as the guy threw more and more facts at me. I was made to look at the scans of my abdomen; I'm no doctor, but I knew what the huge shadow on the page was. I was going to have to face "it" at some point and I knew that there was something in my body that shouldn't have been there. Seeing it there on the scans in front of me, made it seem so much more real. The tumour was big enough for me to notice a bulge in my stomach and people thought I was just being paranoid, but the scans proved that my imagination was not running wild.

The risks of the operation; the tumour might have attached itself to my bowel, or bladder, or ovary. To successfully remove all of the tumour I might have to sacrifice an organ or two. It was presented to me in a way that it wouldn't matter if I was a couple of organs short. If it did happen I would have to spend the rest of my time trying to cope with colostomy bags and all sorts of unwanted accessories. Is that really 'quality of life'? Of course the tuour might not want to budge from his new home at all. And the one risk that runs with every operation and is spelt with a capital 'D'; Death.

I left the meeting, confused, angry, exhausted, frightened and alone. It was up to me again. I was faced with another decision. All I wanted was for someone to tell me what the right choice was. And the people I turned to, told me I had to be the one who made the decision. I needed them to make this one for me. But they couldn't.

The anger welling up inside me was so intense I felt like I was going to burst. Talking about it and trying to go over in my mind what had happened in the meeting made the anger swell even more. It was anger that I needed to get out of my system. Someone suggested smashing rocks! I couldn't find any rocks to smash that night, but I managed to hurl a few apples against the garden shed. And every time I watched an apple break into pieces, I felt a bit more anger fall away from me.

Days passed and I still didn't know what I was meant to say. Then I found something out that made the whole situation change. The tumour in my abdomen, wasn't going to be the tumour that was going to kill me - it would be when the cancer spread to my lungs, or my heart or wherever it wanted to settle next. The process could happen over a month or so. If there was any chance that I could get rid of the
"mother-ship" tumour, then it wouldn't have much of a chance in sending more stray cancer cells out, around my body. It would kick it back down the line for a bit and it could buy me almost eighteen months. It would keep me fighting for that bit longer. You can do a lot in eighteen months. I had to go for the operation, and I would have to deal with the consequences when they came.

The surgical team was informed straight away of my decision. I was their top priority. They were willing to bump people down the list for me. I know what it's like to be bumped down the list and I apologise to the people whose operations were delayed because of me.

But I didn't expect the NHS to organise the op so quickly. I was counting on them to take at least a couple of weeks to sort it out. The date was set by the next morning, for the next week!!! I would be admitted on the 24th and the games would begin on the next day. I needed more time than that.

Brian had just left for South Africa (46664). I was hoping that he would be around to help me through. Felt strange thinking about having the op if he wasn't around. I wanted him to be there to see my success and help me with the downfalls.

The last thing any of us were expecting before the "big gig", was for my blackouts to start attacking me again. I hadn't really had a real one since the brain op; so why had they chosen to flare up again right at the moment when I didn't need them?

The fact that they were back and almost worse than they had been before, made the doctors sit up and attempt to take action. I was going to need another brain scan. People went into overdrive and started talking about another "limpet". That's when I knew I was fighting a loosing battle. The minute I get rid of one tumour, another one appears. The panic of the operation and the panic of another tumour; no one seemed very positive. No one expected me to come out of the op alive.

I was measured up for a colostomy bag, as the trolley came to take me down to the theatre. A rushed job, because they didn't think they were going to have to see me again. I was so close to pulling out at the
last minute. I wasn't ready for it, yet.

I had been so naive in the hours leading up to the op. I hadn't realised what was really happening.

Lying on the bed in the anaesthetic room; somewhere I had been in so many situations, I hid myself in the music; 'Back to the Light'. The last line I heard before I left reality, 'no-one ever told the truth to me, about growing up and what a struggle it would be'. I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

The estimated length of the operation was eight hours. But looking back on it now, what they really meant was, that's when we're going to stop, dead or alive. But we proved them wrong again!!

When I woke up, the first thing I did was try and see if I was attached to any unwanted accessories. I couldn't actually tell, I was attached to so many drips and machines. And there was a tube coming out of nearly every orifice. I felt exhausted, why, all I'd done was sleep for three hours. The surgeon was straight onto the recovery ward as soon as he heard I was awake. He tried explaining to me what had happened in there, but I couldn't come to grips with any of it. All I heard was "complete", "huge", "good", "whole". How was I meant to know how it had gone from just that? I could tell from people's faces, and by the way I felt that it was the best news we could have asked for.

I never actually made it onto I.C.U. - there seemed to be no need for me to be there. They took me straight from recovery, back to the ward. The nurses' faces when they saw me wheeled in, it was like they'd just seen a ghost.

I was on a morphine drip, that I had complete control over. All I had to do was press a button and the morphine flowed into my body (I started to get repetitive strain injury). And I had all the anaesthetic still in my system, trying to get out. It started to play games with my brain.

Something had happened to me in the operation, something I don't want to try and make you imagine. Think about it don't imagine it. . . . . . .

The night after the op - I stayed up late talking to my Mama. We both realised how close we'd come to the end. We realised then that there were things that had to be spoken about before it was too late. The things we had avoided because we thought we had the time. The question on both our minds "How did I what to end my show?" I don't know if it was the drugs talking, or just me going to emotional overdrive.

If you're a parent, think about having to talk to your child about their funeral arrangements. It's something that our minds aren't prepared for. A parent should never have to bury their child. At least now I know that Mama and I want the same things when the end does come.

I guess you'll have to wait and see what happens!

The morning after the op - I realised that something had gone freakishly wrong with the world while I had been away. Everyone seemed to look the same; they all seemed to act the same. And their voices all seemed to sound the same. All on the same level, with no difference between them. I couldn't bare to look into people's eyes. It made me feel sick.

My imagination, encouraged by a lot of drugs started to make me believe that I had never come out of that theatre alive.......... Was this what it's like to be dead? Everyone is just one person, being everyone. You're in for a boring afterlife if that one person is a complete drip - which it looked like I was lumbered with.

I tried to carry on with the recovery for the sake of it. I did start to think, why, if I was already dead. Can you recover from death?

The drips and machines started to disappear quickly. Another tube was removed every day. As soon as enough tubes had been cleared I had the task of standing up and walking ahead of me. I couldn't understand why I wasn't scared like I always was when I learnt to walk again; I had nothing to be scared of - the worst it seemed had already happened.

It didn't take long for me to start moving again. No one can keep Vicki Moore still for long. And soon enough the morphine pump had been taken away from me and I was only taking Paracetamol. That's a pretty
dramatic change in pain-relief. There was no real pain to kill.

Then people's faces seemed to disappear in my memory. I spent ages trying to picture Brian's face and even remember what his voice sounded like. I tried listening to Queen and his albums in attempt to reboot my memory, but all I heard were the same toneless voices. A toneless guitar. It was as if the "magic" in the music had died.

I had to try and find that "spark" again.......

The one way I would know if I was truly alive, my own weapon of freedom. I plugged my guitar into my mini amp and played until my fingers could take no more. I played over and over again one song that I had been writing 'Crazy Lady'. It's full of anger and hate and every hurting emotion. All the emotions inside of me seemed to disappear with every chord. I knew I wasn't dead. I felt too alive to be dead.

I finally made it to my brain scan. I lay in the long metallic tube and I thought about how much had happened since I last lay in an M.R.I. scanner. And the song playing as I was pulled out from the machine, 'Resurrection - Back to the Light'. The words rung on in my head for hours afterwards.

When the doctor came to tell us the results, I was alone. I'd sent Mama out for food. But I realised then, that no matter how many times people try and reassure me and tell me I'm not alone, and I tell myself that I'm not alone - I always find that at the end of the day, it is just me. And that's the way it's always been. The scans were clear and there was no one there for me to hug. I just clung on tight to Teddy.

I didn't take me long to escape from London. The sooner I was out of there, the sooner I could regain that "quality of life". I wanted to get back to school and...... (I was about to say "normality" but hospitals and operations are becoming "normality".) I wanted to get back to school and life as soon I could manage it.

While I had been in hospital, the school had thought it would be a good opportunity to sit my year group down and tell them what was happening. Until that point, the majority still didn't know what was really going on. But it was clear that the way the teachers had told my friends, they hadn't made it clear to them what "incurable" cancer actually meant. I think they all thought I was just going to have to live with cancer into adulthood. In the end people I had worked with in the hospital went into school and explained it to them all.

I wanted to get back to school, to make sure my friends knew that I was still around and I was still me. And I would try and stay that way for them as long as I possibly could.

Back at school and straight back into the studio. I dived straight into finishing recording the guitar part for 'Crazy Lady'. I just want to see it finished, with the rest of the bands little signatures on there. Raw guitar is always a scary sound. It felt great to be working again. I love it so much and can't stand being away from it. The big guys are right when they say it's refreshing to get back into the studios after a break from it.

We found out how big that tumour was: the size of a rugby ball and the weight of a couple of bags of sugar! That's one hefty tumour. Sometimes I start looking at my stomach and wonder how on earth it had actually fitted inside me. It's a bit like being pregnant I suppose - but without the cute little baby at the end of it. At least now I'm only a size 10.

Now the tumour's out people have started talking about a possible "cure". It feels like we're winning this battle, but we're fighting it unarmed.

Let's ROCK ON into this New Year and see what 2004 brings!

Vicki