One Chance (20 page)

Christmas seemed to take forever to come. I wanted it to be here now, and I wanted it to be completely happy. Finally, it was Christmas Eve, and Julz and I had dinner together before we headed to the midnight service at All Saints in Fishponds, ready to tell our news.

I wanted my parents to love Julz as much as I did. While Mum was her ever-present mild-mannered self who would always try and get on with anyone, Dad wasn't so easy about our engagement, and always disagreed with us spending the weekend together. While I could tell Mum was happy (her attitude was that if I was happy, she was happy), I could also sense that my father was much less than pleased. However, his attitude did change once we got married. Julz's parents had already accepted me as one of their own. I wondered whether that would ever be fully true of my own parents. Julz was the most important thing in my life now, and nothing was going to change that.

We both did what we could to spend as much time together as possible. I was still on Bristol City Council, and Julz would truly show her love by sitting through a five-hour full council meeting. She worked at an insurance call centre and was giving up her day off to spend time with me. She was bored rigid, but this certainly convinced me of her love!

I had started working in Tesco's home shopping department, which basically meant I did other people's shopping for them. This had its advantages, despite its early start time at six in the morning: I finished work at one on Saturday afternoons, so I could be with Julz earlier in the day. Often there would be engineering works on the train line to Wales, and since rail replacement buses wouldn't accept bikes, it meant I would cycle the thirty-plus miles via the cycle track on the older of the two Severn bridges to get the train at Newport. On the way back, I would catch the 0349 train from Port Talbot to Bristol Parkway, and then cycle from the parkway to Tesco. It was exhausting, but worth it to see Julz.

I was singing a little less now, and concentrating more on saving up to get married and finding somewhere to live. But I hadn't stopped entirely, despite my father's fears. I took the roles of Don Basilio and Don Ottavio on Bath Opera's productions of Mozart's
Marriage of Figaro
and
Don Giovanni
. These were enjoyable performances in different parts of the area surrounding Bath and Wiltshire.

I also had an audition for English National Opera's Baylis Programme. Julz supported my going for the course, even though it meant delaying our honeymoon if I was selected. This was a
workshop audition in front of a panel that included the renowned vocal expert Mary King. The singing went well, but these situations where I had to interact with others always made me anxious. In the end, I just missed out on a place; but I was first reserve, which was a good achievement in itself, as places on the course were highly sought after.

Although I didn't pass that audition, I was to have more success elsewhere. First, Bath Opera held auditions for its main production in 2003: Verdi's
Aida
. I went for the main tenor role, Radames, and to my joy, despite there being plenty of competition for the part, I got it. Even better, an audition came up for a production in North London for a Puccini opera,
Manon Lescaut
. I had decided that, within reason, I would travel anywhere to do a Puccini role. Julz drove me to Southgate for the audition, and after a few days I heard that I had got that part, too. I was thrilled. Suddenly, the first half of 2003 was looking extremely exciting—two operas and a wedding!

With all that going on, the next few months were going to be a busy time for me. And that was before everything that happened next.

CHAPTER TEN

An Opera and an Op

I
STARTED FEELING UNWELL
during rehearsals for
Aida
and
Manon Lescaut
. It began with a dull ache in my stomach, and at first I figured I had a bad stomach: something simple like food not agreeing with me. But when I went to London to do some Christmas shopping, I realized the pain could be something more serious.

This should have been a enjoyable occasion; the Christmas lights were on, and London's shopping streets were bustling with people excited about the festive season. But the pain in my stomach was getting worse, and I had to walk with a pronounced limp to cope. I knew then that something was terribly wrong.

When I got back from London, I immediately took time off from work. I got on my bike, cycled to Bristol Parkway, and caught the train to Julz's parents' house. All I knew was that if I was going to be ill, then I wanted to be with Julz. I wanted to be able to see her, and for her to not have to drive all the way to Bristol.

Like many men, I hated going to doctors. But by now the pain had become unbearable, and I was forced to go to Bryn surgery. The doctor there told me that as I'd had the pain for over a week, it was unlikely to be appendicitis. But to be on the safe side, he referred me to Princess of Wales Hospital in Bridgend.

At the hospital I was seen by the surgical registrar. As I explained my symptoms, he reiterated the local doctor's opinion that after a week, appendicitis was unlikely.

“If it was,” he said cheerfully, “you'd be dead by now!”

I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried by that comment.

“I suppose I should rule it out completely, though,” the registrar continued. “Have you noticed your breath smelling at all?”

This, apparently, is a well-known symptom of appendicitis.

I shook my head. “I brushed my teeth before heading out,” I explained.

“Of course,” the registrar replied. “But can you blow into my face anyway, to be sure?”

As I breathed out, the registrar winced.

“That breath could knock over a donkey! Yes, I'm afraid it probably is appendicitis. We're going to have to operate pretty quickly.”

In modern hospitals, appendectomy is normally a keyhole surgical procedure. In my case, because I had left it so long, my appendix had actually burst. The surgeon, the registrar cheerfully told me, was going to have to “cut me up” to take it out. I was nervous at the thought, but they knew best.

I was relieved that I had made the decision to come to Wales, as I definitely wanted to be close to Julz if I was having an
operation. The news didn't go down so well with my parents, who felt it was inconsiderate of me to have gone over, knowing they would have to travel. I didn't do it to put them out; Julz was my future wife, and I wanted to be close to her. I thought they would understand, but I don't think they did.

Thankfully, the operation went with no hitches and I was sewn up pretty tidily. I was still in pain, however, and had regular doses of pethidine (aka Demerol) to deal with it. As Christmas ticked closer, I worried that I would have to stay in over the festive period. But after five days in hospital, I was finally discharged and allowed to go home. I was glad to have put the whole episode behind me.

Or so I thought.

I'd got through Christmas fine, and thought I had been convalescing well. Then just before New Year, Julz and I went to watch a film at the cinema in the Aberavon seafront. Everything seemed normal: we had our usual snack of peanut M&M's and settled down to watch the movie. But as the film went on, I started to feel less and less with it. I was beginning to feel sick and dizzy.

Vomiting is something I've always hated, but by the time we got back to Julz's parents' place, I couldn't stop myself. I was violently sick several times. Julz drove me to Maesteg Hospital to see the off-hours doctors, who immediately referred me back to the Princess of Wales Hospital in Bridgend. By now I was being sick so violently that it hurt.

It was déjà vu: I was readmitted to the ward I had left little over a week ago and saw the same doctor as before. I was sent for tests and a CT scan to check for infection. There were a few ominous mutterings and I was sent to another room, where I was
given an ultrasound scan. By now I was getting more than a little worried. The gel felt a bit weird on my skin, but more disconcerting were the words from the person operating the scanner. I couldn't pick up many of them, but two in particular leapt out: tumour and malignant.

I was left panicking. It was hours before I next saw a doctor, the same surgical registrar I had seen on my first admission. This time around, he was somewhat more serious as he gave me the results.

“We've found a tumour, Paul,” he said. “It's close to your liver, and it's large. We think it's about thirty centimetres in length.”

“Is it malignant?” I asked, remembering what I'd seen on the scanner.

“We won't know for certain until it has been removed. But we suspect it's benign.”

The registrar told me they couldn't do the operation there, and I would have to have surgery in the University Hospital of Wales in Cardiff. At this point, Mum and Dad, who'd rushed over to see me, came in. I got an earful from my father, who told me I should be seen in Bristol, not here in the backwater that was Wales.

“I can refer you to Bristol if you want,” the registrar offered. “Though it will be quicker to be referred through Bridgend, as you're already on the emergency list. If you transfer to Bristol, you'll have to be assessed all over again.”

“I have no intention of transferring,” I told my father.

He was still angry, so I told him that if he couldn't calm down, then he should leave. This was the first time in a long time that I had stood up for myself, and although I felt ill, it made me feel a little stronger as a person.

I was discharged on New Year's Day. I returned for regular
appointments with the hospital's consultants, who told me it would be better if I was operated on as soon as possible. A date was found for the middle of March, right in between the performances of
Aida
and
Manon Lescaut
. I asked whether it was all right to carry on singing and take part in the shows and was told that although I wasn't fit to work, I was fine to take part in the productions, provided I didn't exert myself too much.

The performances of
Aida
took place at the end of February and the beginning of March. With everything else going on, the shows seemed to come around quickly. My role as Radames was a very challenging one, but I was determined to sing it. The rest of the cast was no gentler with me in spite of what was ahead; during the opera, I was thrown on the floor and against a throne so hard that the back of my legs were marked.

A week later, I had a meeting with the surgeon. He told me that as the tumour was on the right-hand side of my body, there was a very real risk of cutting through a major artery. As a result, they would have to stop my breathing and put me on a ventilator. On top of this, the surgeon explained that they would need to thread the breathing line through my vocal cords.

My initial thought was, You're going to do
what?
Followed by, What if they can't start me up again? and, Why me? The surgeon noticed my look of horror and told me not to worry: they knew I was a singer and would take every care not to do any damage. He added, though, that their first priority was to make sure I stayed alive. I came away in no doubt of how serious this operation was, and the risks involved.

It was a lot to take in. I was still trying to do so as I made my way to London for that night's
Manon Lescaut
rehearsal. I spoke
to Southgate Opera's musical director, Neil Cloake, about it. To my horror, he told me his wife had had the same procedure and it had left her unable to sing for a considerable time. This, of course, did nothing to settle my nerves.

The operation was now upon me. I went up to the hospital the day before and settled into the pre-operation ward, where I spent some time with Julz and her parents before they left for home. The following day, Julz returned to see me in the morning, as the operation wasn't until around noon. I was given an ECG to ensure that everything was working as it should, and then I was given my pre-meds.

I had heard of pre-meds before, but didn't know exactly what they were. I started to feel very drowsy. As they were wheeling me towards the theatre, I felt someone fiddling with my back, and a man introduced himself. He told me that he was normally an ambulance technician, but was on job swap for the day. He wanted to know if he had put my epidural in the right place. By now I wasn't really on the same planet.

“You'll know better than m . . .” I said, before going under.

The next thing I remember is coming around to find tubes coming out of me left, right, and centre. I was now in the high-dependency unit of the hospital, and everything was being monitored. Every few minutes I felt a fibre band go tight on my arm; so tightly it almost hurt.

The first thing I did was call for Julz. I didn't want anything else at that time: just Julz. I was told that she had called to check on me and was told I was “comfortable,” a medical euphemism if ever there was one. I wasn't so sure about the “comfortable” prognosis, especially when the strong painkillers stopped
working. I had a large post-op scar that felt like it was on fire. As time went on, the sensation changed, and not for the better. It now felt like I had a full express train on my chest. I had never known pain like it.

I wanted to scream, but I didn't want to be a wimp. I didn't press the buzzer for assistance, but in the end the monitor readings did that for me. A nurse came in and asked if I was okay.