Wednesday, 4 December 2013

Too weak to stand at the altar, the man I loved was days from death. But the only tears I cried at our wedding were of joy.

The majestic strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons filled the air as I adjusted my crystal tiara, smoothed down my cream silk dress and took my father’s arm for the slow walk down the aisle.
Family and friends smiled as I passed, but I barely registered them. All I could focus on was my husband-to-be waiting for me. And trying not to cry.
This wasn't a traditional wedding service. It was a very long way from that. Instead of a suit, my groom wore pyjamas and - though I know he desperately wanted to - he couldn't stand to greet me.
Happy day: Jane and Gregg's marriage was made possible thanks to hospice staff
Happy day: Jane and Gregg's marriage was made possible thanks to hospice staff

Instead, he sat in a wheelchair and, as I reached him, he took my hand. It was then we let our tears fall - tears of joy, pride and, of course, for the future we knew we'd never share.
No one could tell us how long Gregg and I would have together as husband and wife; it could be months or weeks. All we knew was that he was dying of cancer and he longed to call me his wife before it claimed him.
 
It was his determination and the dedication of his nurses at the Sue Ryder Manorlands Hospice at Keighley, West Yorkshire, which made our wedding possible.
I had worried I was not strong enough to go through with it. Still reeling from the shock that Gregg was so desperately ill, I felt overwhelmed.
Man and wife: Gregg had terminal cancer but he and Jane were determined to tie the knot
Man and wife: Gregg had terminal cancer but he and Jane were determined to tie the knot

But the hospice nurses instinctively knew the right words to calm me and make sense of my garbled thoughts. Speaking with them, my fear slowly subsided, allowing me to see clearly that this was something I could do, and wanted to do, for the man I loved.
Gregg and I had met at a quiz in a local pub in 1999. He was a chatty, twinkly-eyed Irishman who came over to ask if I needed help with a question.

I told him it didn't matter what the results were: 'I love you and want to be with you.' I meant it
I was so taken by his charm and accent that I said yes - even though I knew the answer.
We got to know each other over the next 18 months. Gregg was ten years older than me, divorced with a son Jonathan, now 32, and daughter Amy, 27. Within two years he'd left his Belfast home and moved into my little cottage in Halifax.
We had a year together - one blissful, carefree year - before the first signs of his terrible disease appeared.
Unable to shift a nasty cough, the doctor sent Gregg for tests in October 2002. They diagnosed cancer on his left lung.
A few weeks later he had the lung removed, followed by radiotherapy and chemotherapy.
A smoker in his early days, Gregg had also spent many years playing the euphonium in smoky pubs and clubs with his local brass band.
Naturally, we were terrified, but Gregg, then aged 48, was always so positive. Of course he was going to beat this - how could I doubt him?
The couple before he became ill: Gregg had been given the all clear before he proposed but then the cancer came back
The couple before he became ill: Gregg had been given the all clear before he proposed but then the cancer came back

Our optimism seemed justified when he was given the all clear. But in May 2004, Gregg went back to the hospital for further tests as he had become increasingly breathless. The results were due after we returned from a holiday in Greece.
It was there, over supper at a beach-side taverna, that Gregg proposed to me. He said: 'You don't have to say "Yes" because we don't know what the test results will be. Whatever they are, I want to be with you for ever.'

Afterwards, the doctor came to talk to me: 'Gregg still wants to marry you. He wants to bring the date forward'
I told him it didn't matter what the results were: 'I love you and want to be with you.' I meant it. He was my future, whatever that was. We went to buy the engagement ring there and then - a diamond on a white gold band. Gregg slipped it on my finger, where it's stayed ever since.
Within days of returning home, we had picked a wedding date - May 2005 - and a venue, the 17th-century East Riddlesden Hall in Keighley.
I was so caught up in the excitement of planning our wedding and choosing my dress that I didn't give the test results much thought.
So much so that I went to work as usual the day of Gregg's appointment. When he called me, he was sobbing: 'It's come back.'
Taken too soon: The couple were only married for a fortnight before he died
Taken too soon: The couple were only married for a fortnight before he died

The cancer had spread from the lung to his windpipe. I rushed home to be with him.
Still Gregg remained optimistic as he underwent more surgery and treatment, but there was a rapid deterioration in his health.
Eating, swallowing and talking became increasingly difficult. He had to have a tracheostomy - an opening into the windpipe - to allow him to breathe and a tube inserted so he could be fed directly into his stomach.

Gregg and I had always been united dealing with his cancer, but being married made us an official team
We cancelled our wedding plans and my gorgeous dress was stashed in the wardrobe, out of sight.
Gregg was being treated as a day patient at Bradford Royal Infirmary, but at the end of 2004 plans were made to transfer him to the hospice. No one said he was terminally ill and we never thought to question that. Maybe we didn’t want to. We clung, silently, to the hope that he would get better.

As soon as Gregg arrived in the hospice, on December 22, I could see him relax. The panic attacks as he struggled to catch his breath disappeared as it became clear that everyone’s priority was his happiness and comfort.
A few days into 2005, a doctor and nurse came into Gregg's room and began discussing his treatment. He realised where the conversation was heading as he squeezed my hand and asked: 'Am I going to die?'
'Yes, you are,' said the doctor. Gregg and I held each other as he asked how long he had left.
'We don’t know. It could be weeks or months,' was the reply.
The nurse took me to a side room so Gregg could talk to the doctor alone. Afterwards, the doctor came to talk to me: 'Gregg still wants to marry you. He wants to bring the date forward.'
Missed: Gregg died age 51Eight years on, Jane can still look back on their wedding day and smile
Missed: Gregg died age 51 but eight years on, Jane can still look back on their wedding day and smile

I was in shock and full of questions. How could I organise a wedding when my fiance was dying?
'What if Gregg isn't well enough?' I asked nervously, at which they smiled warmly.
'Don't you worry about that, Jane. That's our job to see that he is.'  I rang family and friends and told them the mixed news - that Gregg and I were marrying the following week and the reason why.
They were all devastated and I think they thought the wedding would be a maudlin experience.
Meanwhile, the staff set about doing their magnificent business. They planned and arranged the wedding in seven days.
All I had to do was buy two white gold bands and take my dress out of the wardrobe.
On the morning of Saturday, January 15, 2005, the nurses were true to their word. Gregg was pain-free and determined to make his vows in the hospice chapel.  
My parents drove me there with a white ribbon tied to the car. As I walked through the wards to the chapel, the patients were calling out 'Good luck' and 'Give us a twirl'.
I felt excited and nervous, just like a bride should, which I never thought I would experience when the nurses first suggested doing things this way.

Vital care
The first modern hospice was set up in Britain in 1967. There are now 223 palliative care inpatient units across the country
Afterwards, we joined our 30-strong party of family and friends in the hospice day room, which had been secretly festooned with balloons, ribbons, banners and confetti, with a buffet beautifully set out.
The nurses, doctors and other staff called in on their breaks and the atmosphere was celebratory.
Gregg managed to stay at our wedding reception for 90 minutes, chatting and having our photos taken, before exhaustion drove him back to bed. I spent our wedding night on the floor of his room - in a sleeping bag that my friends had filled with confetti.
We laughed as I emptied it out - a perfect end to a perfect day.
Of course, I felt a mix of emotions, but the overwhelming one was  of happiness.
'You're Mrs Taggart now,' said Gregg as he fell asleep.
'Yes, I am,' I replied. 'And I am so pleased we did it.'
I felt different being married. Gregg and I had always been united dealing with his cancer, but being married made us an official team. I knew my time as a wife would be brief, but I didn't realise just how fleeting.
Gregg survived another 15 days, dying on January 30, aged 51.
He was lucid until the day before. I spent the afternoons and evenings with him after mornings at work. But on what proved to be his final day, the hospice nurses rang me and suggested I come in that morning.
His breathing was laboured. I sat at his bedside and held his hand with a minister at my side.
Very gradually, Gregg's breathing faded until the minister said to me: 'Jane, I think he's gone.' It was a peaceful and dignified end.
Today, eight years on, I am proud to have his name and look back on a wedding day that was, quite simply, wonderful.
I never thought it would be possible to associate hospices with happy times. Now, when I recall our time there, all I feel is joy. I will never be able to thank the hospice enough.

No comments:

Post a Comment