I’m happy despite my death sentence
When Laura Cafferty was diagnosed with cancer, her doctor said, if she was lucky, she’d have two years to live. And she feels very lucky
When I was told I was dying in July 2017, it felt like I was watching a film of someone else’s life. There were tears trickling down my husband’s cheeks. There was a clock ticking on the wall, there was the thumping beat of my heart. My baby, Maya, then just nine months old, was being held by a nurse.
I looked down and my hands were shaking. I searched the consultant’s face for a flicker of hope. ‘You’ve probably got two years,’ he said, ‘if you’re lucky.’
I’d been diagnosed with leiomyosarcoma, a soft tissue cancer so rare it only affects one in six million people.
In my case, it was even more rare as it had been found in the bone. I’d had three rounds of chemotherapy, but a scan had revealed the chemo wasn’t working. The tumour was in my knee, but the cancer had spread to my spine and pelvis.
‘Is there anything you can do?’ I managed to ask.
‘Nothing scientifically proven,’ they said.
My mind felt like a washing machine on a spin cycle as I pictured all the moments I’d miss. From Maya’s first day at school to her wedding, all turning to dust before my eyes.
That night was a blur. Partly because I’d been told I was going to die. Partly because my husband Karl, 36, and I drank a bottle of wine and called friends. I laughed. I cried.
For a while, it was like living the worst possible Groundhog Day. Every morning, I had a few seconds of peace before it hit me again. I was haunted by the thought my daughter would grow up to forget me.
I pictured the doctor who’d told me I’d die. He was like a fortune teller in a doctor’s coat predicting my end. I knew negativity wouldn’t get me anywhere, but that just made me feel guilty, too.
I dreaded the nights because, as Karl slept beside me, I lay in the darkness, scrolling through my phone, trying to distract myself from the inevitable cycle that would begin again the next day.
But, after two months, a thought dawned on me. It was futile to live whatever days I had left in this state of panic. While I couldn’t change my diagnosis, I could change my frame of mind. And, with so many amazing people rallying around me, it became easier to focus on the good things.
Karl, an electrician, and I had met 10 years earlier. We’re from the same town in Ireland, but I’d left to work on cruises and was back in town visiting family when we bumped into each other in the pub.
Three months later, we moved in together in Ireland, before settling in Jersey in 2012. In May 2015, we got married in sunny Spain.
In January 2016, I developed a pain in my right knee. The doctor thought it might be nerve damage due to
‘I couldn’t change my diagnosis, but I could change my mindset’
me having multiple sclerosis. He prescribed painkillers. Karl and I flew to Bali and Australia, our last holiday before starting a family.
The pain persisted, but was manageable. At home, I found I was pregnant. ‘Our Bali baby!’ I said to Karl. We were so happy, but as the pregnancy progressed, so did the pain. It became excruciating.
I couldn’t take painkillers or have a scan or X-ray while pregnant. Doctors thought the pregnancy may be putting my pelvis out of alignment. No one knew the severity of the situation.
Maya was born on 13 October 2016. At home, she slept all night and smiled all day. It was like she knew I was in pain. She never gave me a sleepless night, but the pains in my leg kept me awake.
In January 2017, an X-ray revealed a mass around my knee. A biopsy confirmed it was cancer, which was treatable, as it was just in my knee.
Maya was six months old when we flew to Southampton Hospital to start highintensity chemotherapy – there’s nothing like this available in Jersey. The 48-hour non-stop sessions were gruelling, but I kept telling myself, ‘I have to beat this.’
After the third round of chemo came the news that treatment wasn’t working and the cancer had spread. I’d been handed a death sentence.
There were treatment options abroad, if only I had the funding. I didn’t like asking for help, but my friends insisted on setting up a GoFundMe page.
Cancer has a cruel way of making you confront death while showing you the most incredible reasons why life is so brilliant. Friends, family, colleagues from my old job as a spa manager and even strangers went above and beyond to help keep me alive.
They organised balls, quiz nights, a lip sync battle, raffles, a walk across hot coals. The events were as varied as they were wonderful, held in Ireland, Jersey and Australia, where some of my friends lived.
Friends raised over £100,000, which is helping fund trips to a hospital in Mexico, where I have a range of treatments, including vitamin C therapy. We returned from the first trip in April and I feel confident that I’ve found the best possible chance of extending my life.
Now, at 35, I’ve had radiotherapy at Glasgow for pain relief but it was unsuccessful. Sometimes I feel like I might black out as the pain is so intense but, when I hear Maya babble, I smile. She’s now holding conversations with herself in the mirror. I fight with all my might for every possible day of witnessing her do that.
I don’t know how to thank people enough for all their support. It’s not just the monumental effort of the fundraising events. It’s the friends who stock my fridge while I’m at hospital, post me socks to keep me warm, look after Maya or send texts when they’re thinking of me.
I’m reminded every day that I’m loved. I can’t die now. Not when so many amazing people make me feel lucky to be alive. l Support Laura at gofundme.com/laurasfight-cancer-fund