A prince by my side
When Frances Tatum needed life-changing surgery, she gave her new boyfriend, Oli, the chance to leave. But he wasn’t going anywhere…
It was June 2012 and my last official day of uni when I first laid eyes on Oli. He was 22, and stood at the bar. Struck by his smile, I stopped by his seat on my way to the ladies. ‘I’ll have a Malibu and Coke,’ I said, cheekily. And when I re-emerged, there it was.
The conversation flowed easily but though I could sense sparks flying, I worried he’d run a mile if he knew the real me.
You see, at four years old, I’d been diagnosed with EhlersDanlos Syndrome (EDS), a rare genetic condition that affected the connective tissue in my body. Because I don’t produce enough collagen, my joints were starting to wear away – by the time I’d finished studying dental nursing, aged 26, it was excruciating to walk.
Not only that, but I also battled with severe eczema, so aggressive it would leave my skin raw and bleeding. I was convinced I’d never find true love. ‘ Your dad is your prince until you grow up, Pudding,’ my dad, Charles, reassured me. ‘But then, you’ll find your forever prince, I know it.’
I just hoped he was right.
Within a week of meeting Oli, we became an item. When he caught me limping, I fibbed, telling him it was an old ballet injury.
Four weeks into our relationship, I received a hospital letter. I was finally booked in to have reconstructive surgery on my ankles, knees and femurs.
It was then I realised I had to tell Oli everything. ‘I don’t know how long it’s going to take to recover so I don’t expect you to stay with me,’ I said. ‘But I have to do this. If not, I’ll end up in a wheelchair.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he smiled. ‘I love you.’
In August 2013, I had my first surgery, breaking and resetting the bones in my right ankle, adding pins to strengthen them. The pain was worse than I ever imagined. Unable to do anything for myself, I moved back in with my parents.
And that was just the start.
I underwent eight operations, over the next six years.
My parents and Oli became my carers, helping me wash and dress.
‘He’s a good one, Oli,’ Dad remarked one evening. ‘I can tell he’ll stick by you.’
And he did. He was by my side when I was wheeled into theatre, at every hospital appointment and every physio session. I spent hours in a hydrotherapy pool, learning to walk again, wading through the water towards Oli.
The stress caused my eczema to return, spreading angrily across my face and body.
Oli watched me, powerless. ‘I wish I could help,’ he said.
I opened up to him about
how I’d been bullied at school, because of my skin and the way I walked. ‘They called me names and stuck chewing gum in my hair,’ I revealed hesitantly. ‘One even threatened to set me on fire.’
It was something I hated to think about, let alone discuss, but as Oli listened patiently, it was cathartic to talk my painful memories through.
Then, in November 2016, my whole world was ripped apart. My dad went to bed and never woke up. He’d died of a catastrophic heart attack.
The shock and grief destroyed me. I slipped into a deep depression and was diagnosed with PTSD. I didn’t want to live any more but Oli remained with me, like Dad had believed, through the darkest of days.
He encouraged me to see a counsellor and, in time, I smiled once more.
I joined a slimming group near my home in
Bournemouth and shed the 7st I’d gained throughout my recovery, shrinking from a size 20 to a size eight.
Oli, a sales engineer, and I had discussed marriage before, but it had never been the right time. Now, though, I sat him down and said: ‘I’m ready.’
We set a date and booked a venue. My only regret was that Oli hadn’t proposed properly. Because of my illness, then operations, I’d missed out on so many experiences other women my age had had, and I didn’t want that to be one of them.
In June 2019, I was on my hen do with my bridesmaids, my mum, Dee, and my auntie, when Oli suddenly appeared in the restaurant. Sinking down on to one knee, he laughed at my delight.
‘I had to propose properly, didn’t I?’ he grinned cheekily.
Ten days later, my wedding day was just as I’d imagined. Beaming proudly, in heels and the dress of my dreams, free of pain. It was my brother, Carl, who walked me down the aisle, but I knew how proud and pleased Dad would have been.
And it didn’t stop at my big day. My wedding gift to Oli was something I’d never have done years earlier –
I’d found the confidence to bare all for a beautiful boudoir shoot.
I’d come so far.
Now I’m 36 and… 32 weeks pregnant!
‘It is, of course, a high-risk pregnancy,’ the sonographer explained gently at our first scan. ‘ With your condition, labour will be extremely dangerous.’
Fear momentarily overtook my excitement. But the hand holding mine tightened and I turned to look at Oli, now 31.
‘Don’t worry,’ he nodded confidently. ‘ We’ll get through this together.’
Women with EDS have a high chance of bleeding to death if they have a natural labour, so I’m already booked in for a caesarean, and Oli and I can’t wait for our little boy to arrive.
And, like he says, we’ll get through this. Just like we’ve got through everything together. With Oli by my side for the last nine years, we’ve got through pain, trauma and tears.
My six-year recovery and losing my father were the hardest times of my life. I will always have EDS, get eczema flare-ups, and I’m scared of giving birth – but whatever life throws at me, I’ll be just fine with Oli.
Dad was right all along.
I did find my Forever Prince.