Linda Nolan
Day doc told me the cancer was back I’ve already chosen my funeral songs
SHE conquered the pop charts with her sisters in The Nolans, toured with Frank Sinatra and starred in West End musicals and Celebrity Big Brother.
But along with success, 59-year-old Linda Nolan has faced heartache too, losing Brian, her husband of 26 years, to skin cancer in 2007 and sister Bernie to breast cancer almost five years ago.
Linda also fell ill with the disease in 2007 and now, in an extract from her new autobiography From The Heart, she writes about the day she learned the cancer was back, and the plans for her funeral.
SpongeBob SquarePants, my great-nieces’ favourite cartoon, was blasting from the television. Six-year-old Sienna, her sister Ava, who’s seven, and two-year-old Roma were merrily charging their way through a bag of sweets for our sleepover treat.
I’ve been close to the girls, who are Maureen’s son Danny’s children, since they were born. Sienna in particular brought a sliver of hope into my life when she was born in the midst of my despair after my husband Brian’s death.
That evening – March 2 – I was halfway up the stairs to get their pyjamas when my foot slipped. My body slammed down and I heard a loud crack. The pain in my hip was excruciating and I screamed: “Sienna, Sienna.”
Ava, the older of the pair, took charge and was amazing. They managed to find my phone and minutes later my sister Denise, who lives four doors away, came sprinting up the path in her pyjamas. She could see I was in terrible pain and couldn’t move and she rang 999. Then followed the standard questions. “Is she conscious?” “Yes.” “Is she bleeding?” “No.” “It could take one to four hours.”
The pain was indescribable. As I howled, Denise held the phone nearer to me so the operator knew I wasn’t making this up. But there was nothing I could do except wait – surrounded by my sisters, my brother Brian and three great-nieces. It was then Sienna began to cry.
“Oh, don’t cry, Sienna,” I said. “Auntie Lin is going to be just fine.”
“It’s not that,” she sobbed. “I really wanted our sleepover and now you’ve got to go to hospital.”
In the end we only waited 20 minutes for an ambulance. They took me to A&E at Blackpool’s Victoria Hospital. There I was put on gas and air, and felt more comfortable.
I cursed myself for being so clumsy. That was the third time I’d fallen in a matter of months.
The staff were wonderful and a porter took me for an X-ray. When the doctor reappeared half an hour later with a grim look I knew it wasn’t good news.
“I’m afraid you’ve a crack in your hip which we’re going to have to operate on. We’re also going to do an X-ray on the femur because of your medical history.”
I knew instantly he meant cancer. As he walked away I turned to Anne. “Well,” I said. “I never saw that coming.” And I hadn’t. Yes, every woman who’s had breast cancer knows there is a risk it may appear as secondary cancer. And if it does then it cannot be cured. But I’m not the kind of person who thinks about things happening until they do. Now, 11 years after the first time, the black cloud of cancer was being held above my head in another ward. A terrible sick feeling ran through me. Anne stayed overnight, but we didn’t discuss my “medical history”. We didn’t need to. We knew from Bernie what it meant.
Anne had breast cancer in 2000 and, as I write, is 17 years clear but she’d tell me she worried about it coming back. I was worried about her worrying. But I’d never worried for myself.
I’m not proud I left it so long to deal with my cancer the first time that I ended up at stage three with a 4in lump. I know that was entirely stupid. But from that you can tell I stick my head in the sand.
I was very, very lucky to survive. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like for it to return. A couple of days later I was lying in bed when the consultant walked towards me, flanked by a registrar and a nurse. “Uh, oh,” I thought. “Here we are.”
The consultant spoke slowly. “We’ve looked at the X-rays, there’s a crack but it seems to be through quite a large cyst... or something.”
He didn’t say “the word” but I knew. And for a moment I thought I was going to die on the spot. He meant tumour.
I began to cry. I knew what a tumour would mean. Secondary breast cancer is a death sentence. Maybe not this week, year, or even decade. But that’s what it is.
The consultant said they’d do more tests. There was the chance it was a
For a moment I thought I was going to die on the spot LINDA NOLAN ON HER REACTION TO THE X-RAY
I’m so sorry. I can’t bear to put you all through this all over again LINDA NOLAN ON TELLING FAMILY ABOUT TUMOUR
brand new cancer! Or it was a non-cancerous tumour. I was already convinced it was going to be secondary breast cancer. My sisters and brothers descended on the hospital within hours. I saw the devastation in their faces. “I’m so sorry, Maureen,” I said. “I can’t bear to put you all through this all over again. After Bernie, Mum and everything I didn’t want it to be me causing more problems.” Coleen was filming Loose Women down in London and I didn’t want to break the news to her on the phone. But the next day I knew I couldn’t keep the truth from her. “Hi, Col,” I said as cheerily as I could manage. “Hi, Lin,” she replied, wariness in her voice. ‘What’s the news?’ “I’m sorry. It’s not good. It’s a tumour.” “Oh Linda, no,” she said, her voice cracking. “But you’re going to be fine.”
“Of course, Col, I’m going to be fine.” That was the line we were sticking to.
“I’ll be over at the weekend,” Coleen said. “Love ya.”
“Love you too, Col,” I replied, tears brimming in my eyes.
At night when all my visitors had gone, I struggled to sleep. None of the irony was lost on me. For years I was so depressed and sad I wanted to die.
But now, facing the reality of death, I wanted to live more than I had ever wanted anything.
From My Heart, by Linda Nolan, is published by Pan Macmillan on Thursday, £18.99.