After a devastating diagnosis, I was running out of time. But then someone unexpected came to my rescue. By Wendy Firth, 63
Peering up at the hill, I took a deep breath then set off. But after a few metres, I began to puff and pant.
What’s the matter with me? I wondered.
I was out on patrol as a police community support officer, and normally relished tackling the hills on my beat.
But today I was struggling and couldn’t work out why.
I’d run marathons and loved spending time in the gym.
‘Maybe I’ve got a virus, or I’m just getting older,’ I said to my hubby Keith.
But deep down, I knew that at 58, I shouldn’t be getting this puffed out.
When it continued, I began avoiding the hills on my beat.
Eventually, plagued with tiredness, I saw my GP who sent me for blood tests.
Two weeks later, a phone call woke me from a nap.
It was the hospital telling me I needed to go in for a blood transfusion because I was anaemic.‘
Makes sense,’ I told Keith.
‘It explains why I’m so tired.’
Keith dropped me off at the hospital and went home.
But later, a doctor appeared and explained the tests had also flagged up a lack of red blood cells.
‘Do you know what that means?’ he asked, gently.
My mind began to whirr.
Then a ball of dread settled in my stomach.
‘Are you saying I’ve got leukaemia?’ I asked.
He nodded.
Tears streamed down my face as I rang Keith.
‘I’ve been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia,’ I said.
I wept at the thought of leaving him and our kids Shelley, 29, and Robert, 24.
A few days later, I began my first round of chemo.
Thankfully, after seven weeks, the doctor said:
‘You’re in remission.’ Keith and I grasped hands in relief.
The next two rounds of chemo were targeted at keeping me in remission.
But with my cancer at high risk of coming back, my doctor decided I’d need a stem cell transplant.
My heart sank.
I needed a donor, or I would die.
With no one in the family a match, the next step was to try a donor register.
But I wasn’t optimistic.
‘I have to face this and make preparations,’ I said to Keith.
I wrote my final wishes.
I wanted to be cremated and for the music I requested Dancing Queen by Abba, and ELO’s Mr Blue Sky, because it always reminded me of the cruises Keith and I had enjoyed together.
But when I saw the consultant again soon after, he said: ‘We’ve got five possible donors.’
There was hope after all!
The donors were registered with Anthony Nolan.
‘One of them is a 100 per cent match,’ the doctor explained.
Joy surged through me.
The only information I was given about the donor was that it was a man in his 30s, and he was physically fit.
I was allowed to write a card to him: Thank you. This means so much to me and my family, I wrote.
Before I could have the transplant, I needed a fourth round of chemo to keep me in remission.
‘I’m on borrowed time,’ I said to Keith.
Seven months after my diagnosis, I underwent the stem-cell transplant, where the donor’s healthy cells were transferred into my body via a PICC line.
Would this save me? I wondered desperately.
There was still a chance my body could reject the transplant, and that made me think about the person whose stem cells were coursing through my body.
Who was he? Where did he live? Was he married?
As a result of the treatment, my hair fell out, ulcers ravaged my mouth and my weight dropped to six-and-a-half stone.
Doctors carried out blood tests every day and eventually one told me: ‘It seems to be working.’
The relief was overwhelming — a stranger was saving my life!
After five weeks, I returned to our home in Wakefield, West Yorkshire, floored with fatigue.
But eventually, the tiredness began to lift.
‘I want to meet the man who saved my life,’ I told Keith.
I filled in a form, but rules forbade any exchange of contact details until at least two years had passed.
When the two years was up, I reminded the donor registration team.
And one morning, they sent an email with the subject title: Your donor’s details.
I clicked and rapidly scanned the words.
His name was Kevin Hannan. He was 34, worked as an IT manager, had two children, and lived in Chicago, USA.
His stem cells had come all the way across the Atlantic to Yorkshire and into me!
Quickly, I fired off an email.
Thank you. You saved my life. I’d like to come to visit you, I typed.
One year later, Keith and I stepped off a plane in Chicago and, outside the airport, Kevin was waiting for us.
I hugged him tightly.
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said, overwhelmed.
Later, we sat down with Kevin in a pizza restaurant and had a proper talk.
I couldn’t resist hugging him again.
And then I noticed something.
‘Your hair,’ I said.
Before I’d become ill, I’d been dyeing my hair to hide the grey strands.
But when it grew back, it was darker — the same shade as Kevin’s!
We both laughed.
I know we’ll always stay in touch — he and his family have an open invitation to visit us.
He’s like my second son and my saviour, all rolled into one!
● For more information, visit anthonynolan.org