Told they had terminal cancer and had as little as weeks to live, the miracle survivors' club have proved the doctors wrong
The four women pictured share a miraculous secret: they were all given a terminal cancer diagnosis and, in some cases, just a matter of weeks to live. Yet years later — against all the odds — they are still here and living life to the full. here, as they meet for the first time for a special Mail photoshoot, they share their inspirational stories of survival.
Inspirational, from left: Jane Plant, Angela Profit, Sue Wigg and Anne Freeley
GIVEN TWO MONTHS TO LIVE IN 1993
Jane
Plant, 65, is professor of geochemistry at Imperial College, London,
and lives in Richmond with her husband Peter Simpson, also a professor.
They have three children and six grandchildren. She says:
Last
year I became a grandma for the sixth time. Considering I’d been given
two months to live 17 years earlier, when my kids were still children
themselves, it felt like a remarkable achievement to be holding yet
another grandchild in my arms.
I
was first diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 42. I thought I’d
beaten it, but five years later it returned with a vengeance. I carried
on fighting, but when it recurred for the fifth time I asked my doctor
to end my life for me there and then — I didn’t see how I could go on
battling a disease that seemed hell-bent on finishing me off.
But
as I wept I heard my little boy, then just six years old, crying out
for me in another room. I knew then I could never again allow myself to
feel as though it was an option to leave him.
Five
weeks later, when I was told that I had, at the very most, two months
to live, I wasn’t upset, angry or frightened — I’d already hit rock
bottom a few weeks earlier. I was on the way back up now and had already
begun to search my own scientific mind for a way out of this mess.
I was gripped with a great sense of urgency that I had to find an answer quickly if I was to stand any chance of surviving.
That
night, in my office, Peter and I looked at a map that showed the
incidence of various types of cancer across the world. In China the
breast cancer rate was one in 100,000 compared to one in ten here.
Further
research convinced me that it had to be diet-related, and so I adopted
the kind of diet predominant in China — low in animal protein, with no
dairy produce but lots of fruit, vegetables, nuts and pulses.
Six
weeks later my tumour had gone — my oncologist told me it had simply
responded to chemotherapy and that it would return when my treatment
finished.
It was a blow to hear that, but I stayed on the diet and lived the best life I could. It was a very precarious existence, endlessly checking for lumps and forever wondering how much time I had left. But I was lucky — the tumour didn’t come back.
It was a blow to hear that, but I stayed on the diet and lived the best life I could. It was a very precarious existence, endlessly checking for lumps and forever wondering how much time I had left. But I was lucky — the tumour didn’t come back.
Six
years later I stepped off a train in Reading, where I was giving a
lecture, and I was struck with this epiphany: ‘I’m not dead — I’m still
not dead.’ Those words repeated in my head over and over for the rest of
the day. And I knew I could finally allow myself to believe I had
beaten cancer.
I’m 65, but
unlike most women, the ageing process causes me no anguish. I look at
every new wrinkle as a mark of victory — my wonderful prize for having
beaten cancer when my doctors were certain it had beaten me.
GIVEN A YEAR TO LIVE IN 2001
Angela
Profit, 67, lives in Solihull, West Midlands, with husband John, 68, a
retired managing director. They have four sons between them from their
first marriages and seven grandchildren. She says:
This
week I saw the first snowdrop of the year in my garden. It’s amazing to
think that’s the ninth time I’ve seen them push through the soil,
heralding the start of yet another unexpected year of my life.
I
planted the bulbs in 2001, not long after being diagnosed with ovarian
cancer. No one thought I’d live to see them flower, but now they are a
symbol of my survival.
When I cast my mind back to the days immediately after my diagnosis, hope was the last thing I had.
I’d
known for 18 months that something wasn’t right. At first I was told I
had irritable bowel syndrome, but when my stomach swelled up, making me
look heavily pregnant, I was admitted to hospital for tests.
Not
for a moment did I expect to be diagnosed with cancer, but two days
later I was told that’s what I had and, worse, it had spread to my lungs
and was terminal.
My oncologist said he would operate to remove my ovaries, but that he wasn’t hopeful for me.
My
first thoughts were of my parents. They were in their 80s and I
wondered if they would survive the shock of my death. Then I became
angry that I would never be a grandmother, or get to visit Venice — a
place I’d always longed to see. I was also filled with regret that I
would never marry John, the man I love.
After
my operation I begged my family to take me home, certain that if I
stayed in hospital, I would die. Family and friends kept telling me I
could beat it. After a while, I started to believe them.
I
spent time in my garden, appreciating the beauty of things I’d never
had time to notice before. This gave me the resolve to get through the
chemo. I knew — even if my doctors didn’t — that I had more fight left
in me.
A year after diagnosis, my first grandson was born, I married John and we went to Venice.
In
realising those three ambitions, I saw the importance of setting new
goals to keep myself going. It’s something I’ve done ever since, with
the help of conventional medicine and alternative therapies such as
reflexology and meditation.
It
hasn’t been plain sailing. The cancer has returned three times to my
groin and lymph nodes. But that hasn’t stopped me travelling the world,
and starting a new career — as a supporter of the Eve Appeal and a
spokesperson for people living with cancer.
I
am living with it, and hoping every day that the drugs will keep it at
bay. If they don’t, I will have more chemo and another dose of positive
thinking. But, until then, I’ll continue to enjoy the lease of life this
supposed death sentence has given me.
For more information, go to eveappeal.org.uk
GIVEN TWO MONTHS TO LIVE IN 1998
Sue
Wigg, 56, a special needs teacher, lives near Brighton with her husband
Michael, 59, who’s retired from the electronics industry. They have two
sons, aged 29 and 31. She says:
Thirteen
years ago I was referred to a dermatologist after an irritating skin
condition failed to clear up. It turned out I had an extremely rare and
lethal form of internal skin cancer.
I
was relieved I had a diagnosis and they knew how to treat it. At that
stage, no one was talking life and death. The real blow came when my
doctors discovered a huge secondary tumour in my liver. I couldn’t
believe I had known nothing about it.
I
had surgery to deal with the primary tumour, and chemotherapy for the
secondary. And I clung to the hope that I would survive.
After
three rounds of chemotherapy I started suffering headaches and fits.
They found a new tumour in my brain and my treatment was halted.
The
prospect of losing my cognitive faculties frightened me more than
anything. I asked my doctors how long I’d got, and at first they
wouldn’t say. Then they said the cancer was growing faster than they
could contain it and that I was unlikely to survive more than a few
weeks.
I was engulfed by
sadness. I wouldn’t see my boys through university or watch them marry
and become parents. But after laser surgery on my brain, the impossible
happened: the cancer started to retreat.
Little by little my confidence grew. I felt better and I dared to make plans for the future.
There
have been setbacks — a cancerous mole removed from my leg, and, in
July last year, cancerous lymph nodes were taken from my groin. But I no
longer wonder when cancer is going to ‘get me’ and just live my life.
In my mind I have two ages: I am 56 and also 13 — the number of years I’ve enjoyed since my terminal diagnosis.
Those years have been richer and fuller than any others in my life.
Sue will do Moonwalk this May, to raise money for breast cancer. For more information, visit www.walkthewalk.org
GIVEN A YEAR TO LIVE in 2006
Anne
Feeley, 56, owned a bakery for 15 years, and lives in London with her
husband, Jonathan, 50, a retired lawyer. They have two daughters, Molly,
23, and Sadie, 20. She says:
There
was no stiff-upper-lip bravery from me when my consultant told me my
condition was terminal. I sat in his office, convulsed by tears. At one
point I was struggling to breathe I was so distraught.
I had a fast-growing, recurring brain tumour — a condition that usually claims the life of the victim within a year.
My husband broke my dreadful prognosis to our children, and my anguish was temporarily quashed at the sight of theirs.
In
those first few weeks I was often immobilised with self-pity and shock.
But as those despairing feelings wore off, so my determination to steal
more time grew stronger.
Jonathan
and I retired so that we could focus on keeping me alive for as long as
possible, and enjoy whatever family time we had left.
I
had surgery to remove the bulk of the tumour, followed by radiotherapy
and chemotherapy. After the operation, I hired a personal trainer to
help me get stronger and — together with my treatment — I slowly started
to get better.
The
turning point came four months later when my daughter, Molly, who’d won a
place at University in Chicago, said she couldn’t bear to leave me in
case my condition deteriorated. I insisted she went and told her I
wouldn’t have her turn down golden opportunities for me.
I
set myself the goal of living another two years. I focused on enjoying
simple pleasures with my family: like cooking and eating together and
taking our dog for long walks. The tumour was still there, but regular
check-ups showed that, contrary to expectations, it wasn’t getting any
worse.
So I started to
set myself little challenges. The following year I completed a half
marathon. Jonathan and the girls came with me and were cheering for me
at the finish line. Last year I cycled 3,702 miles across America and
raised almost £2 million for Macmillan and the neuro-oncology department
at the Royal Marsden, where I was treated. This summer I will row
across the English Channel to raise more money.
When
the two-year mark since my diagnosis approached, and I hadn’t relapsed,
my husband, ever the lawyer, said to me: ‘So, you’re still here — time
to re-negotiate!’
And
that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. It’s more than four years since I
was told my death was imminent, yet the cancer remains contained in
one part of my brain, and I don’t feel any more ready to leave my family
than I did then.’
To find out more about Anne’s fundraising, visit www.brainsonbikes.org
...AND SUPERGRAN BEATS THE LOT!
Century: 100-year-old great-grandmother Ellen McDonald has beaten cancer five times
At one point she was even given the last rites by a priest at her hospital bed. But that was nearly 50 years ago and she is still here to tell the tale.
Ellen, from Leeds, was born in 1911 - the same year as King George V's coronation. her health problems began when she was diagnosed with breast cancer in the early Fifties and underwent a double mastectomy.
Ten years later she had cancer in her gall bladder, and it was removed. She also underwent a hysterectomy after the cancer was found in her womb.
But in 1963, when cancer was discovered in her bowel, she was not expected to survive.
Ellen, a mother of five sons and great-grandmother to eight, says: 'I made it through because of my spirit and the surgons' skill.'
Ellen, whose husband, Jim, died 18 years a go, lives in sheltered accommodation and puts her longevity down to hard work and 'the occasional glass of wine'.
