Momentarily, a tremendous feeling of utter relief flooded through me as I regained consciousness and realised, I’m still alive, I’ve survived! Then this euphoric feeling dissipated as speedily as it had come. For the grim reality of what I had awoken to, was utterly shocking. I lay there traumatised. I had not been prepared for this at all. I had simply had no real understanding of what it had all been about. In my worst nightmare I could not have envisaged anything so horrendous. Foolishly, I had thought that it would just be like coming round from my eye surgery: then it had seemed as if my head had been hammered unmercifully for hours. That was absolutely nothing in comparison to how I was suffering now. From where I lay, propped up with five pillows beneath me, everything felt so strange and uncomfortable. I was vaguely aware of unfamiliar contraptions beside the bed. These being the drip stands, pumps, ventilator and an electrocardiograph. I had woken up to a totally bizarre world. Someone else lay where I should be. It felt as if an alien being had taken over my body. It was very unnerving. Meanwhile, John had spent another dreadfully long, sleepless night. He was up very early and at 7.30am on that Thursday morning, he was having porridge with Neil and Kathy Russell at Frampton Vicarage. At 9am he had actually followed the surgeon into Pilgrim Hospital and had accompanied him up to I.C. John waited outside while the surgeon checked on my condition. He was then introduced to Dr. Chalmers who was responsible for me during my stay in I.C. This fact was something that I discovered at a much later stage. On that Thursday, I recall feeling slightly puzzled as to why Dr. Chalmers had visited me twice, whereas the surgeon had visited me only once. I had not been conscious long, when the surgeon came to say how well the operation had gone. He informed me that mercifully the cancer had not spread into the right lymph node of my neck or the thyroid, so further surgery had been avoided. This really was no consolation to me at all. I just felt dreadfully shocked and so utterly miserable. Then John arrived. The first thing that I recall him saying, was that my speech was not bad. Not bad! It was bloody dreadful. It sounded just as Christine had foretold: very slushy, like having a mouth full of gob-stoppers! Although it sounded so awful, I was aware that I could make myself understood. Indeed, I could communicate. Not that it made me feel any better. John had very thoughtfully brought in my spectacles, so at least I could see more clearly what was going on. My bed was virtually opposite the nurses’ station, allowing me to focus on that centre of activity. John informed me that Neil was outside and asked if I wanted to see him. I did not like to refuse but in truth it was all too much of an ordeal, having a friend see me in this state. Neil held my hand and spoke encouragingly, assuring me that he could understand what I was saying. That failed to console me. I was unresponsive. I was living a nightmare. Later that day, John brought Mum to see me. Mum bless her, had that remarkable quality of appearing to take it all in her stride. She did not display any emotion. At something I mentioned, she asked John what I had said and I recall thinking crossly, oh mother, that's not very tactful! John had brought in a few cards and a long letter from Adrian Cozma. He seemed to think that I would be interested in such things. Interested! I could quite easily have slung them at him but I did not wish to hurt his feelings, so merely gave them a cursory glance. I could not feel interested in anything or anyone. When Paul Elliott, a friend of John’s in the Christian Police Association, rang to enquire how I was, the nurse asked me what I wanted her to say. I could not even be bothered to answer her. Pulling a dreadful face, I looked upward at the ceiling despairingly. She chose a tactful reply. As I lay there in my numbed state of disbelief; I could not accept that my God would put me through something so terrible as this. God seemed far from me that day. I felt that I was in hell! How I hope and pray that I never have to experience anything so dreadful again. I do not think that I was consciously angry with God. I was so hurt and bewildered: almost a sense of being betrayed by having to really suffer in this manner. The physical discomfort was indescribable: not pain as such because I was constantly dosed with morphine. As dreadful as it was for me physically, the torment experienced in my mind and spirit was far worse. >>> I do not recall even trying to pray. I was too dispirited to even think of verbalising a prayer in my mind. Whether a terse, God, get me through this, God. You’ve got to get me through this, ever went through my conscious mind, I simply cannot recall. With hindsight, I am certain that much must have been going on at a deeply sub-conscious level. I am sure that God was with me: giving me the necessary strength to endure this ordeal calmly, even though at the time He seemed so distant. After all, I was not freaking out in panic or sobbing hysterically. I was in control of my emotions. Doubtless, the morphine contributed partly to this state. It was the chaplain’s rest day. The Revd. Dennis Clark who was deputising for him, came to see me. I had never met him before but he knew John. It was too traumatic for me. For the first time since surgery, I shed a few tears and became upset at what he said. I could not bear to hear him speak of God loving me: or to hear him say that God would bring me through this ordeal. I could not accept such words of comfort, the way that I was feeling so abandoned. It was too much to stomach; even though I knew that in theory it was true. Here in Intensive Care, I could not believe those reassuring words. I was attached to a variety of equipment. Drips were in both arms. One drip supplied me with a saline and glucose solution, along with other essential nutrients. The second drip contained morphine for pain relief. As in theatre, an electrocardiogram was still monitoring me. I had an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose, which thankfully did not bother me as much as I would have anticipated. Ever since a ghastly childhood experience at the school dentist, when a huge black mask was put over my face, I have had a phobia of face masks! Fortunately, this mask was lightweight and transparent. It was to assist my breathing until I was able to resume this independently. It is impossible to convey in words, how awful I felt physically. I remember clearly that my throat was so tight and unbearable. How Thursday dragged! I endured a long miserable day. Unfortunately, I could see the clock. Time seemed to stand still. I had expected to sleep away some of the day but I was far too keyed up and of course propped up with five pillows; far too constrained! I longed to be safe at home with my family. I thought of how I used to moan at the tedium of all those household chores. Now, I would have given anything to be at home and bodily able to do the cooking, washing up, and the vacuuming... All that seemed absolute bliss to what I was doing now. How I vowed that I would never ever grumble about doing such tasks again!! The nurse who tended me during the morning and early afternoon was quietly spoken, very gentle and most kind. Checks on my temperature, pulse and blood pressure, were being done half-hourly at first and then gradually spaced out, as my day in I.C. progressed. My heart, urine and the oxygen level in my blood, were constantly being monitored. She obviously had to do for me what I was incapable of doing for myself: washing me, cleaning debris from my mouth and making me comfortable (ha! ha!). During those first few hours I was given a total of three units (1,050 millilitres) of blood. There were small drains near my wounds, where blood collected, which were emptied periodically. I recall my dismay when the nurse came to say goodbye to me. Although the other staff were very kind, I had become quite dependent on her. When the physiotherapist visited the unit, she literally breezed past me saying, ‘You’re not talking are you!’ Before I could manage some sort of reply, she had called hurriedly, ‘Take some deep breaths,’ and with that had gone. I was not at all impressed by this, because I had not got a clue what she was talking about. My long miserable day was surpassed by an even longer and more agonising night, which seemed to last an eternity. I thought that I should go mad, watching the hands of that clock. Obviously I was still propped up with a mountain of pillows, which was hardly conducive to sleep. The reason for my sleeplessness, was that as well as being uncomfortable, I was far too tense about what was happening to me in I.C. Indeed, I was very frightened. My throat was so full of the large build-up of trapped secretions from my lungs, which during five hours of surgery were denied their normal outlet. I was too scared to fall asleep in case I choked! Since coming round from anaesthesia, I had needed to have suction applied to the back of my throat, to clear away this build-up of mucus. The first few times a long tube was put to the back of my throat, was such a dreadful experience. It almost made me vomit. I was also very concerned about my left eye. Under such stressful conditions, could my squint re-occur? I could not bear that. Therefore, I wore my spectacles the entire night. ...I think the worst thing about being in I.C. was the knowledge that I was so completely helpless and utterly vulnerable. I was trapped: a prisoner without any control over my body; fixed to a bed with a variety of attachments. I could not open my mouth. Moreover, my mouth was now full of metal. The surgeon had wired up my jaw. Miss Evans the Locum Associate Specialist, from the Oral Department, had inserted a metal arch bar in my mouth, after major surgery: to secure my broken jaw.