Chest wise I've always been really lucky.  No IVs until 30 years old and now at 35 I only ever have them about twice a year.  I started working full time at the age of sixteen and continued to do this until fairly recently, so CF didn't interfere with my life too much at all.  I religiously swallowed my eight urso a day to help with associated liver disease but my liver never gave me any problems or showed any signs of struggling to cope!

Things changed for me in 2002.  I'd had a busy day at work and on the way home my mobile rang.  It was the hospital saying my annual review had shown something of concern on my liver scan and could I pop along to discuss it.  Oh, and maybe I'd like to take someone along.  Alarm bells did ring but I blocked them out.

I went along with my husband and the CF specialist nurse came in with a doctor.  They told me my scan had shown 'areas' on my liver.  These could be tumours and that could mean cancer.  I'd need to go to hospital for further tests.  On the way home we went for a walk in the forest and saw a magpie.  Innocently Carl said 'Quick, see another one'.  We didn't.

I got a call from a doctor at Addenbrookes Hospital advising me to get in there asap for tests.  I explained that I was soon off to South Africa for 3 weeks.  He gently suggested I postpone the holiday.  I thought about it for three seconds and said no.  The thought of having scans, angiograms etc when I should be spotting lions was too depressing for words.  No, I'd deal with everything when I got back. 

When I got back it was time to face the music.  I wasn't admitted immediately, I think it took a couple of weeks to get me a bed.  I was wheeled off for my angiogram which I was absolutely dreading.  Tubes in my groin?  Are you sure that's necessary?  I got there and was asked if there was any chance I could be pregnant.  “No.  Well, it's not impossible but very, very doubtful.  Extremely doubtful.  I am late, but I'm always late”.  So I was wheeled back to the ward and asked to pee in a pot.  “You're pregnant.”  After years of not bothering with the pill I was pregnant.  Aged 33 and awaiting a likely diagnosis of liver cancer.  Good timing!

The angiogram couldn't be done so they took a biopsy.  "It's nothing obviously malignant but nothing obviously benign either".  Ok.............  Then I was told the truth, not enough tissue had been taken so a second biopsy was needed.  Readmitted, rebiopsied and eventually at three months pregnant I was told it was indeed cancer.  I have to say the hospital ward was revolting, and vomiting bile as a result of that was very unpleasant. As was having a bed next to a paranoid alcoholic. 

Ok, so I'll need a termination.  Not necessarily.  St Mary's Hospital in London are carrying out 'experimental' treatment on liver tumours.  They insert fibre optic tubing into your side and burn the tumour with lasers.  It's not guaranteed effective, it's never been done on a pregnant woman but what did I think?  Well basically, let’s do it. St Mary's was fabulous.  I was so impressed with the doctors there and they looked after my pregnancy too.  All round I felt in such good hands. 

During my pregnancy I had three lots of the laser ablation over about four months, which shrunk the tumour by around 75%.  It was quite painful and left me jaundiced and feeling battered. Apart from the odd off day following treatment though, I generally felt fine and enjoyed being pregnant.  I wandered round London and met friends, I rarely thought about the reality of the situation. I suppose that was easier because I never actually felt ill.  The only symptom I’d had was severe itching.

They delivered my gorgeous baby boy by C Section six weeks early.   He was a good weight at 6lb 6oz and healthy - no CF thank goodness.  He truly was beautiful.  A perfect little face with lots of soft dark hair (blonde now) and St Tropez skin due to slight jaundice. 

When he was three months old they shoved chemo through my groin and into my liver.  I felt so lousy the first time but the following three sessions were easier.  This was done at the Hammersmith and once again I was delighted with the care.  The doctor was amazed at the results but it was never going to be a cure so it was time to discuss transplantation.  Basically, I didn't fit the criteria for a transplant but all things considered and a bit of gentle persuasion here and there and I got on the list.  My time on the list was fine, I had Christian to look after and not a lot of time to worry.  Seven weeks later the phone rang.

I tearfully went to hospital.  I was scared but most of all I hated leaving my baby.  He was fourteen months old and the thought of never seeing him again was heartbreaking. No matter, the liver turned out to be a duff one, so home I came feeling really happy to have got out of there.  I felt I should have been disappointed but I wasn't.  My husband had been preparing a Thai meal that day, crushing peanuts, chopping chillies and grating coconut.  I could eat it after all!!

The next evening around 11pm I had just got home from a friend’s house.  The phone rang and it was another liver.  My in laws rushed out of bed to babysit and Carl and I went to the hospital.  I was wheeled to theatre around 8am the following morning having spent a sleepless night in the treatment room.  I was reasonably calm but remember the tears pouring out the side of my eyes and onto the pillow.  There was a nurse stroking my hair and telling me I'd be fine.

I woke some ten hours later and could hear my husband chatting to the doctor.   I squeezed his hand and nodded my head at the questions being asked about my medication.  The doctor was impressed that Carl knew so much but Carl said “Well actually Audrey's telling me!”  I felt happy that I’d got through it and couldn’t feel any pain or discomfort.

Next time I woke up was in Intensive Care and it was the worst experience ever.  I was so distressed at the breathing tube and kept pointing to it and the clock to ask when it was coming out.  An hour after promised the young nurse pulled it out herself as I was getting in such a state.  Nothing prepared me for the pain I felt when the tube came out as I'd been weaned off the sedation.  The morphine hit the spot soon after though.

I was on the high dependency ward for three days and had an unfortunate incident in there.  I was aware of a nurse and doctor at the foot of my bed for a long time and assumed I was having rejection.  Although away with the fairies, I was very aware of everything.  I asked what the problem was and was told my sugars were a bit low.  I found out the next day that was because the nurse had filled my drip bag with insulin instead of antibiotics. 

Anyway, to be honest my time in hospital was strange.  I was aware of tubes in my neck, a catheter, lots of padding and various other things but I was so drowsy and doolally on the drugs that it wasn't really a problem.  On the general ward my biggest memory was seeing my little boy after seven days without him.  He looked so delighted to see me and I’ll never forget his face, and big fat tears poured down mine as I gingerly cuddled him.  The day I was admitted he had managed nine steps and now there was no stopping him. I also remember jumping out of my skin a lot, which I put down to my time in the ICU.  

I was so determined to get better for my baby it seemed when I wasn’t trying to eat I was drinking build up drinks, so I constantly felt quite sick with that lot.  I was supposed to have had a feeding tube but that was overlooked.  Then I got it only for a doctor to order it to be pulled out the next day – much to the dietician’s annoyance.

I went home on day thirteen still feeling weak and wobbly but glad to be home.  I’d experienced a level of rejection in hospital, which is fairly normal but this was sorted with various immunosuppressants and steroids.

I was on a huge cocktail of drugs at first but this reduced quite quickly.  The scar shocked me.  Sixty odd staples held me together and very little of it seemed to have healed at all.  I had around four weeks with leaky dressings and district nurse visits but just as they promised, it all healed nicely.  I did suffer with some blinding headaches and got quite shaky at times but that settled down when the medication was reduced.

I found out my donor was a thirty six year old woman called Michelle.  Her cause of death wasn’t recorded.  I went to the hospital Chapel and said a prayer.  I said sorry that she’d died and thanked her for the gift of life.  I’m not especially religious but that really helped me.

I’d dealt with everything so well, from the very beginning until about four months post transplant.  Things caught up with me a bit and I got mild panic attacks and anxiety.  Some days I’d be in floods of tears and could never explain it.  To be honest though, I was tough on myself, accepting little help at home and demanding to return to work in January this year, six months after my op.  I wanted to be brave and cope with everything.

I still get mildly anxious but nothing compared to before.  I’m working three days a week, swallowing only seven anti rejection pills and enjoying my little family.  I feel so lucky to still be here. 

Tumours tend to come back to the new liver.  The best I was ‘offered’ was five years.  Five years sounded better than five months and I’m hoping I’ll be an exception.  In the words of my favourite Green Day song:  For what it’s worth it was worth all the while.