Here you will always find someone whose story may act as inspiration for others who may be just starting an illness, or in the throes of dis-ease. This is a room that will always be full of hope. We more than welcome submissions about other inspirational people — please email us with the details.

Margaret Durdant-Hollamby

It seems fitting to have as our first guest in this room someone who is very close to us. Barry's mother, Margaret Durdant-Hollamby MBE.

In 1975 she was diagnosed with breast cancer, having been wrongly diagnosed initially with a cyst. She had a mastectomy and just about survived a major haemorrhage following the operation.

Needless to say, her life was never to be the same. Prior to the discovery of cancer, she had been working tirelessly with her husband John, to try and create a successful hotel in Sevenoaks that would also possibly create a business for their sons (there are three of us) to follow into. The cancer soon put an end to that.

John had no hesitation in selling the business immediately- even though this meant great financial loss for them and, for him at least, the end of a dream.

As Margaret began to recover, so she began to chase her own dream. That of creating a theatre in Sevenoaks - a large town that had nowhere for locals to perform, or for touring companies to visit (Sevenoaks is only 25 miles from London).

She was not consciously aware that what she was doing was the very thing that we now find ourselves talking through with every person seeking our help. She started to pursue her 'dream' and, as she pursued it, so she found that doors started to open for her in the most amazing way.

She became what American cancer writer Marc Barasch would most certainly describe as a 'remarkable recoverer'. Not only was she the driving force behind what was to become a £3M theatre for the town, but she also nursed her husband through some very painful years of emphysema, a condition he eventually died from.

Since her operation 23 years ago Margaret has lived life to the full, experiencing many lows as well as great happiness. She has, albeit subconsciously maybe, followed an inner guidance that has lead her to a life of joy and free of cancer. Her story, which is contained in her autobiography 'Life Is Not A Rehearsal' is indeed an inspiration to anyone wanting proof that dreams can indeed come true and that cancer is just a word, not a sentence.

The following extract is taken from

"Life is not a Rehearsal"
by Margaret Durdant Hollamby

John and I decided that in 1975 we could afford a fortnight's holiday. The boys were then 18, 17 and 15 and we knew we were reaching the time when family holidays would cease to appeal. We chose Jamaica, but in August when it was at its cheapest (and hottest). To our disappointment Kim decided that he did not really want to come away with us - the delights of independence beckoned for him and we were not altogether surprised. My younger brother Alan joined us and good friends of ours, John and Vera Edwards, agreed with pleasure to run the hotel for us.

In March of that year I had a medical for an insurance policy which was essential to our mortgage. I passed with flying colours. No surprise to me.

We booked our holiday in Jamaica and got on with the business of running a very small but busy hotel.

Shopping for some holiday clothes in June I noticed a small bump. Right at the cleavage point but nearer my left breast than my right it looked as though it was going to become a boil.

Life continued to be extremely busy, the lump did not appear to be doing anything, certainly not coming to a head as I had expected and I was a little puzzled but not alarmed.

We had a wonderful, wonderful holiday. Our villa was at the edge of the Caribbean, there were three staff on duty, we had a private pool and apart from Noel and Barry both being stung badly on the foot by sea urchins Jamaica was everything we had imagined and much, much more. The gardener's friend had worked for Noel Coward and towards the end of our holiday we were taken up to the Master's magnificent villa overlooking the bay. It was very thrilling to be in the great man's house.

We returned after our fortnight very tanned, very fit and very happy. There was no time for jet-lag. Our friends had to leave as soon as we arrived back so even after a nine-hour flight we had to get straight back into work and start looking after our guests once again.

My little lump, though beautifully tanned, had grown slightly larger and one night in November John said he thought I ought to have it checked out. At that time the national press was filled with articles urging women to check their breasts and stories of breast cancer were everywhere. I knew it did not apply to me but decided it would be sensible to see my doctor.

I had been a patient of Dr Jennifer Daniel since before Barry was born and we had an excellent rapport. She had watched us bring up the children, seen them and me through chicken pox and mumps and was a real family friend. She suggested that I see a consultant as soon as possible although she was very optimistic because my lump was very visible and had not been there when I had my medical in March.

I was referred to a Mr Walker-Brash about whom I knew nothing. I visited him in his consulting room and he too was optimistic. I remember lying on the narrow white bed whilst he stood at the far end.

'Oh, yes' he said 'I can see it from here.' My stomach churned.

'What does that mean?' I asked terrified of what his answer might be.

'That's a good sign' he replied. 'If it's something more serious it's often not so visible as that.'

He drained the fluid from the cyst, explained it might well fill up again as they often do and said that if that happened he would see me in six weeks' time (early February). I felt quite euphoric. My lump had disappeared, the prognosis was very optimistic and arriving home at 4 o'clock in the afternoon I had a large brandy with John - I was so relieved.

The ensuing weeks were like being on a roller coaster. Guests to look after, Christmas to prepare for and a determination to avoid thinking the worst and certainly not worrying the family. All the time a small part of my brain would keep asking 'what if?'

The cyst did fill up again. A second appointment was kept with Mr Walker-Brash and a time arranged for me to spend the day at Sevenoaks Hospital to have the offending lump removed.

It was like living with a time-bomb. One minute I was convinced everything would be fine, the next I was secretly planning how on earth we could run the hotel with its busy schedule and how the family would cope. The days passed like a bad dream but I was still very optimistic. I had never smoked, I drank very little and I felt as fit as a flea. It simply could not be possible.

The removal of the cyst was on a Friday. By 5 o'clock I was home, very relieved, a little wobbly and very slightly sore. We all sort of celebrated. That was that and thank goodness it was all over. The telephone was hot that evening with family and close friends ringing to see that all had gone well. It had and I put it out of my mind.

The next morning, Saturday, I was back on duty, feeling fine and so relieved it was all behind me. At about ll o'clock the telephone rang at reception and I answered it.

'Mrs Durdant-Hollamby?

'Yes' I replied.

'It's Monro Walker-Brash'.

I reached rapidly for the hotel diary. The name did not mean anything to me and I scanned the pages quickly to find the booking. I simply could not recall a guest of that name - perhaps John had made the reservation whilst I was at the hospital.

'Mrs Durdant-Hollamby, it's Monro Walker-Brash. I'm really so sorry to tell you but your biopsy has shown a malignant tumour and I want you to come into Orpington Hospital tomorrow for surgery.'

I still did not grasp what he was saying and was sure that we had not booked in this Mr Walker-Brash - oh dear, I hoped we had not made a double booking.

He repeated what he had said and I suddenly understood. I called John and asked him to take the details - I was no longer capable.

Poor John. He was devastated. When he came off the phone and found me the floodgates had opened and I was inconsolable. Cancer. That most terrifying of illnesses and I had it. I don't remember how the three boys spent that day. I know they kept coming in to see me but I could hardly stop crying.

Our very dear friend Joyce Haslehurst was called and rapid arrangements were made for her to help John run the hotel. In one tiny compartment of my mind I had actually thought about the bookings and arrangements and had looked in the diary to see how best things might be covered should the worst happen, and we managed to arrange adequate help. I was expected to be in hospital for about ten days and would then need convalescence. I decided to convalesce at home where I would be happiest.

The next forty-eight hours were ghastly. I was frightened but 'being brave' for the family. I really had no idea about the operation. I only knew it was called a mastectomy and meant the complete removal of my left breast.

John and I slept little on that Saturday night. John was wonderfully positive, at least on the surface, and kept assuring me that everything would be fine. He made a good job of not letting me see how scared he was.

The boys were very quiet the next morning but also very optimistic.

Dorothy Parrott, very well known in Sevenoaks for her marvellous work in the community and secretary of The Sevenoaks Players, delivered the prettiest pink bed cape for me and that sent me off into more floods of tears. Dorothy was a very good friend of the family and had telephoned on the Saturday evening to find out how my little op had gone on the Friday. She was extremely distressed when John told her the news.

We had tried not to tell all and sundry - after all we had a business to run and could not afford to lose bookings - but news travels fast, particularly bad news, and the telephone was soon red hot. I simply could not speak to anyone. I was so upset and sympathy merely opened the floodgates.

John delivered me to Orpington Hospital and with stiff upper lips we parted, John giving me a huge wink and a thumbs up at the door of the ward. I had never felt so alone or so frightened. I hated hospitals. I unpacked, undressed and took out my book.

I tried to read but it was useless. I went down to the loo at the far end of the ward and inside were two patients who hurriedly hid their hands behind their backs as I entered.

'Thank Gawd for that, we thought you was the nurse'.

Two cigarettes came out from behind two backs and they puffed away.

'You're new aren't you. Whatch'you in for, love?'

For some reason I couldn't help thinking of the tales my aunt used to tell me about body snatchers and I felt the goose-bumps rising. It nearly choked me to say 'a mastectomy' because it was the first time I had said it aloud to anyone. To make matters worse they did not know what it was and I had to explain, my voice getting quieter and quieter.

'Oh bad luck dear and you're not that old are you?'

I went back to my bed and started on the hospital routine. I was told that my operation was to be at 8.30 next morning. I lay awake most of the night just waiting for it to be over.

The National Health Service was going through a very difficult time in 1976 and with the backlog of patients it was quite common to be kept waiting for one's operation long after the appointed time. I was fortunate. Mr Walker-Brash was to operate and I went down to theatre on cue. The operation was successfully carried out and I was back in the ward as expected.

It was then that everything started to go wrong.

Blissfully unaware of what was happening, I haemorrhaged violently and almost lost my life. I was readmitted to theatre where the wound was reopened, padded and then restitched. A blood transfusion was essential and had to be rapid. Intensive care was the next port of call and I was there for 24 hours.

I remained oblivious to all of this and so, by a freak, did John for a period of that day. He had been told to call the hospital around noon to find out how I was. This he did. When he gave his name they said 'Mrs Durdant-Hollamby is still down in the theatre. Please ring in about two hours'. It never crossed his mind that anything was wrong as everyone was aware that operations were getting delayed and he quite naturally assumed that I had been kept waiting.

In the meantime his brother Nigel and wife Brenda had phoned him to ask about me and he relayed the hospital's explanation to them. They agreed to speak again as soon as John had some news. However my sister-in-law became very concerned as time went on and asked Nigel to ring the hospital himself - they did not want to scare John unnecessarily but Brenda felt uncomfortable.

Nigel telephoned, introduced himself as Mr Durdant-Hollamby and the nurse at once explained that there was a crisis and could he please come to the hospital as soon as possible. The hospital thought he was John.

My first coherent thought after the operation was that I was definitely dead. I awoke in a pale green room, totally silent. Opposite me, propped up in a bed with bandages round his chest and one arm, was a black man.

Even in 1976 mixed wards were only being whispered about and I was utterly convinced that I had left the world. I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that I was in Intensive Care.

My next bout of consciousness showed me John, holding my hand very tightly and telling me that everything was fine and it was time I came round.

I did as I was bid.

The next day I was returned to my ward. What a difference. I had been in a very big room with total strangers on the Sunday and suddenly I was swamped with affection, little visits from mobile patients who were complete strangers, all telling the same story. They were so pleased I had made it.

At one point I awoke to find a large, wonderful black nurse standing at the end of my bed.

'Ah honey, ah sho' am glad to see you alive today. We pumped so much blood into you yesterday but ah thought you was a goner'.

I could hardly believe my ears and my brain began to tell me that all was not nearly as well as I had thought. My blood pressure was taken every ten minutes for the next 24 hours so sleep was out of the question. I was not in pain but very uncomfortable and very thirsty and allowed only sips of water. How I longed for a cup of tea.

John visited me that evening and we just held hands - I couldn't bear to let go of him. He was cheerful, positive as ever, said that the boys were fine and the hotel was running like clockwork. All I had to do was get well and come home. He must have been in turmoil. He loathed hospitals, hated tubes and drips and I had it all, but he did not give a hint of his horror of the situation or the agony he had been through the day before.

When I look back and realise the attention I had from every member of staff on the National Health Service I realise that in an emergency they are specially wonderful.

Early next morning I was seen by Mr Walker-Brash. He spent a long time with me explaining exactly what had happened, how successful and complete the operation had been so far as the malignant tumour was concerned and how very sorry he was that there had been problems after the operation. He told me everything. It hit me in one great wave - how lucky I was still to be alive. The cancer suddenly did not seem nearly so important - I had almost died but I was alive - that was what was important! Mr Walker-Brash was very kind and promised to visit me next day when he knew I would have many more questions to ask.

Two beds away from me was a very elderly lady, very very thin but very bright and chatty. Everyone called her 'gran' which she hated and she kept shouting questions to me and anyone else who appeared in the ward. The next day the flowers, cards and letters started arriving in their dozens and I was overwhelmed by messages of love and goodwill from relations and friends.

'Gran' was moved a bed nearer.

' Ere' she shouted ' r you royalty or somefin? I never seen so many bloody flowers!'

I felt royal, or at least very special - it was impossible not to with all the good wishes that came pouring in.

I made slow but steady progress. I was so happy to be alive that I did not worry about the agonisingly painful trips to the bathroom holding a bottle or the first venture in a bath of blissful warm water where I was terrified I would slip. None of it mattered. Mr Walker-Brash eventually convinced me that he had removed all the malignant tumour and that was all I cared about for the moment.

The Sister in charge of our ward was wonderful - a proper hospital Sister. Very precise, calm, ordered and efficient. Most of her staff were in complete awe of her. I loved her. She always made time to explain things to me. The evening before I was due to have my forty-two stitches removed she sat by my bed and asked me what was wrong. I had to admit to her that I was sick with fright. The thought of a young nurse pulling away at those stitches gave me nightmares. I was sure I would haemorrhage again and could think of nothing else.

My other bogey was that I had not yet seen what had been done to me and had no inclination whatsoever to look. She understood this fear but was surprised how scared I was about the stitches. I had to admit that my imagination was running riot after all the panic. I was terrified I would rip open again and end up back in the theatre.

Sister was wonderful. She realised my absolute terror and asked if it would make any difference if she removed the stitches. I was so relieved. The job was done next morning with the utmost skill and care and although some really pulled I trusted her completely. When it was over she said 'How about taking a look?'

'Do I have to?'

'My dear, you'll have to sometime. You may as well get it over now, while I'm here'.

I took my very first look. For the first time I forgot how fortunate I was to be alive.

Sister brought me a very strong, sweet cup of tea.

My progress from then on was rapid. I was eventually transferred to Sevenoaks Hospital (so much easier for family visiting) and I spent most of my time laughing with the sheer relief of it all being over. Mr Walker-Brash continued to be supportive and very understanding.

I had no idea how anyone could ever look normal again after such an operation and during one visit Mr Walker-Brash explained that the fitter would come to see me and arrange an appointment at Outpatients when I had left the hospital. He said very firmly that he wanted me to continue to wear the style of clothes I had always worn and that he would do everything in his power to ensure that my shape and size would not be any different. I listened to all this without any real understanding but at least with hope. I secretly felt deformed - but I was in his hands.

Maybe I'm odd, but in a ward with a number of other ladies, many of whose visitors I recognised as they were Sevenoaks residents, I didn't actually go out of my way to broadcast what operation I had had. Many of the patients were elderly and cancer was still one of those things you didn't say out loud; there were also two other patients who had had mastectomies by other surgeons and when the place was full of visitors I tried to keep my medical condition to myself. I don't know why I bothered. One afternoon when our friend David visited me with an armful of flowers a man walked down the ward calling out 'Mrs Durdant-Hollamby? Mastectomy?'

I wished I could hide. David excused himself rapidly and left. It was the surgical fitter come to make an appointment for me in a few weeks time. Hospital is no place to be bashful.

My recovery was remarkable. I convalesced at home and was so very fortunate to need no further treatment of any kind. Of the three breast cancer patients in Sevenoaks Hospital I was the only one to survive - there but for the grace of God . . .'

 

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To find out more details or to order a copy of the above book, please contact Margaret Durdant-Hollamby directly via e-mail at the following address:

m.durdant-hollamby@virgin.net.

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