2. The Tests

With the birth out of the way, the doctors had given Maria a few days rest before they would press ahead with the endoscopy. Left in the maternity unit, she was finding little support from the midwives. The maternity unit worked much like a production line, with a quick turn-around of patients. As most of the midwives were unaware of the other problems Maria was having, they expected her to be back on her feet and out the door in a day or two. The fact she was still there a few days later they saw as her playing it up and treated her quite badly, getting impatient at the numerous requests for help she made. A large, middle-aged, Ghanaian nurse went as far as telling her off, saying, that because Maria was Brazilian, she should be a strong woman and should have gone home by now.

Over the next few days as we awaited the endoscopy I had taken to becoming a medical expert and, when not at the hospital, researched Maria’s symptoms on the Internet. I had not liked what I was finding, and when Maria asked me about it, had been reluctant to share all, instead side stepping many of her questions. I had not wanted to believe what I was finding and certainly did not want to worry Maria any further.

Finally the day of the endoscopy came. I had to stay in the maternity unit with James, our newborn, while Maria was taken for the examination. She had been very nervous about it, not so much about the outcome, but about the procedure itself. The thought of having a thick tube forced down her throat was not one she relished. I remember sitting there on the side of the bed, holding James as the porter pushed her in a wheelchair down the six bed maternity room, and out into the corridor. As they turned into the corridor, Maria looked back with foreboding etched across her face and my heart ached for her. I pulled James into me and my eyes teared up. The whole procedure took two hours, though sitting, waiting for her return seemed like an eon. Finally the porter brought her back, drowsy but well.

The day after the tests were completed, the nurses began to  understand that Maria had not just been shirking. There seemed to be a new respect for her, and, while no one said anything, I wondered if they knew something we had yet to learn. A couple of days after, Maria was discharged and we took James home.

Despite being obviously drained of energy, Maria did her best to be with James and spent as much time with him as she was able, while I took care of everything else. We were blessed that James was a great baby and cried little.

Almost three weeks later we got a telephone call asking us to come meet with the doctor to discuss the test results.

I remember the day of the appointment. It was a warm day. The bright Spring sun beamed through the large window, illuminating the empty desk before us. The trees outside, now in full leaf, wafted gently in the breeze. The sound of bright bird song fluttered through the air. Inside the room a cold, eerie emptiness prevailed. An old black and white photograph hung on one wall and a poster depicting some aspect of anatomy hung opposite. Along with the desk there was, a small trolley containing an assortment of instruments and medical aids, and a weighing scale. Besides the chairs we sat on there was one other chair, behind the desk. It lay empty, silently waiting in anticipation with Maria and I for the doctor to arrive.

The door opened and in came the woman doctor. She was in her 40s, dark shoulder length hair, her white coat contrasting with the dark clothes beneath. She held a thick file of medical papers in her hands. Sitting down she opened the file on the desk before her. She greeted us cordially. Then she spoke bluntly: “You know why you’re here; I will get right to it. Unfortunately, Maria, the results of the endoscopy shows that you have stomach cancer.”

There was silence in the room. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at Maria and took her hand. Her eyes were also moist, a look of shock on her face. Over the days since the endoscopy, I had finally shared with Maria what I had found on the Internet relating to her symptoms. We had talked about it and worried together. However, neither of us really thought it would be true. Now here in that small room we faced reality. Time seemed to stand still, everything suspended. I struggled to understand my emotions, my thoughts race everywhere. I could only imagine what must have been going through Maria’s mind.

The doctor broke the silence. Maria would have to have a CT scan to ascertain the extent of the cancer. Then they would schedule her for surgery. I cannot remember what else was said that day. It seemed to be a very short meeting and very business like, almost unreal. In just a few minutes our lives seemed to have been turned upside down. Before the meeting we had still been celebrating the birth of our new son, and now death was knocking at the door in a very real way.

Most of us tend to go through life, especially when we are younger, with a certainty that there will be a tomorrow. Day to day there may be changes, but we go to bed each night with an expectation that life, as we generally know it, will be the same when we wake up the following morning. Facing the reality that that may no longer be the case leaves you numb. Your mind goes through a million thoughts at once and yet seems empty. We all know death lies ahead somewhere but when it comes knocking unexpectedly at the door it is always a shock.

Before we realized it the meeting with the doctor was over. We had just received the worst news of our lives and then we were shown the door and left to ourselves. There was no support offered, no help on how to process the news. Just a "you may be dying, we'll call you soon to arrange more test." I remember finding out weeks later that the doctor was supposed to have provided us with details of support and counseling services, and felt immense anger that she had overlooked doing so, and had left us to fend for ourselves in processing it all.

As we left the hospital building and walked back to the car, neither of us knew what to say. The silence was almost unbearable, but neither of us had the means to express our thoughts or share our feelings.

1. The Pregnancy

It was late 2001, when we found out that Maria was expecting our fourth child, and we both were excited and knew this one was going to be another boy long before we had the first scan. His name had been picked out long ago, James, after my maternal Scottish grandfather. We were both excited for this latest addition to our family, who was due to be born the following May. But as the weeks progressed, Maria had begun not feeling well. It was hard to put our finger on any particular thing but it began turning into her most difficult pregnancy.

Our oldest daughter, Moyra, was coming up to her 7th birthday, while our other two, Lucas and Alexandra, were 3 and 1 respectively. They all were great kids, but, being so young, could be a handful to look after. I was running my own IT and Internet consulting company at the time. The business was small and it had been hard work striking out on my own, but I enjoyed the freedom of being my own boss. That year though, the dot com bubble burst, companies, that had previously been falling over each other to get on the Web, suddenly paused and stepped back, new investment dried up and things had slowed way down. With Maria's difficult pregnancy, and business being slow, I took the decision of closing the business, temporarily, to become a full-time father for a few months. Maria certainly need to relieve the stress the pregnancy was causing, and I only anticipated it being a few months until after the baby was born, then I'd be back at work. It was great that I had the flexibility, being self-employed, to do that and was only too happy to help out. It certainly would not have been as easy as an employee. Life though, has a way of not working out the way you anticipate.

As the pregnancy progressed so did Maria’s problems. She started developing a pain in her chest. The pain progressed beyond a mild discomfort and she started visiting with the doctor about it - on multiple occasions. Our doctor at the time was a short Indian man, Dr Shah. He was a pleasant individual, but like many general practitioners in the United Kingdom, was overworked, and while he was nice enough, you often felt like he was just anxious to get on to the next patient. Each visit Maria made to see him resulted in the same answer. The doctor put the problem down to indigestion and heart burn, common with pregnancies, and his remedy was to simply try anti-acid medication. Maria felt like his attitude at times was almost: "You're pregnant! Of course you've got indigestion, go away and stop bothering me." But the problems continued and worsened as the pregnancy developed.

Despite her difficulties, everything else connected with the pregnancy had been going fine and the baby was healthy. As May rolled round, everything had been planned and prepared, and we excitedly awaited the birth. Then just a week before he was due Maria seemed to take a turn for the worse. She started vomiting, and had been concerned with what was being brought up. Maria was always the one that tended to over worry. The first day she vomited, I dismissed it, she had been eating black grapes and surely that was what the source of the dark content in her vomit. The second day again I dismissed it; then, she had been eating malt loaf. The third day we could no longer ignore the black, tar-like substance she had been bringing up. We had decided to speak to the visiting mid-wife about it when she came for her scheduled visit later that day. We had gone out earlier in the day, and due to the London traffic had been late getting home. By the time we arrived home that Wednesday evening, the midwife had been and gone. Not wanting to delay talking to someone about it any longer, we called the maternity unit at the local hospital, and explained what was going on. The maternity staff didn't hesitate and asked Maria to come down for an immediate examination. The hospital was about five or ten minutes from our home, but Maria had packed a bag, feeling she would not be coming back home that night. We quickly arranged for someone to come and watch our other children and headed to the hospital.

As Maria described what had been happening over the previous three days, there was obvious concern among the medical staff and, as Maria had anticipated, they asked that she be admitted for observation. At this stage we  were both beginning to worry. The medical staff were saying little and seemed unsure as to the cause but wanted to observe things and if possible get a sample of what Maria had been bringing up.

The following day she seemed fine and the vomiting had stopped. The doctors seemed to be of the opinion that she might have a gallstone and had planned to send her for an ultrasound scan, but that had been clear. 

The following afternoon George had arrived to see her. George, a South American doctor from the general surgery department, had thick black hair and just as thick an accent. He wore a ready smile that beamed out at you. Being a born-again-Christian his approach had been a little different. He had told Maria that he was there not as her doctor but as her brother. I remember feeling initially upset at that, thinking a doctor is what we need. But George knew his stuff.

It was George who had first suggested that Maria was having problems with her stomach. He was anxious to have her under go an endoscopy as soon as possible and had begun scheduling her in. When the maternity staff heard, they had gone up the wall and verbally tore into him, telling him he was not touching her until after the baby had been born. That is when the decision was made to induce Maria.

They schedule to start inducing her couple of days later at 7 am. All our children had been born in the late evening or early morning and I must admit I was looking forward to finally having a child born during the day. Mother nature had her own ideas however and James eventually arrived sometime after midnight, on May 14th. Once delivery started, everything seemed to be going well, until the head appeared and the maternity staff realized the cord was wrapped around his neck. He came out looking a dark shade of purple. As soon as the cord was cut they whisked him out of the room leaving us waiting and wondering what was happening. Ten minutes later he was brought back in looking a normal healthy color.

The following day Maria had been looking through her medical file and found a note written at the time of birth: “Baby died, given oxygen.” We were totally floored that things had been that serious and no one had said anything. We both started worrying if there would be any lasting effects. Finally Maria asked one of the nurses about it and she was as surprised as we were. She asked to see the notes and read the entry. “Oh, that should say ‘Baby dried,’” she told us, turning and walking out. What a spelling mistake to make I thought. With everything else going on, it had been a stress and worry we could have done with out.

Beginnings

Early in 1992, I was feeling a little down. My 31^st birthday had been just a couple of weeks earlier, and there I was still single and not knowing what to do with life. I had not even been dating anyone for a while at that stage. The Mormon culture, in which I had grown up, while it does not mean to be, tends to give older singles a feeling of second-class citizens. They even had a unique term for those unmarried and over 31 – “special interest”. They later realized how much of a stigma that term created and ended up referring to those over 31 as single adults, and those under as young single adult. However, the stigma was still there – you are now old and still single. There is an often-used quote among Mormons from Brigham Young, one of the early church leaders, something along the lines that single men over 25 are a menace to society. I was also part of a singles congregation in London, the Britannia Ward, and had been since I moved to London some six years earlier. That was about to change too though, as it only catered for those up to the age of thirty, so my remaining official time there was going to be short-lived.

Do not get me wrong, I was not feeling down about being single just because of the Church, but it did not help to have that constant reminder that somehow you were failing. I had often said I was a family man without a family. And being single was not from want of trying, indeed with four previous engagements, some thought I was trying too hard – but that is a totally different story for a different day. There were also other things going on in my life that had me wondering just what was in store for me and what I should be doing. All this had been weighing down on me for a while by that time.

One of the things we tend to do as Mormons when we are feeling down or concerned about something is to seek a blessing. So, this particular Sunday I had sought out my bishop and asked if he would give me a blessing of comfort and counsel, as they call it. I had not explained why I was seeking the blessing but left it up to the spirit to guide his words. During the blessing, he mentioned that that year I would find my companion. But, it did not stop there. He went on to indicate that she would be someone close by.

Now there is something you have to understand about LDS singles wards. These special congregations were organized as a way to bring single people together, with the ultimate goal of getting them all married off. In reality, it worked totally opposite. People in the ward tended not to date other people in the ward. There was almost a stigma to doing so. Truth be known, if you even showed interest in someone else, the gossip machine went to work and before the week was out you were already married off in people’s minds. I know at least one person who would only date girls in the ward on the condition of total secrecy because of it.

The implication from the blessing that my future companion might be someone in the ward was an almost horrifying thought. Nevertheless, I decided I had better give it serious consideration. So, for the next few Sundays, I sat towards the back of the chapel during the Sunday service and rather than paying attention to the service, I started surveying the girls in the congregations, going through each, one at a time, and considering the possibilities. Many I had known for a long time and I could quickly cross off the list as not being right. Others simply seemed not a good match for me. There were some possibilities but no one that really stood out. That is, not until one girl I noticed.

This particular girl had been in the ward at least a few months but I had never had a chance to speak to her. She was good looking, of a darker, and what I presumed Latin American, complexion. Her hair fell a few inches below her shoulders and was dark but not quite black in color. Her brown eyes sparkled, especially when she smiled, something that seemed to come easily to her. Along with her attractive figure, she always appeared stylishly dressed but with a classic look. Her pose seemed confident and she seemed to be out going and friendly with those around her.

A few months earlier I had been helping out a Brazilian friend in the ward with a business plan. As he was leaving that night, he mentioned that he wanted to introduce me to his sister. I was uncertain who his sister was but had a vague idea and expressed interest. However, nothing ever became of it and a few weeks later, this friend disappeared without ever introducing us. I later found out he had moved to America. Now, as I noticed this girl sitting in church, I realized that this was probably the sister previously mentioned.

Another thing you need to understand is that when it comes to talking to strangers, especially female ones, I have always initially been terribly shy. Once I have gotten to know someone it is a different matter. However, that first hurdle has always been a huge one for me, so simply walking up to her and introducing myself was out of the question.  So, I started looking for ways I might cross paths with her.

Over the next few weeks whenever I noticed her at church talking to someone I knew, I would go and try to join in the conversation. I discovered that indeed this was my Brazilian friend’s sister and that her name was Maria. That was about all I managed to find out though. On each occasion I joined a conversation like this, within a few minutes she would excuse herself and leave. Sometimes I managed to exchange a few words with her. One time we even managed to converse for about five minutes before she again excused herself and left. It happened that often that I was sure she was deliberately avoiding me. At the very least, it certainly was not encouraging and slowly my interest began to dwindle.

By now, we were through most of the year and it was October, October 25^th to be exact. In the meantime, my membership had been moved to one of the normal family congregations. However, because of my church assignment I travelled among all the congregations in the northern half of London. Most Sundays I attended one of the normal congregations in the morning, then in the afternoon would attend the singles congregation because of the social aspect. This particular Sunday I was feeling very tired after the morning services and decided I would skip going to the singles ward that afternoon and instead go home and take a nap.

After an hour or so sleeping, I had woken up feeling somewhat refreshed. The house was empty; my two roommates, who both attended the singles ward, were out. As the afternoon progressed, I began to feel a little lonely. I usually prided myself on Sundays with either having people over for dinner or being invited somewhere for dinner. Being home, alone on Sunday just did not feel right. And given there was not much to eat in the house, I decided I would head down for the end of the meetings at the singles ward and see if I could find someone willing to invite me over for dinner.

After the meetings had ended, I wandered around talking with various friends, dropping hints here and there, but no one seemed interested in feeding me that day. It was not long before most people had left and I was without an invite anywhere and was just about to head home again. It was then that I once more noticed Maria. She stood a little ways away talking to a Colombian girl, Patricia. I had briefly chatted with Patricia a couple of weeks earlier, and so I thought I would give talking to Maria another try, and wandered over to say hi. Patricia had not long been in Britain and her English was very limited. Maria, coming from Brazil, spoke Portuguese but also had learnt Spanish, which is very similar. Since Patricia was struggling to understand me and to make herself understood, Maria began operating as our interpreter. Now one thing about someone acting as an interpreter for two others is that it is very difficult to include them in the conversation directly. My idea to try and talk with Maria was just not working out.

As I spoke with Patricia though, it turned out her boyfriend, Renee, was one of the clerks and they were waiting for him to be finished recording all the donations that week, hence why they were still there. Once he was finished, they were heading to her sister’s for dinner. The sister lived in the southern half of London. When I heard that, my scheming mind got thinking, “Play your cards right Craig, and you may still get yourself a dinner invite.” The congregation met in the center of London, and not too many people drove into London given they had such a good transport system. As a result, I tended to be one of the few people in the ward that had a car. When Patricia’s boyfriend was finished, I offer to give them a lift to her sister’s. At first they were hesitant to accept, since they were headed the opposite direction than I would be. After reassuring them that it was not a problem, they happily agreed.  

When we reached the car Patricia and Renee climbed into the back seat, Maria climbed into the front and we set off. With Maria sat next to me, and nowhere to go, we finally started our first real conversation. Given my previous experiences, I was pleasantly surprised at how easily the conversation flowed and how interactive she seemed to be.

As we drove, I was hoping to hear Patricia invite me to join them at her sister’s place, especially as Maria seemed to be so comfortable interacting with me. However, as we got nearer, there was no mention of joining them. Finally, we arrived at the location and I had lucked out on any invitation for dinner. I remember thinking, “oh well, it was worth a try.” As I pulled up Patricia and Renee got out of the car but Maria sat put. Confused, I asked if she was not going with them, to which she informed me she was not. She had just assumed my offer of a ride had applied to all of them, while I had assumed they were all heading to the same place.

It turned out Maria lived in the center of London at the YWCA, which was not too far from where we had first started. At least now, it was sort of on my way as I headed home. As we drove, our conversation once again picked up and seemed to be going very well. As we neared her place, I decided I would take the plunge and asked her what she was planning that evening. When she replied that she had nothing planned, I asked if she would like to go for dinner. After an initial hesitation, she agreed but insisted we stopped at an ATM so she could get some money to pay for herself.

We headed into China Town off Leicester Square in central London. It is an area populated with Chinese shops and restaurants. There was one little restaurant there I had wanted to try for a while. It was a little off the beaten path but I had passed it on a number of occasions. I cannot remember the name of the place, but do remember it being on the corner of the block with yellow walls. It was quite busy that evening, filled mainly with native Chinese customers. That is always a good indicator that the food is authentic. There were no seats available on the ground floor and so we went up stairs and the waiter seated us at the far end.

I have no idea what we ordered that night, or what our conversation consisted of. However, it went on for many hours, long after most other customers had come and gone and the place emptied. It surprised me how easy our conversation flowed, given the many failed attempts to engage her in conversation in the past.  Finally though, the restaurant was closing and we had to leave. Returning to the car it took just a short drive back to the YWCA. I pulled up across the road parking in front of the high railings of the British Museum. It must have been around 10:30 or 11pm by that time. The conversation was still flowing and neither of us seemed inclined to end it any time soon.

Throughout the evening, I had found myself drawn even more to this wonderful woman. I found her eyes mesmerizing, her voice soothing, and her smell intoxicating. I felt very comfortable with her, something that tends to be rare with me. Added that she seemed to be enjoying my company as well, it was feeling like it had been a great date.

All evening I had this growing urge to kiss her. Now as we sat in the car talking my mind got to thinking that if I did not end up kissing her, chances were we would simply say good night and nothing would ever come of this. Or at the very least we would be back to square one. I thought that if only I could kiss her it would cement what seemed to be a developing relationship.

Now some men are very forward with engaging with women, others, myself included, like to be a little more subtle in our approach. Oh I know, you girls know what we are up to, but we at least like to think we are being subtle about it. I remember finding out from a friend a few years before, who dated the same girl as I had, that she would get excited whenever I took my glasses off and put them down because she knew I was about to kiss her. At the time, I totally thought I was being subtle, taking them off a few minutes earlier than I intended to kiss her. However, she knew exactly what I was doing all along. But that, is another story as well.

With these thoughts going on, I was sitting there trying to think how I could slyly work towards placing myself in a position to kiss her. The difficulty was that she was sitting on the opposite side of the car with her back to the door. There was just no way to slide into a position where moving in for a kiss would seem natural. Indeed, the only way it could happen would be to launch myself all the way across the car at her, and that just was not going to take place.

Finally, realizing is was now around 12:30am, Maria announced that she ought to be going. She thanked me for an enjoyable evening, opened the door, put one foot out on the kerb, and was about to get out when she hesitated. Turning back towards me, she asked if it would be okay if she gave me a parting kiss as they do in Brazil. I replied certainly, and she leaned over and gently kissed me on the cheek three times. Even that brief touch felt wonderful. Being that close, I inhaled the rich smell of her perfume. My senses soared. Then just as quickly, she pulled back and moved to get out of the car again. However, that moment was too much to bear. Quickly grabbing her arm to stop her, I uttered what must have been one of the corniest lines I have ever used. I told her “Now let me show you how we kiss in England,” and pulled her towards me, planting a kiss firmly on her lips. I could feel her initial surprise as our lips came together and her body tensed momentarily. Then almost immediately, the tension dissipated and I felt her melting in towards me. As we continued with that kiss, a moment later I heard the car door close. There we remained in each others’ arms for another two hours before she finally did leave.

As I drove home that night, I felt like I was in a wonderful dream. I am sure I had a smile on my face right through the night and into the next day.

In the morning heading to work, I discovered Maria had left her scarf in my car. I picked it up. It was soft, made of cashmere, with some sort of dark green tartan pattern on it. But, more importantly it smelled of Maria. As I drove around for the next three days, before seeing her again, I would often pick the scarf up to smell it and remind me of her and our first date.

Now while all this had been going on with me, I later found out that over the previous six months Maria had also been interested in me. She first spotted me at a church meeting where I was helping to set up chairs. Initially she had thought I was married and had felt guilty about being attracted to me. Later, discovering I was in fact single, she began asking about me from people that knew me. Ironically, none of those people ever said anything to me.

When I found this out my immediate reaction was why on earth had she excused herself on all those occasions I had tried to make conversation with her? And here is where that strange women’s logic comes in, or perhaps it was just Maria’s logic. Maria had only come to Britain about two years earlier at the invite of her brother. When she first came here, she had not spoken a word of English. She arrived on a student visa which entailed her registering at an English language school, but like many foreigners coming into the country on student visas, she had actually attended very few of the classes, concentrating instead on working. However, even in her work environment, most of those she worked alongside were not English speakers. As a result, although she had learnt both Spanish and Italian since moving here, her English was still limited, and she felt embarrassed it was not good enough.

On those occasions I had tried talking with her, while she had actually been very much interested, that embarrassment of her English had made her worry that it would put me off. So rather than risk me not being interested because of what she felt was her poor English, she simply avoided talking to me altogether. All I could do when I heard that, was to shake my head.

Engagement Photo

Over those previous six months, Maria had even made me a subject of her prayers, hoping that by some divine intervention something would work out between us. The Sunday morning that we ended up going to dinner she had knelt down and told God that she had spent all this time praying about me, and that if nothing worked out that day she would know it was not meant to be and would begin the process of moving back to Brazil. When she had arrived at church that Sunday, she searched across the congregation looking for me and not finding me there thought that must be her answer. Little did she know that I had arrived late and that we would end up at dinner together that night.

Four days later, we had gone Latin dancing together. We then saw each other several more times that and the following week. During that week, Maria had called her brother, now in Florida, to tell him that she had met someone special. While she was trying to tell him this news, he was trying to tell her about someone in London she should meet. When the two of them eventually worked out what each was saying, they discovered they were in fact referring to the very same person, me.

Both Maria and I knew from the beginning of seeing each other that this was a relationship that was meant to be. Within two weeks of that first evening together, we became engaged and were married three months later on February 27^th, 1993. I will be forever grateful that she came into my life and for the love that we shared.