I Remember Mandy
Do you remember Mandy?
If you ever met my daughter, Shani, when she was little,
then you might also remember the slight, bright, pretty young woman who
accompanied Shani on play-dates, helped to run a local play group and spent a
lot of time standing outside The Gatehouse School, chatting to young mothers
and fellow nannies while she waited for Shani to come running out, full of news
and trailing the usual detritus of Kindergarten…
Her shiny black shoulder-length hair seemed to bounce and
quiver with the very energy that she poured into every daily chore. Her thick, glossy fringe framed dark, intelligent
eyes that noticed and evaluated everything; Judged but never condemned. Ever the consummate professional, Mandy
steered our amateur parental meanderings onto a firm, straight path: naps, mealtimes,
outings… sorted. Mandy soon established
herself at the hub of our domestic lives, the solid granite bedrock at the
centre of a maelstrom of assaults from the outside world: school bullies,
sudden illness and loss of work.
Mandy held firm views: She deplored gossip and rather
avoided the regular nanny get-togethers, feeling that the children’s needs were
neglected on such occasions. Mandy
preferred to throw herself into the child’s world of exploration and
imagination; Creativity and play.
Mandy was never critical.
Whatever she thought privately of my choices as a mother, as I clung to
and hovered over my late-in-the-day and unexpected offspring, a sad hen with
but one chick, diplomacy never failed her.
Only once did she venture to veto a decision of mine and urged me to
allow Shani to start school: ‘She wants to go, she needs to be with the other
kids!’ And of course, she was right.
Mandy stayed for almost ten years. I think she must have decided to go when Shani’s
shoe-size overtook her own. Job done. She left, we hoped, to find happiness and fulfilment
elsewhere. Always a private person, we
had somehow managed to gather that Mandy’s childhood had been overshadowed by
adult depression, and that she alone had provided her little brother with the
love and support he needed. Her first
marriage ended in appalling tragedy and, though in her early thirties, we still
felt confident that she could in time find her way into the life that she was
so eminently suited for: a loving partner, a brood of children, a home of her
own. She deserved nothing less, surely?
Mandy travelled, moved jobs, moved locations, but she always
stayed in touch. When she finally met
the love of her life we were happy, when her little boy was born we were
thrilled but there seemed to be a curse on Mandy…One day the father of her longed
–for child went to work and failed to return. Casually slaughtered by a
careless driver, he left Mandy, numb with grief, to fight fruitlessly in the
arcane legal arenas of insurance, actuaries, appeals and procrastination,
trying to secure some part of the compensation their child was surely entitled
to as he screamed in vain for his daddy night after night…?
How much courage should one person have to find? How much pain should one person be expected
to endure? When Mandy tested positive
for cervical cancer after a routine scan a couple of years later, I was merely
relieved that at least ‘They’ had found it.
Treatment would follow as night follows day, wouldn’t it? All would be well…wouldn’t it? Mandy’s little boy has just celebrated his
eighth birthday and cannot remember his mother ever being well.
Mandy has survived mis-diagnosis, mislaid records, mismanaged
treatment and all the flak a large, well-meaning but unmanageable organisation
like the NHS can put in the way of a vulnerable patient. And, Oh how the actuaries have gathered,
waiting to see if Mandy will die before they are forced to pay out something for
her little boy.
For years Mandy has restricted herself to the very expensive
‘cancer diet’ in a bid to prolong her life as much as possible. Determined to starve the tumour of the sugar
it craves, Mandy ekes out her meagre sickness benefit to pay for the ‘superfoods’
and supplements known to slow the growth of tumours – a regime that neither her
doctors nor the NHS in general seem able to support, as anyone who has
witnessed hospital mealtimes can attest.
Frequent hospital admissions for procedures only sap her precious energy.
Above all, Mandy needs to live. She cannot leave her son alone in the world.
Do you believe in happy endings? Who amongst us is immune to the lure of the Hollywood
narrative with a closure that satisfies our longing for balance and
justice? The bad are punished and the
deserving rewarded. Right? Recently, Mandy found out about a treatment
in Mexico that could keep her alive long enough to see her little boy grow
up. It’s not available here, of
course. All she has to do is raise
£60,000*. And get herself to Mexico…All
we have to do, the people whose lives she’s touched or brushed by, is help her
to get there.
Thank you for reading this.
Maggie Carroll
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