"This could be my last year"
Pamela Cross, 54, has chronic heart failure; a condition that could take her life at any time. Here she tells her story
When I ring in the New Year
there'll be two thoughts on my mind - celebrating the end of
another year and wondering if I'll live to see the next one. I
have chronic heart failure, a condition that means the heart
can't pump enough blood through the body, and I know I could
die at any time. Doctors have offered to tell me how long I have
left to live, and have told my husband, Mick, 45, and children,
Sinead, 30, and Gavin, 24, but I don't want to know. What I
don't know can't hurt me.
I've had heart problems almost all of my life. I had open heart
surgery at age six and twelve, but the only noticeable trouble I
had was that I would get breathless quickly. However, I led a
perfectly normal life.
In 1979, when I was 24, Sinead was born. Six years later, Mick and
I got married and Gavin was born. I had everything - a perfect
husband, beautiful children and a lovely home. However, as the
children grew up and I got older I found my breathing became
increasingly strained. By 1999, I couldn't do much for more
than a minute without having to stop and catch my breath. It
started preventing me from leaving the house and, as I was
constantly exhausted, I spent more and more time just sitting. I
felt both isolated and physically awful.
After years of struggling with my health, my GP referred me to
Royal Hallamshire Hospital, Sheffield in early 2003. There I was
diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension, which causes increased blood
pressure within the workings of the heart leading to shortness of
breath, dizziness, fainting and heart failure.
Doctors explained that even with medication, the condition would
shorten my life considerably. I couldn't believe it; I went
through a gamut of emotions, from anger, to fear, to despair. It
seemed grossly unfair; I was too young to die and didn't
deserve it.
Telling Mick was awful, I felt I'd let him down. I couldn't
face telling the children myself and he did it for me just a few
hours after he'd learnt the news.
I was given several medications to take daily and also had to use a
nebuliser, a machine that creates a mist of medicine that is
breathed in through a mask, up to seven times a day. However,
despite treatment, my symptoms worsened and in June 2003 doctors
told me it was just a matter of time before it took my life.
A year later, a health visitor recommended I visit the day centre
at the Marie Curie Hospice, Bradford. At first I was confused as I
thought the charity only dealt with cancer patients, but then it
was explained to me that they'd care for anyone suffering with
a terminal illness. Regardless, I was appalled; I had visions of
the hospice being full of older people, sitting around, miserable.
It was Mick who persuaded me to go in the end. He thought it'd
be good for me to get out of the house and promised me I
wouldn't have to go back if I didn't like it.
I first visited the hospice day centre in June 2004 and
couldn't believe how wrong I was. There were people there of
all ages, all in a similar position to me and all happy. We talked
freely about everything. Hearing their stories and thoughts on
dying made me feel less scared. I've been going to the hospice
every Tuesday since that first visit and I look forward to it all
week.
Although I know this could be my last year, I haven't made any
special plans. I won't be climbing a mountain or jetting off to
an exotic clime, I'll just be carrying on as normal and
spending time with my family. I won't say I'm not still
scared about dying, because I am, but I'm also very grateful
for every day I have. Knowing my time is limited has made me
realise how lucky I am.
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