From Medicine to Miracle: How My Faith Overcame Cancer
The incredible story of how one doctor won her own personal battle against cancer through the power of prayer.Mary Self was first diagnosed with bone cancer in 1983 and underwent above-knee amputation and intensive chemotherapy. Believing that she had beaten the disease she went on to complete her studies in medicine, married her college sweetheart and, in defiance of medical assertions that she was sterile, gave birth to two beautiful children.In February 1999 however, her nightmare was to return as cancer once again ravaged her body. After surgery to remove an affected part of her lung, investigations revealed another tumour in her pelvis. Mary was told that the cancer would no longer respond to treatment and that she was terminally ill. She returned home to her family to make final arrangements, and fulfilled a wish to take her son back to Australia to show him where he had been born.After coming home from Australia, Mary's condition rapidly worsened and she was admitted to a hospice for pain control. She asked the elders of her church to visit and pray for her. They in turn asked the members of other churches to pray for Mary. Still in terrible pain she was admitted to the Birmingham bone care unit but told that there was nothing anyone could do for her. In extreme despair, Mary began to drink heavily in an attempt to blot out the prospect of death, she cried out to God for help.Shortly afterward, Mary received a call from the hospital to say that her most recent bone scan showed a shrinking of the tumour. Over the next three weeks the symptoms vanished and the pain disappeared. When she returned to Birmingham for a repeat bone scan the test was completely clear! The doctors were amazed and agreed that there was no medical explanation for her complete recovery. When she suggested to her specialist that the healing had occurred because of the prayers made on her behalf, he could only reply, 'I'll buy that!'This is a remarkable and uplifting story of how one woman looked into the face of death and survived. Her courage and faith are inspirational.
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from MEDICINE to MIRACLE
HOW MY FAITH
OVERCAME CANCER
Dr Mary Self and Rod Chaytor
CONTENTS
I didn’t die I lived.’
And now I’m telling the world what God did.
God tested me, He pushed me hard,
But He didn’t hand me over to Death.’
Extract from Psalm 118, ‘The Message’ version
‘Trust you, Little Lady, to be different!’ exclaims Mr Peach. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything else from a doctor’s daughter, though!’
I look into the eyes of an expert. He gives me a broad smile and turns to my father who has brought me to hospital. They begin an earnest conversation in hushed tones, using unfamiliar words. I listen for a while, not wanting to be excluded. I hear snatches of words that sound important but I don’t know what they mean. I do not really understand the atmosphere of alarm I have created since I told my dad about the lump on my leg.
I just feel relieved they have not mentioned the dreaded ‘C word. I push the thought from my mind. I don’t know anyone young with cancer. Seventeen-year-olds don’t get cancer, so I switch off and daydream. I seize the opportunity to examine the room of this kind and clever doctor whom I already hold in the greatest of awe. Tall, strong and imposing, he seems to fill the room completely and yet his manner is so gentle. I like to be called ‘Little Lady’. It means he sees me as an adult. Yet underneath the surface I am as scared as only a child can be.
It is Boxing Day 1982. We are in Mr Peach’s office at the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool. It is large and square with a solid desk in the centre. A grinning life-sized skeleton stands sentinel in the corner. Interesting pictures of bones and joints line the walls. I recognize some of the names from my years as a nursing cadet in the St John Ambulance Brigade and I look dreamily around as I long for the day when I, too, will have an office like this.
Mr Peach wakes me from my reverie as he approaches, swinging a small metal hammer. Instinctively, I draw back, my eyes wide with alarm. He laughingly explains: ‘It’s a patella hammer – to examine your knees. Hop on the couch now and let’s see that leg of yours.’
Gingerly I stand and limp over to the examination area. My left knee is now so painful that my ‘hop’ is stiff and awkward.
Deftly, Mr Peach examines my knee. He tells me what he is doing and I feel proud when he acknowledges that I will have to learn to do this soon. He knows I want to be a doctor. I flinch as his hands encounter the lump I discovered on my leg two days before. I see a concerned look spreading over his face and my heart misses a beat. Why is everybody so twitched about this thing?
‘So tell me how you found this, then,’ he asks me, prodding my knee.
‘I went for a jog, and when I came back my leg was hurting. Then I noticed the skin was red and warm and I could feel this lump.’
‘So it has never hurt you before, then?’
‘Yes, maybe a couple of times over the last few months, but it has never hurt as much as this before and I only noticed the lump on Christmas Eve.’
I think back to the first time I became aware of the throbbing pain in my knee …
It was a perfect autumn day, although late in the season. The sort that stands out in the memory with all its bright colours and bonfire smells. All Saints’ Day, 1 November 1982, and my younger sister Helen – known as Hellie – and I took a break from revising for our examinations. We had been working companionably at our studies, she for her O levels and me for my A levels, for many months now. We had settled into a pleasant routine of sitting together, surrounded by our books, taking turns to make each other hot drinks. We had grown very close since our older sister, Frances – who I call Franny – left for physiotherapy training college. We had earned some time off so Mum and Dad planned this half-term trip to the Lake District for a treat. We awoke with an impatience and urgency to be away from the dreaded revision, only to be told by Mum and Dad: ‘We’ll leave straight after Mass.’
Hellie and I looked at each other conspiratorially. She is much braver than me, so she always does the talking.
‘Oh, Mum,’ she moaned, ‘do we have to go to Mass today?’
‘Yes,’ Mum replied, in her no-arguments voice. ‘It’s a holy day today.’
Hellie and I pulled long faces at each other before she started to dig me in the ribs, fighting for the most room at the mirror to complete her tedious make-up routine. She can be very vain and spends ages looking after her appearance. Laughing together, we set off for Mass and then to enjoy our day out.
We knew that trying to dodge Mass was a long shot anyway. My family are Catholics, really strict Catholics. Our lives have been punctuated by Holy Communion and confirmation services and Holy Days of Obligation for as long as I can remember. We are never allowed to miss Mass, ever. It is written in tablets of stone. We all go to the eleven o’clock service every week, no exception. Especially now that Martin, my big brother, has stopped going to church and there has been a really big deal about it. He says that there is no such thing as God and my mum is very upset about the whole thing.
