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Left to die

A tumour the size of a football- yet docs said my Terri was just stressed...


Published by: Tiffany Sherlock
Published on: 3 November 2011

My daughter Terri came through the front door wheezing like a pair of old bellows. I rushed out to the hallway to meet her, grabbed the shopping bags from her. ‘You all right, Terri?' I frowned.
‘I'm fine,' she sighed. But then she slumped in a chair and gave a second, bigger sigh.
‘I'm not fine - I feel terrible.'
Terri was only 34, and usually so full of beans. Whenever I visited, she was always laughing with her boyfriend Steve.
And when she was with her kids...! She positively lit up around Connor, 15, Leah, 12, and Zak, nine.
‘Who wants to make brownies?' she'd grin. Zak and Leah were first with their hands in the air. But even a reluctant Connor would join in. ‘You'll always be my baby,' she'd tease, dabbing mixture on his nose.
I'd never known a more devoted mum, but then she'd always had a massive heart. It's why she adored her job in a care home, making old people laugh with her daft jokes and taking off Bono with her singing.
But she'd been breathless and exhausted for weeks now, with stabbing chest pains. ‘Have you seen a doctor yet?' I asked.
‘He says it's just panic attacks.'
‘Well, you've been through the mill over the years,' I pointed out.
Her dad Joseph had died aged 39 in a devastating industrial accident when she was only 13. Then she'd split from her first partner while pregnant with Leah, and Steve had recently survived a car crash. ‘Just try to relax,' I reassured her.
So Terri tried, as the doctors treated her for depression, arranged counselling. But every week she was telling the GPs about the latest symptoms - palpitations, swollen glands, infections, exhaustion...‘Something's wrong, but they're still insisting it's stress!' Terri cried. ‘How can I relax?'
After seven months, I was worried, too. ‘Terri's looking so thin,' I fretted to my husband Roy, 57. ‘And her breathing's worse.'
I urged her to ask for an x-ray, but the doctors did nothing.
Then one afternoon, my daughter Stephanie, 38, phoned my mobile while I was out shopping with Roy. ‘Terri's been admitted to hospital,' she said.
Abandoning the shopping, we rushed up there. ‘What happened?' I begged.
‘I went back to the doctors and saw a locum,' she explained. ‘The minute he looked at my notes, he had me admitted for tests. I knew
it wasn't my nerves!'
She looked more triumphant than scared. ‘Now they'll find out what's wrong,' she said.
Finally, our nightmare was coming to an end. Three days later, I visited her with the kids. But her triumphant smile had faded. ‘I've, umm, I've got a tumour the size of a football inside my chest, Mum,' Terri said, squeezing my hand.
I stared at her x-ray, speechless. The huge mass was squashing her heart and lungs. No wonder she couldn't breathe.
‘How the hell did your doctors miss that?' I raged. ‘One x-ray would have found it.'
‘I'll sue them all,' Terri said grimly. But then she smiled. ‘They're sure it's benign, and can easily be removed. I'll be back to my old self in no time.'
She looked so happy, full of hope, that it put all our minds at rest. By the next day, she was making plans for the future. ‘After this op, I'll throw a massive party for my 35th birthday!' she said.
We were laughing and joking when the surgeon came over. ‘There's only a two per cent chance of serious complications.'
‘See, it's no worse than me getting my bunions done!' I grinned, as Terri cackled.
On the day, Steve dropped the kids at school, then we gathered around the hospital bed. Steph was there with my twin boys Ryan and Rhys, 25. Just before she was about to go into theatre, I felt my eyes well up with tears.
‘Are you crying Mum?!' Terri laughed. ‘Don't worry, this surgeon's the best.'
‘I know, I'm being daft,' I said.
A quick kiss goodbye, then I watched her giggle with the nurses as they wheeled her off to theatre.
Soon, she'd be well again.
We went back to mine where I put the kettle on, relaxed - until a frantic call at 4pm. ‘I'm a nurse at the hospital,' a woman cried. ‘Come quickly! Terri's struggling.'
We all raced to Coventry University Hospital. Please be okay. But instead of being allowed to see her, we were taken to a little room. ‘Terri developed a severely abnormal heartbeat,' a doctor said. ‘We tried to resuscitate her, but I'm afraid she passed away.'
In that moment, my whole world stopped. I saw the twins howling, punching the walls. I saw Steve, Stephanie and Roy hugging and weeping. Me? I just stood frozen amid the chaos.
‘Do you want to see her?' the doctor asked. I nodded numbly, and he led me and Roy into a private room where Terri lay in a crisp, white bed.
I crossed the threshold reluctantly and stared in disbelief. So many agonising questions ran through my mind. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.
But I wanted to feel close to her. So I kissed her forehead, and Roy did the same.
‘Come on, love,' he whispered, gently leading me away. We drove to Steve's, where the children lay exhausted from crying on the sofa. Their eyes were so full of pain.
‘Why did Mum die?' they wept.
The question tortured me, too. ‘I don't know,' I croaked.
But by the time 500 family and friends packed the local church for Terri's funeral, fury had broken through my shock.
Most of our family funerals had been cremations, but I couldn't face that for my Terri.
As her favourite U2 song Pride played, I wept furious tears. ‘If the doctors had caught this sooner, she'd still be here,' I said.
So why didn't they? The inquest, three months later, revealed that the 1.6kg tumour had been cancerous, but it hadn't spread.
So if she'd survived the op, she'd have been fine. But nobody could say why she'd died.
There were so many dark, terrible days. But sometimes we'd laugh, too. ‘Remember when Terri won £1,000 on the lottery, but lost the ticket?' I chuckled.
‘She finally found it in a vase!' Connor laughed. Those memories - of caravan holidays and crabbing on the beach - kept us going.
On Terri's 35th birthday, five months after she died, we threw a massive party at the Swan pub in Bedworth, just like she'd wanted. The whole town came, and there were bands, raffles, and a bucking bronco. We raised £10,000 for Cancer Research. ‘Happy birthday, Terri!' I toasted her.
But she should have been there, celebrating with us. I didn't know where to turn. But when I spoke to the coroner, he suggested I seek some legal advice.
So I hired a top medical law firm, Irwin Mitchell Solicitors, to sue the University Hospital Coventry, and Warwickshire NHS Trust, along with two GPs, who'd constantly dismissed her. ‘This is the last thing I can do for my daughter,' I said. ‘I want answers.'
But before the court case this summer they settled out-of-court, awarding the children a six-figure sum. It was a hollow victory, as no-one admitted liability.
Now, six years after her death, I still miss Terri - her wild laugh, her loving cuddles. And every child, no matter how old, still needs their mum.
Terri would be so proud to see her three now. Leah, 18, and her boyfriend Aiden have a beautiful six-month old daughter, Skye Terri. ‘She has Mum's eyes,' Leah smiles.
I know Terri would have burst with pride. She'd have loved seeing Connor, 20, as lead singer in his indie-rock band, too. And Zak, 15, is such a kind and polite young man.
It breaks my heart Terri's not here to watch them blossom.
I'd return every penny of compensation and more if it would bring my dazzling daughter back for just one day.
Janine Dennis, 58, Bedworth, Warwickshire