Blog
358 — Honouring Our Wedding Vows
The
choice I was given on the operating table, and why I refused it
Written 5
September 2026
On 20 November 2018,
somewhere between the anaesthetic and the Intensive Care Unit, I was offered an
end to all my pain.
I said no.
This is why.
* * *
In the previous blog I
wrote about the marriage vows that no one ever heard Margaret and me make.
Soon after those vows,
life became much harder. Margaret did not have cancer in those years,
but terrible events swirled around us every day.
Those vows are the reason
we both stayed alive. They are the reason Margaret was still alive when I had
my open-heart surgery in November 2018.
I have always called that
surgery the Chain Saw Operation. To reach the heart, the surgeons cut through
the breastbone and open the chest. The name is not affectionate. It is
accurate.
I was admitted on Monday
19 November 2018. They operated the next day.
* * *
Outside Kilkenny,
Ireland, 22 August 2018. This small tree is known as the “Raggedy Bush”. Hang
something of your own on it, make a sincere wish while you do, and the wish is
granted. I wished, as hard as I have ever wished for anything, that Margaret’s health
would improve.
England, 1 September
2018 — ten weeks before the Chain Saw Operation.
* * *
On the morning of the
operation, I was wheeled to the reception area outside the theatre. The
anaesthetist put the tubes into my arm, and my ordinary consciousness went out.
I do have memories of what
happened next. I also believe some of those memories were taken from me, by
God, for my own protection.
* * *
I came to a place I did
not recognise, full of clanging noise. I think it was the operating theatre.
Someone told me I would
not have to worry any longer about living in a world where my heart was always
trying to collapse. I believe that was God.
I was given a clear
choice.
I could go on living and
endure everything that was still to come. Or I could take a much easier road to
somewhere else, where there would be no pain at all.
The choice was genuinely
mine. Nobody was going to make it for me. I could live, or I could die, and I
did not have to keep living unless I truly wanted to.
Unlike most near-death
experiences I have read about, there was no bright light. Perhaps that memory
was erased as well. There were no angels. There was no music.
I asked what would happen
to Margaret if I took the easy way.
What I was shown horrified
me.
I refused.
I would not leave her to
face that alone. I told God I was rejecting the offer.
* * *
I will be honest about how close it was. I
wanted to take the easy option. I wanted to let myself die. I had no appetite
left for any more suffering. I had seen far too much.
But I could not leave Margaret to endure on
her own, the things I had just been shown were coming.
* * *
My next clear memory is a
nurse in the Intensive Care Unit, saying my name over and over.
“Mr Hankin! Mr Hankin!”
The pain was beyond
anything I had believed possible.
“Mr Hankin, I want you to
do the hardest thing you have ever done in your life.”
She told me her name. I
forgot it immediately. Then she said it again — the hardest thing I had ever
done in my life.
I had no idea what she
meant.
She wanted me to sit up,
swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand, and then move to a chair an
arm’s length away.
She was not exaggerating.
I got as far as sitting
upright, with her hands ready to catch me, and then I stopped. My right arm was
in the air and I did not know what to do with it. I had to ask her where to put
my hand.
Getting from the bed to
the chair took everything I had. When I sat down there was not a drop of energy
left in me.
A few moments later she
asked me to lever myself up and go back.
* * *
I did all of that because
of our wedding vows.
I would never abandon my
wife while there was anything at all I could still do to help her.
But I also knew, by then,
that our time together was becoming short.
* * *
Margaret loved Ireland, so
I made sure we went back in 2019. It was the last genuinely wonderful trip we
had together.
We had been married twice,
in formal public ceremonies held on the same day at Killashee House in Naas.
That day was 30 July 2009.
Ten years later we
returned to Killashee House for an anniversary dinner on 22 September 2019 and
stayed the night, exactly as we had in 2009.
Killashee House, early
morning, 23 September 2019. Margaret pretended to be annoyed at the camera. I
knew she was thrilled.
* * *
Our guests at the
anniversary dinner, Killashee House, 22 September 2019.
On the night this photo was taken, we believed every person in it was a close friend.
After Margaret was
diagnosed with cancer, everyone in the photo cut off all contact with us. Not one
sent a text. Not one telephoned or sent an email. When Margaret died, not one sent a condolence
card. Margaret’s closest friend in the world (she is in the photo) did not come
to the funeral.
During the three years it
took the cancer to kill her, I tried to hide the effect of our cancellation from
Margaret.
I failed, of course. She
was far too intelligent to not see exactly what was happening.
* * *
Our vows were made with
nobody else listening. There was no congregation, no photographs. There were no
witnesses at all.
We honoured the vows we
made to each other because we meant them.
None of our friends kept
their honoured their friendship. Ours
were the only promises anybody kept.
Comments
Post a Comment