For the Love of Nadia - My daughter was kidnapped by her father and taken to Libya. This is my heart-wrenching true story of my quest to bring her home. Sarah Taylor
stay in hospital for a while but you’ll be coming home soon.’
‘But I don’t feel sick,’ I replied, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Please, Sarah – just do what the nurse says and you’ll soon be home.’
Reluctantly, I agreed to let the nurse carry out the procedure but I was very unhappy. Mum and Dad stayed with me until visiting time was over, but then I was left on my own. I hated the thought of being in hospital, especially so far from home; I was being taken away from my family but, most of all, I didn’t want to be ill. That night I sobbed myself to sleep.
At 1pm, on 8 August 1983 – the fateful day imprinted on Dad’s brain forever more – the doctors diagnosed me with leukaemia. Soon afterwards, they told me I had cancer. I remember asking Dad the one question that he must have been dreading: ‘Daddy, am I going to die?’
He took a deep breath, held my hand and looked me straight in the eye: ‘Sarah, you know it’s possible that you could die, but if you take all your medicine and do as the doctors and nurses tell you, then maybe you’ll be okay.’ He could easily have lied to me in an attempt to reassure me, but that was not his way. It’s not our way.
He has since told me that it was like putting a sword through his own heart.
Right from the onset of my illness, Mum and Dad agreed that they would always tell me the truth, no matter what I asked them. They felt that it was important to be completely upfront with me, in the same way that my hospital consultant, Dr Richard Stevens, had been totally truthful with us.
It must have been one of the hardest things Dad has ever had to do, but his reaction and raw honesty actually helped me to come to terms with my illness and now, in later life, it has fashioned the way I relate to my own daughter. I am completely honest with Nadia and will answer her truthfully, whatever she asks me.
Anyhow, I was now in hospital and this was just the beginning of two weeks of intense medical treatment. At one stage, I spiked a temperature and was put on the critical list. My mum came to stay in special accommodation nearby. Kept isolated to avoid infection, I felt all alone and very miserable too.
The chemotherapy had many side effects; I was constantly vomiting, didn’t eat and was being fed through a drip. I remember waking up and seeing a clump of hair on my pillow. Mum and Dad had talked to me beforehand and warned me that I was going to lose my hair, so I was kind of prepared for it. All the other children on the ward had gone through the same thing, so I expected the same outcome. Very self-conscious about losing my hair, I was concerned about what my school friends would say – I was really worried that I would get teased, too. Would I be bullied for the first time in my life? I was just hoping that, by the time I went back to school, my hair would have all grown back again, but it hadn’t and so I had to wear a headscarf. (In fact, when I did return to school, some eight months after my initial diagnosis, the complete opposite happened: I wasn’t bullied at all and I gained a lot of new friends, who were inquisitive about my look. I think maybe the school had warned them before my return, so they knew what to expect.)
One day, after two weeks of hospitalisation, my mum was in the kitchen preparing my meal, as she always did (I wouldn’t eat the hospital food because it was always cold), and Dad was at my bedside when a nurse approached us. ‘Do you want to go home, Sarah?’ he said to me.
Before I could reply, my dad reacted joyfully: ‘Do we? Do we? I should say so!’
I was so happy about being allowed home but, as I quickly discovered, I still had to attend Christie’s Hospital (also in Manchester) for radiotherapy as a day patient. As it was too far to travel, Mum and I stayed with a family who lived in Manchester and had a son the same age as me. Jonathan also had leukaemia and was a day patient at Christie’s. During this crisis time, our families supported each other and became very close. Tragically, Jonathan contracted pneumonia a few years later and passed away. He was just a young man – I don’t know how his parents ever got over it.
After I was discharged as an outpatient from Christie’s, I had to return to Pendlebury but this time as an outpatient. Once a week, under general anaesthetic, I had a bone marrow test to search for abnormal cells. After a while, the tests were reduced to once a month, then once every two months and eventually once a year. I remember the doctor telling me that, if I was clear from abnormalities six times in a row, then I was officially ‘in remission’. It wasn’t until ten years later, when I was aged seventeen, that I finally received the all-clear, although even to this day I still have an annual bone marrow test.
After five years of my being in remission, Mum and Dad decided to try for another baby and, on 28 July 1989, my sister Stephanie was born. I was so happy that Mum had a girl. This time I didn’t need to be given a doll – I had my very own living doll to play with! I could help dress her up and give her lots of attention. I don’t think Andrew was best pleased that Mum had a girl – he definitely wanted a brother.
Everything started to look up: I was in remission, Stephanie was healthy, my parents were happy, and I was enjoying Rose Bridge High School, my new secondary school. I was regaining my confidence, making new friends and doing quite well academically. Growing up, I was very confident – I would speak my mind and always stand up for what I believed in. I liked to be liked, too, and I had a few friends who I really relied on – I always tried to fit in with the popular kids.
I was in my last year at school when I met my first love, Robert. I was fifteen and he was two years older. My brother Andrew played rugby and Robert’s father was the coach. We had another connection in that our dads were work colleagues. Although my dad approved of Robert and his family, the thought of his little girl having a boyfriend was difficult for him. He didn’t want me to start dating properly until I was sixteen; he also insisted that I was always home for 10pm and warned, ‘Not a minute later, or there’ll be trouble.’ Dad wanted to know where I was at all times and, although it was frustrating, I knew it was for my own good. I’m sure that my being so seriously ill had affected his attitude and made him even more protective of me.
Right from the beginning of our relationship, Robert and I spent a lot of time together. In fact, we were inseparable. Looking back, I think we might have been a bit too devoted to each other and alienated many of our friends, who probably couldn’t bear to be with such an exclusive couple. Eventually, it was only my younger sister Stephanie who would put up with our constant smooching – but only if it meant a day out in Southport or Blackpool!
After leaving school with nine GCSEs, I started work at Ormskirk & District General Hospital on an NVQ course. I earned about £60 a week as a nursing assistant looking after the elderly on a respite ward and I loved the job – I got to meet a lot of nice people. I had various tasks to perform, such as helping with feeding, toileting and bathing, but none of these responsibilities fazed me. Although some of the work wasn’t very pleasant, I just got on with it.
I remember one old man who had just been brought in, who was very unwell. An exceptionally thin, tall man, he was always incredibly polite. He had been a patient before, but this time he was really sick and died a few days later on the ward. I was at his side when he passed away. This was the first time I had actually seen a dead body, let alone witnessed a death. I did all the usual stuff – I cleaned him up and then laid him out. I was then asked to open all the windows, which seemed to me a bit strange, but I was told that it was done to let ‘the bad spirits’ out! Millie Blake, the senior nurse, always insisted it be done after a death and I didn’t want to argue, even though I didn’t really believe in that sort of thing.
I was employed in the hospital for approximately eighteen months and, although the money wasn’t too good, I loved every minute of it. Robert was earning more than me, working for HM Revenue & Customs in the Family Credit section, and suggested that I should apply for a job there. If I’m honest, I would have much preferred to stay on at the hospital and do what I was doing rather than office work, but it was better money. Fortunately, I was successful in my application and, in the same week, I started work as a civil servant, I not only celebrated my eighteenth birthday, but I also passed my driving test. Now that I had a better income,