One Chance (21 page)

“I'm fine,” I lied.

“Strange,” the nurse said, looking at the equipment, “your blood pressure and heart rate are telling a different story.”

I shuffled in the bed a little. I wasn't actually all that good at playing the hard man, but I was determined to do my best. The nurse, though, was determined to get an answer.

“On a scale of one to ten, how is the pain?”

I gave my answer considerable thought.

“Ooh . . . about thirty.”

The nurse got me to lean forward so she could check my epidural. She frowned at me.

“Why didn't you press the call button?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn't want to be any trouble.”

The nurse sighed. “The reason you're in pain is that the epidural hasn't been put in properly. You are lying there with precisely zero pain relief. Let me get the pain nurse, and we'll see if we can't get you feeling more comfortable.”

I had visions of a nurse dressed in black leathers and leather gloves, but she wasn't that kind of pain nurse. The decision was made to put me on self-administered morphine, and I was given strict instructions to make sure I gave myself enough of the drug, and not simply suffer in silence. I had been warned that I might
get strange dreams, but this didn't happen—perhaps I didn't take enough! I asked if Julz could visit and was told this shouldn't be a problem since I was now alert and awake.

I ended up staying in the high-dependency unit for a few days, then transferred to a surgical ward while I recovered. I was “nil by mouth” for over a week: I wasn't allowed any food or drink, all my body's essential needs provided for by the drip in my arm. As Murphy's Law would have it, while I was not allowed to eat, every single lunch and dinner on the ward smelled delicious. Steak and mushroom pie, lasagne . . . my mouth was watering, but I wasn't allowed any of it.

At the time of my operation, the Second Gulf War had just started. Being unable to sleep most of the time, I sat there and watched the events as they unfolded. Even when I did get to sleep, it was not undisturbed. The medication I was on, and the fact that I was not eating anything at all, upset my system. I felt very low and was in considerable pain. The latter wasn't helped by the decision to remove the morphine. The nurses had been keeping me under review and had noticed that I didn't take many breaths per minute. One of the undesirable side effects of morphine, they told me, was not breathing often enough and therefore suffering from oxygen deprivation. In fact, I was breathing quite normally for me. As a singer I was used to taking long, deep, slow breaths, and I tried to explain this to them. Their minds were made up, however, and I was moved on to oral painkillers.

Coming off the morphine just made the pain worse. I repeatedly woke up in the night from the agony. The first night it happened, I asked for pain relief, thinking the night nursing staff
would get me painkillers that wouldn't affect my main dose. I thought wrong: the nurse brought forward
half
my next dose, but wrote it up as a full dose. This meant that for the first eight hours of the next day I had no pain relief at all.

It wasn't until the end of my second week on the ward that the pain settled down a little, and I started to get into a more normal routine. The tramadol was starting to be a little more effective, although I still had a fair amount of pain to deal with. I also had to cope with the fact that my wound was open, weeping, and infected. Although I was no longer nil by mouth, the menu had changed and the mouth-watering food I dreamt of had been taken off. Instead of steak pie I was served liver and onions, something I'd had more than enough of as a child.

Eighteen days after entering the hospital, I was discharged into the care of a district nurse. She would help me with medication and with changing dressings. But when I left, I still didn't know whether the tumour was cancerous or not. The relief of good news would not come until several weeks later.

I was determined not to let my illness get in the way of my singing. The day after I was discharged, auditions were being held for the chorus of the Welsh National Opera. If I was honest with myself, I wasn't at all ready. Ian Comboy, my voice teacher, also told me exactly the same thing. As with his comments about taking part in the singing competition in Barcelona, his advice was absolutely right. As with Barcelona, I ignored it. Too late, I thought to myself. I'm outside their rehearsal doors now.

On reflection, it was a mixture of stupidity combined with a good pinch of stubbornness that led me to go ahead with the
audition. It was a stupid thing to do because it could mark my card for the future, and prevent me getting anywhere in subsequent auditions. I also didn't help myself with my selection of music: I had chosen “Che Gelida Manina” and “E Lucevan le Stelle,” even though the letter of invitation indicated that I should pick from different genres. However, most of my music was in Bristol, so this was the only choice I had.

In the rehearsal with the pianist beforehand, I was in very good form and quite confident. But it all fell apart in the audition room. I had used all my energy in preparing and didn't sing well. I made my apologies, explaining that I had only been discharged from hospital the previous day. The panel told me that although they could hear some potential, I should have waited until I was well again before auditioning.

My focus now was getting ready for the production of
Manon Lescaut
; it was only a week before a full weekend of staged rehearsals at Southgate, North London, and I needed to learn my words. I used my Sony microphone to record my voice over the top of José Carreras's and listened to it on repeat. I then got some reference cards and wrote down the libretto again and again until I could write it out without looking at the music score. This was my system for learning lyrics, and remains so to this day.

During the whole time I was rehearsing with Southgate Opera, members of the chorus were kind enough to put me up in their homes, instead of my having to travel back and forth from Wales. One particular family that looked after me very well was the Prior family. They had three cute little girls who would fight over whose Choco Shreddies I would be given.

When they heard my surname, they were immediately
reminded of
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
and Caractacus Potts. I was serenaded by all three to a pitch-perfect performance of “Truly Scrumptious.” The youngest, a very precocious four-year-old, was a huge fan of James Bond music and sang a very sweet version of “Nobody Does It Better.” The people of Southgate Opera treated me very well, and I had a brief but enjoyable time with them.

The rehearsals were quite intensive and not helped by the fact I was still recovering from my operation. I was partway through rehearsing the first love scene with Ruth Kerr, who was playing the title role, when she noticed that something wasn't quite right.

“Oh my God, Paul, you're bleeding!”

I told everyone not to worry and explained that I had an open wound and simply needed to change my dressing. They weren't convinced when I returned, but I was insistent. There was no way I was giving up. I was determined to perform my role in full.

And get through it I just about did. One of each cast's performances was filmed, and in the footage of the finale of act 4, I could be seen limping slightly. This could be considered good acting, as I was meant to be in the desert, dying of thirst. I had succeeded through stubbornness and sheer determination—I was proud of myself.

There were certain sections of my performance that Julz couldn't watch. At one point, the action called for me to kiss Manon. I assured Julz that it was just acting, but she wasn't so sure.

“You don't need to look like you're enjoying it that much, though!” she said with a half smile.

Ian Comboy had suggested I write to music agents and invite them to all the performances. I did, but never heard back from any of them. Despite that, my performance in the role of Chevalier des Grieux was one of the highlights of my life.

I had one final leading role to perform that spring—the bridegroom at my wedding to Julz. Our marriage was to be the culmination of a frantic few months: as well as my time in hospital and the opera productions, we had also been house hunting and had finally found our first home. The house was in central Port Talbot, and though it wasn't in great condition, it was the best we could afford. When we applied for the mortgage, we could only use Julz's income: we didn't know whether my tumour was cancerous or not, and as a result I couldn't get critical illness coverage or life insurance. We had a very nervous wait while our house, which was a repossession, went through its statutory ten-day notice period. After an agonizing wait, we discovered that our offer was the only one accepted within the notice period. We were delighted: it was the last property in the area we could have bought with our budget. Now we could focus on getting married.

The morning that greeted our wedding day, 24 May 2003, was a gloomy one. It threatened rain, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. Along with my best man, Mark Shovelton, with whom I'd worked for years at Tesco, I headed to the church: St. Cynwyd's Church in Llangynwyd, or as it's known in the area, Llan. Next to the church is a monument recognizing one of the most romantic stories in the area. A landowner's daughter was courting a local lad against the will of her father. When her father locked her away, she used leaves and her own blood to write to
her lover. Opposite the church, one of the oldest in Wales, stands the oldest pub in the country, suitably called The Old House. It was one of our favourite pubs for food, and a fitting place for my last pint as a “free man.”

It was time to head over to the church and wait for my beautiful bride. And how beautiful she looked that day, her skin glistening and her long wavy hair resting on her shoulders, as I looked into her eyes. I couldn't believe my good fortune. Here I was, about to marry the girl of my dreams. It was more than I had expected or, to my mind, deserved.

When the time came to say our vows, I felt like I was waiting to go on stage. I had to fight every part of me that wanted to burst into tears. It was all I could do not to break down into a gibbering wreck. Julz, as ever, seemed so much more composed than I was. She had glided gracefully down the aisle, whereas I was concerned I would trip and land on my face. She said her vows, too, with an effortlessness that made me wonder at her composure.

With the vows over came the signing of the registers. This made it official—we were now man and wife! Julz's colleagues at Admiral Insurance had suggested we combine her name and mine to make a double-barrelled surname, but we knew they were joking, really. After all, Mrs. Cooper-Potts would look far too much like Copper-Potts!

While we were signing the registers, Judy Davis, who had played
Aida
in the Bath Opera production, got up to sing “Ave Maria,” accompanied on the organ by Peter Blackwood, Bath Opera's musical director. After I finished signing the registers, Peter accompanied me as I sang a song to Julz. While playing
the parts of Radames and des Grieux were challenging and nerve-wracking, this was the most important performance of my life, and I felt it.

The song was Edward Grieg's “Ich Liebe Dich”—“I Love Thee.” It was all I could do to hold myself together, and there were many moments when I struggled to stop myself from crying. I could see my beautiful bride doing what brides do, blushing and wiping away a few tears. I meant every word I sang. It was a special moment on a special day.

Then it was time for us to leave the church. We had entered as Mr. Potts and Miss Cooper, and were leaving as Mr. and Mrs. Potts. I still had to pinch myself; there had been so many times when I doubted this day would ever come. As the confetti rained down to seal this memorable day, I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In Sickness and in Health

“S
ANT
'A
GNELLO
, per favore.”

It was six days after our wedding, and Julz and I had arrived at Naples International Airport to begin our honeymoon. We'd booked a fortnight on the Neapolitan Riviera, which we'd spent more than a year saving up for, and for which Julz's mum and dad had kindly contributed what they could afford. As the taxi driver loaded our luggage in the boot (trunk), we climbed into the car, eager to get there and unpack. As the taxi left the airport for the Riviera, and I chatted to the driver in Italian. I explained how we'd managed to get a great deal on a five-star hotel on the edge of Sorrento, in a village called Sant'Agnello. It was such a good deal that even the travel agent was surprised, and had to double-check the price. The driver was really friendly and gave us lots of tips that would save us money.

“The only worthwhile trip with the travel rep is the Amalfi Drive,” he advised us. “And make sure you sit on the right-hand side of the coach so you have a view of the water.”

He told us, too, that the guides at Pompeii were often unkind to people if they couldn't keep up with the rest of the group. We later witnessed exactly that, with an elderly lady being reduced to tears, having paid handsomely for the privilege.

Julz and I visited both Pompeii and Herculaneum, and found them fascinating. The only trip we organized through the travel rep was the Amalfi Drive, but the tour wasn't booked properly, and so the pickup didn't happen. In the end, we took the service bus down to Amalfi, sitting on the right-hand side as recommended, and came back by boat, for less money than the rep's trip. There were sheer drops everywhere, but the views from the bus and the boat on the way back were incredible.