Russell Watson - Finding My Voice

Contents

Id like to dedicate this book to everyone who has helped support me through my illness; especially my two loving daughters Rebecca and Hannah.

Lots of love Russell x

About the Book

Let me tell you, theresnothing like nearlydying to give youan appreciation of life

At the age of 30, Russell Watson was stillworking in a Salford factory. He spent hisevenings singing in working mens clubsand dreamt of the big time, but in truththe bailiffs were never far from his door.Then a chance flirtation with opera something he knew nothing about set Russell on an unlikely path to stardom.

Now for the first time, Russell tells his ownstory. Full of his cheeky charm and Northernwit, its the story of an ordinary manwith an extraordinary voiceovercoming life-threateningtragedy to finally find happiness.

About the Author

Russell Watson was born in Salford, Lancashire, in 1966. He has sold over five million albums, won four BRIT awards, embarked on numerous sell-out world tours and entertained the Pope, Blair, Bush and the Emperor of Japan. He has two young daughters, Rebecca and Hannah.

PROLOGUE

October 2007

Russell, can you hear us, mate?

Not really, no.

Russell, hang in there, pal.

Ill do my best. Cant promise anything.

Stay with us, pal.

I manage to raise my head.

Not too heavy for you, am I? I ask.

Typical. Im drifting in and out of consciousness, I can barely see my visions all but gone. Been getting worse since early this morning after a night of near-continuous vomiting, when it began to feel like I was viewing the world through neon-coloured mesh, when I started to think this wasnt just food poisoning, this was something much, much worse. And all Im really worried about is whether Im too heavy for the paramedics. Like what are they going to do? Its not as if theyre about to pop down the ambulance chair and go, Well, yeah, as it happens, you are a bit hard on the old back, Russell, you wouldnt mind walking the rest of the way to the ambulance, would you?

Believe me, mate, weve carried them out a lot heavier than you, laughs the paramedic.

My eyes flicker. Lights flash and distort. I drift. In my head Im back at the City of Manchester Stadium, July 2002, the opening of the Commonwealth Games. Im singing for the Queen, for an audience of billions. The song: Where My Heart Will Take Me.

Its been a long road, getting from there to here.

Stay with us, mate.

Its been a long time, well, my time is finally near

And Im drifting

STAY WITH US.

Theres a slap on the back of my hand, a hard, continuous slap. My eyes flicker open.

Do you know where you are, Russell?

Yeah, I manage. Or maybe I dont. Maybe I just nod my head.

Do you know your date of birth, mate?

Yes, its November

But Im drifting out of consciousness and the next voice I hear is Garys. Hes asking the paramedics if Im going to be okay and the paramedics telling him that its serious, that Im in a bad state. Got to get my temperature down because Im at 38.9 degrees and if I get to 40 something bad happens something called pyrexia. Causes convulsions.

I hear the ambulance doors shut. Through brightly coloured wire mesh I see paramedics reaching for me, undoing my clothes, hear the word temperature mentioned and I think, Im dead.

And now Im on my back, somewhere else, and theres a flash. Then another flash, and another. And I become aware of lights flicking past overhead. It seems so familiar. From the movies, I guess. And I hear doors banging and I think, Im dead. Lying there half-cooked, thinking, Thats it, Im dead.

Hes haemorrhaging, I hear. Get him into theatre. Get him into theatre now.

Is there a worse word in the English language than haemorrhage? Maybe cancer?

Come on. Into theatre. Now.

I lose consciousness. Blissfully.

I find out later that the tumour was literally in danger of imploding, taking my brain with it. I discover that the tumour had swelled so much the resulting pressure on my optic nerve was in danger of causing permanent blindness. I live by the matter of an hour or so. Thats all it is.

They take the swelling down with anti-inflammatory medication but I remain on the critical list. Mr Leggat comes to see me.

I know youve been looking at surgeons to deal with this, he says to me, but youre at severe risk, you need an emergency operation and Im one of the top surgeons at this kind of procedure. I want you to let me do it. I can do it for you. I can get it out.

I take some convincing.

I need to see my children first, I tell him. No operation until Ive seen them.

All I can think about is the kids. Rebecca and Hannah. The most important people in my life. These experiences change you. Maybe once upon a time I might have put my career before my children, but not now. Not ever again. I live for my singing. But Id die for my kids.

Which might happen, says the look on Mr Leggats face as he stands.

Youd better get them over here, then, he says.

Helen brings them. They come to my room and I watch the colour drain from their faces when they see me, their dad, in bed, modelling the new line in near-death chic.

Someone closes a door, so we can have a little privacy.

CHAPTER ONE

December 2007

HERES SOMETHING THAT might come as a bit of a surprise. Chris Tarrant. He swears like a trooper. Honest. Ive never known anyone swear so much. Were standing waiting for the Queen at Buckingham Palace and hes like, Whens the fucking Queen going to fucking appear then? Chris Tarrant? Torrent, more like. Nice guy though.

Still, I can talk.

This morning a courier arrived to pick up a camera. Wed been using this camera to film some material on the making of the new album, Outside In, which we finished in mid-October. Its now mid-December, and in the meantime Ive completed the album, moved house and almost died.

We cant, believe it or not, locate this camera at just a moments notice. If you want to send a courier for it, camera-people, heres a tip: a bit of warning might be nice.

Which is what I told Gary, who was dealing with the courier, and who was probably grateful that it was him dealing with the courier and not me, and that I was remaining in the kitchen, pacing it, narky. Because Im not a morning person at the moment, not since the operation. Mornings arent good. And nobody wants me storming out to give a courier a gobful. Youd hear a bit of Chris Tarrant language then. So I stalked, riding out the bad mood, knowing that a good one will be along again in a minute and Ill be myself again, back to the old Russell.

I have lunch. Victoria brings me some more pills and I take them. How many am I on now? Its like every time I reach to take a sip of Coke theres a new cluster of pills, placed there by Gary or Victoria, ready for me to take. The cortisol is the most important one. The tumour was a pituitary adenoma thats its proper name, although I just call it this bloody thing, or something worse and it affects the pituitary gland, which is what they call the master gland. It gets you up in the morning, it deals with growth hormones, endorphins, that kind of thing. It basically controls and regulates the flow of your hormones so if it gets damaged youre in trouble; your body underproduces the hormones you need, so you need to take them in pill form. Which is what I do. Testosterone, growth hormone, stress hormone. All of them come in pill form, and when those pills wear off I have to take more. Its why Im so down one minute, same old Russ the next.

Mornings I stalk and grouch. Afternoons are better. I have a laugh with Gary and Victoria, a few games of pool or table football. Im not really supposed to work out, but I do. A room of the house is my gym, and there Ive got a bike, cross-trainer, punchbag, weights. Running is absolutely, strictly forbidden, so Ive put the running machine in the garage. I use the rest of the gear instead. Got to get strong. Got to be strong for what lies ahead.