My name is Catherine and Im 49 years old. I work as a nurse on the night shift at the general hospital in Manchester. Ive been there for two decadestwenty years of endless nights, and I thought Id seen it all.
Ive been divorced for eight years now. I have one son, Edward, who just turned sixteen. He lives with mealways has. He truly is a good lad. Responsible. Diligent with his studies. Hes never caused me any trouble, or at least, almost never.
Well, thats not entirely true. There was one problem. The greatest challenge of my life, but it isnt his fault.
Six months ago, Edward began complaining of headaches. At first, I assumed it was his eyesight. Maybe he needed glasses. I took him to the optician, but his sight was perfect.
That didnt stop the headaches. Soon, he started feeling queasy in the mornings. I suspected maybe something he was eating at school wasnt agreeing with him, so I started sending him with home-cooked lunches. The nausea continued regardless.
One morning, I found him in the bathroom, being sick. His face was greyish, and he told me everything was spinning. He felt dizzy and faint.
I took him straight to A&E. They did tests and took his bloodseverything came back fine. The doctor said it was probably stress. Apparently, teenagers sometimes bottle up their stress until it becomes physical symptoms.
But Ive been a nurse for twenty years, and something inside me knew this wasnt just stress.
I pushed for more tests. The doctor looked at me as if I was being over dramatic, but in the end, he ordered a CT scan.
I can remember the day exactly. It was a Tuesday, and I was working when the hospital rangthe hospital where Edward had his scan. They said they needed to speak to me urgently. I was to come at once.
I dropped everything, left my shift halfway through, and drove, hands shaking, to the hospital. In the consulting room, I met a neurologist I didnt recognisea serious-looking man, about fifty.
Mrs White, we found something on your sons scan, he told me. Its a brain tumour. We need further tests to determine the type and how advanced it is.
In that moment, my world completely collapsed. Ive given bad news to so many families. Ive watched countless patients die. I always assumed I could handle anything. But nothing could have prepared me for hearing those words about my child.
The days that followed were a never-ending nightmare of testsMRI scans, biopsies, meetings with oncologists. All the medical language I knew so well suddenly sounded like death sentences.
Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade IV. Aggressive. Inoperable due to its position. Treatment? Chemotherapy and radiotherapy, to try to shrink it, but the outlooknever good.
The oncologist explained all this while Edward sat beside me. My little boy. Sitting there, hearing he had terminal brain cancer.
Am I going to die? he asked, his voice so calm it shattered me.
The doctor looked at him with that same professional compassion Ive used a thousand times. Well do everything we can, Edward, to give you more time, he said.
More time. Not youll get better. Not you will be cured. Just… more time.
That night, Edward hugged me. Mum, please dont cry. Were going to fight this, he said.
And we did. Fortnightly chemotherapy. Edward lost his hair. He lost weight. He was sick all the time. But he never complained. He never asked, Why me? He never stopped smiling.
His friends from school came by to visit, at first regularly, then less so. Sixteen-year-olds arent good with this kind of reality. But one friend, Daniel, never stopped coming. Best mates since primary school. Daniel came after school every day. He told Edward all the gossip, brought him homework, and they played video gameseven when Edward could barely keep the controller steady from exhaustion.
One afternoon, as I made tea in the kitchen, I overheard Edward talking with Daniel in his room, the door slightly open.
Are you scared? Daniel asked.
All the time, Edward replied. But I dont tell Mum. Shes got enough to worry about.
What are you most scared of?
That Mum will be alone. That shell hurt. That I wont get to say goodbye properly. That shell blame herself for something that isnt her fault.
I slipped away to my room, tears stinging my eyes.
The treatment hasnt worked. The tumour isnt shrinking. It keeps growing. The doctors have started talking about palliative carefocus on comfort and quality, for however long he has.
How long? No one knows. Maybe three months. Maybe six. Maybe less.
This morning, Edward asked if I could take him to school. He hasnt been for weeks, too tired most days. But he said he wanted to see his friendsbe a normal teenager, just for a few hours.
I took him in. Helped him out of the car. Hes so thin now, so fragile. His friends wrapped him in hugs. His favourite teacher came over and he smiled properly, for the first time in ages. He was just Edward againnot the boy with cancer.
When I picked him up three hours later, he was completely worn outyet so happy.
Thank you, Mum, he said as we drove home. Thanks for taking me. Thank you for everything. You really are the best mum in the world.
And youre the best son, I replied.
Later, after a long silence, he said, Mum, when Im gone, I want you to be happy again. I want you to really live. I dont want you spending the rest of your life grieving for me.
Edward, pleasedont talk like that…
We have to talk about it, Mum. We both know whats coming. I need you to promise youll be all right. That youll go on. That youll remember me with a smile, not just sadness.
I promised him. But I have no idea if I can keep it.
Tonight, hes asleep in his room. Earlier, I crept in to see him. He looked so peaceful, still so young. My boy.
The palliative nurse is set to visit early tomorrow morning. The day after, we have an appointment with the oncologist to check his latest scansthough we already know what theyll say.
I sat in the lounge with a cup of tea, the steam fading between my hands. I stare at the photos on the wall. Edward as a baby. Edwards first day at primary. Edward at his tenth birthday party. Edward six months ago, bright and grinning, never suspecting any of this.
How do you survive burying your child? Sixteen years old, with all of life ahead, snatched away.
But for Edward, I will try. Ill be strong while he needs me. Ill smile when he looks at me. Ill make his last days as good as they can possibly be.
And after? I truly dont know. Thats tomorrows problem. Today, its about being here. For him.
How do you tell your child you love them, knowing these days are all you have? How do you fit a lifetime of love into the time that remains?
