My name is Margaret, and I am now in my forty-ninth year. I have spent two decades working as a night nurse at the Royal London Hospital. In all those years, I have witnessed more than I care to remember both the hope and heartbreak that pass through those wards at all hours.
I have been divorced for eight years. My son, Thomas, had just turned sixteen when all of this began. He lives with me, and has never been anything but a good lad diligent, respectful, reliable, utterly free of the troubles some other parents speak of with a sigh.
But that is not the complete truth. There was one thing. The greatest difficulty of my life. And yet, none of it was his doing.
It began half a year ago, when Thomas started complaining of headaches. At first, I put it down to his eyesight. Perhaps he needed spectacles, I thought. So, I made an appointment with the optician. His vision was flawless.
The headaches continued. Not long after, he began feeling sick in the mornings. My mind wandered to something he might be eating at school, so I started sending him with packed lunches from home. That made no difference; the nausea persisted.
One morning, I found him in the bathroom, retching. His face was drawn, ghostly pale. He confessed he felt dizzy, that everything seemed to be spinning.
I didnt waste a moment. I drove him straight to A&E. Blood tests, the usual checks all returned normal. The doctor suggested it was probably stress, assuring me that teenagers sometimes respond to the pressure of school in strange ways.
But I am a nurse, after all. Two decades comforting families and detecting what others might miss. My instinct told me this was not simply stress.
I pressed for more investigation. The doctor looked at me with the faintest impatience, but at last ordered a CT scan.
That day remains vivid in my memory a Tuesday, I think. I was mid-shift when the call came from the hospital where Thomas was being examined. They asked me to come at once, saying they had urgent news.
I handed over my post and drove through London, hands shaking the whole way. In the consulting room, a neurologist I hadnt met before a serious-looking man in his fifties waited for me.
Mrs. Miller, he began, we found something on your sons scan. Its a tumour in the brain. Well need further tests to determine what kind, and how advanced it might be.
It was as if the world collapsed. I have delivered grim tidings to families more times than I can count, watched life slip away gently and not so gently but nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for this: to face such words about my own child.
The days that followed were a haze of tests: MRI scans, biopsies, anxious briefings with oncologists. Technical language Id used so often myself now sounded only like death sentences echoing in my mind.
Glioblastoma multiforme, Grade IV, aggressive, inoperable due to its location. The only treatment left was chemotherapy and radiotherapy, to try to shrink it but the prognosis was dire.
When the oncologist broke this to us, Thomas sat beside me my baby, my boy, listening to the diagnosis of a terminal brain cancer.
Am I going to die? he asked, his voice calm in a way that shattered me inside.
The doctor gazed at him with that mixture of sympathy and professionalism I too have worn. Well do everything possible to give you more time, he replied.
More time. Not, Youll get better. Not, Youll be fine. Only the promise of more time.
That night, Thomas hugged me fiercely and said, Mum, dont cry. Were going to fight this together.
And so we did. Chemotherapy every two weeks. Thomass hair fell out, he grew alarmingly thin, sick to his stomach more often than not. But he never once complained. Not once did he ask, Why me? He never even let the sadness touch his smile.
His mates from school visited at first. Frequently, at the beginning. Over time, less and less. Sixteen year olds rarely know what to say when one of their own is so near to death.
One friend, though, never left his side. His name was Edward. They had been inseparable since primary school. Edward showed up every afternoon, relaying all the school gossip, bringing homework; they played video games together even when Thomass hands trembled with fatigue.
One evening, I was in the kitchen preparing supper when I overheard them talking, gently, in Thomass room. The door was just ajar.
Are you frightened? Edward asked.
All the time, Thomas replied. But I dont tell Mum. Shes already dealing with enough.
What scares you most?
That Mum will be alone. That shell be sad. That I wont get to say goodbye the way I want. That shell blame herself for something that isnt her fault.
I had to slip quietly away to my room, so they wouldnt know I was listening.
The treatment isnt working. The tumour continues to grow. The doctors have spoken to me about shifting our focus to palliative care, trying to give him the best quality of life for whatever time remains.
How much time? No one can really say. Perhaps three months. Perhaps six, or even less.
This morning, Thomas asked me to take him to school. It had been weeks since his last visit hes so weak now, so easily tired but he said he wanted to see his classmates one more time. To feel ordinary, if only for a few hours.
I drove him. Helped him out of the car. Hes skeletal now, so fragile. His friends welcomed him warmly. His favourite teacher came over to greet him, and I saw him truly smile again if just for a moment, no longer the boy with cancer, just Thomas once more.
When I collected him three hours later, he was exhausted but deeply content.
Thank you, Mum, he told me in the car. Thank you for taking me. For everything. Thank you for being the best mum in the world.
You are the best son in the world, Thomas, I told him.
After a long pause, he said softly, Mum, when Im gone, I want you to find happiness again. I want you to live. I dont want you to spend your life mourning me.
Dont talk like that, Thomas
We have to, Mum. We both know where things are heading. I just need you to promise youll be all right. That youll move forward. That youll remember me with a smile, not just with tears.
I promised. Though Im not sure how I could ever truly keep it.
Tonight, he sleeps peacefully in his room. I went in to check on him a short while ago; he looks so serene in his sleep, still so young. My boy.
Tomorrow, the palliative nurse visits for her weekly call. The following day, we are due to see the oncologist again, though by now we both know what the results will be.
I sit in the lounge with a mug of tea growing cold in my hands, gazing at the photos lining the walls. Thomas as a baby. Thomas on his first day of infants. Thomas at his tenth birthday party. Thomas only half a year ago, healthy and smiling, blissfully unaware of all that waited ahead.
How does one survive this? How does anyone withstand losing a child, just sixteen, with a whole lifetime stretching ahead that he will never see?
And yet, for his sake, I shall try. I will be strong while he needs me. I will smile when he looks at me. I will do my utmost to give him the best days I possibly can.
And when hes gone well, thats a burden for another day. For now, what truly matters is to be present. For him.
How does one express a lifetimes love when you know the days are dwindling? How do you pour all you have into the time that remains? I do not know. I only know I must try.
