My name is Margaret, and I am 49 years old. I work the night shift as a nurse at St Georges General Hospital. Its been my life for twenty years; Ive seen everything you could imagine.
Ive been divorced for eight years. I have a son, James, who just turned sixteen. He lives with me. Hes a good boyresponsible, bright, never a moments trouble.
Well, thats not completely true. He gave me trouble oncethe worst of my life. But it isnt his fault.
Six months ago, James started complaining of headaches. At first, I thought his eyesight was to blame and that he needed glasses. I took him to the optician. His eyes were perfectly fine.
The headaches didnt stop. Then came the morning sicknessnausea before school. I thought it must be something he was eating in the canteen, so I began packing him homemade sandwiches. Still, the nausea lingered.
One morning, I found him in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, face pale. He told me he felt dizzy, that the room spun when he stood.
I drove him straight to A&E. They ran testsbloodwork, scans. Everything came back within normal limits. The doctor said it was likely stress; that teenagers often somatise academic pressure.
But Im a nurse. After two decades of patients and tragedy, I trust my instincts. I knew it was something else.
I insisted on more scans. The doctor looked at me as though I was overreacting but eventually ordered a CT scan.
That day is burned in my memory. It was a Tuesday. I was halfway through my shift when I got a call from the hospital where James had been scanned. They said I needed to come immediately.
I handed off my patients, left my post, and drove straight there in a panic. They ushered me into a consultation room. There was a neurologist Id never meta man in his fifties, sombre and composed.
Mrs Walker, we found something in your sons scan, he said. Its a brain tumour. We need to run further tests to determine the type and stage.
My world collapsed. After years of delivering tragic news to desperate families, watching people succumb to the inevitable, I thought I was braced for anything. Nothing prepares you for hearing it about your own child.
The days that followed were hella blur of MRI scans, biopsies, meetings with oncologists. Medical jargon that Id used a hundred times now sounded like a death sentence.
Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade IV. Aggressive. Inoperable, because of its location. Treatment: chemotherapy and radiotherapy to try and shrink it. But the outlook wasnt good.
The oncologist explained these things with James sitting beside me. My boy. My little one. Listening as they told him he had terminal brain cancer.
Am I going to die? he asked quietly, his voice so calm it tore me apart.
The doctor looked at him with that well-practiced sympathy I know too well. Well do everything we can to give you more time, he said.
More time. Not youll get better. Not youll be cured. Just more time.
That night, James hugged me and whispered, Mum, dont cry. Well fight this.
So we fought. Chemo every two weeks. James lost his hair, his appetite, and was sick constantly. But he never moaned, never asked, Why me? He never stopped smiling.
His mates from school visited often at first, then less and less. Sixteen-year-olds arent equipped for this kind of pain.
But one friend never left him. His names Thomas. Theyve been inseparable since primary school. Thomas came round every day after lessons. Hed share all the news from school, bring over homework, and cheer James on with video games even when James could barely hold the controller.
One afternoon, I was in the kitchen making dinner when I heard James talking to Thomas in his bedroom, the door half shut.
Are you scared? Thomas asked.
All the time, said James. But I dont tell Mum. Shes got enough to worry about.
What scares you the most?
That Mum will be alone. That shell suffer. That I wont get to say goodbye properly. That shell blame herself for something thats not her fault.
I had to slip away to my bedroom so they wouldnt overhear me crying.
The treatment isnt working. The tumour is relentless, growing. The doctors talk now about palliative careabout making him comfortable, focusing on quality, not quantity.
How much longer? No one knows. Maybe three months, maybe six. Maybe less.
This morning, James asked if Id take him to school. He hasnt been for weekshes just too weak. But he wanted to see his friendsto feel normal for a little while.
So I drove him in. Helped him out of the carhes so thin now, so fragile. His friends hugged him. His favourite teacher came to greet him. For a moment, watching him smile, he was just Jamesnot the boy with cancer.
When I collected him three hours later, he was spent, but glowing.
Thank you, Mum, he said as we drove home. Thank you for bringing me. For everything youve done. Thank you for being the best mum in the world.
Youre the best son, I told him.
Later, as we sat in comfortable silence, he turned to me. Mum, when Im gone, I want you to be happy. Promise me you wont spend your life grieving for me.
Oh, James, pleasedont
We have to talk about it, Mum. We both know. Promise me youll be alright. That youll live your life. That youll remember me with smiles as well as tears.
I promised him, though Im not sure Ill ever be able to keep it.
Tonight, hes sleeping softly in his room. I crept in to look at him a moment agoso peaceful, still so young. My baby.
Tomorrow morning, the palliative care nurse makes her weekly visit. The next day, another oncology appointment to go over yet another set of results, but the words wont change anything now.
Im sitting here in the lounge, a cup of tea cooling in my hands, staring at photos on the wall. James as a baby. His first day at primary school. His tenth birthday party. James six months ago, healthy, beaming, not yet touched by this hurricane.
I dont know how Ill survive this. I dont know how any mother lives through burying her child. At sixteen. With all that unrealised possibility stretched ahead.
But Ill try. For his sake, Ill be strong as long as he needs me. Ill smile when he lifts his eyes, and Ill make his last days as precious as they can be.
And when hes gone, I dont know what Ill do. Thats a worry for another day. Now, all I can do is be herefor James.
How do you tell your child you love them, when you know your time together is running out? How do you fit a lifetime of love into the days that remain?
