When my son had cancer

In February, our lives were turned upside down when my eldest son began suffering some health problems. A huge lump appeared on the top of his right leg, which left doctor after doctor perplexed. The not-knowing was unbearable. We went from believing it was benign to thinking it was malignant several times over. Numerous hospital visits, MRI scans, CT scans, X-rays, blood tests and two biopsies followed.

He was finally diagnosed with fibromyxoid sarcoma, an extremely rare, drug and radiotherapy resistant cancer. Even though it had been suspected, having the diagnosis confirmed was brutal. At 27 years old, my son was fighting cancer.

Cancer had always been a word that I avoided saying or hearing. Cancer took my big sister from us back in 1995. It's cruel, indiscriminate and it tears families apart. Giving voice to the word 'cancer' almost felt like tempting fate. But here I was 21 years later with the word cancer becoming an everyday part of my vocabulary. It literally became my first conscious thought of the morning and the last thought I had at night. 'My son has cancer.' It was all consuming. The fear. The uncertainty. The false hopes. The disappointments.

At first, when cancer was mentioned, I had a crushing pain that felt as if my heart was actually physically breaking, but that eventually gave way to a constant gnawing in my chest that peaked and troughed in its intensity. The helplessness was soul destroying. When your children are little and they are poorly or hurt, a cuddle from mummy can make them all better. But this was something I couldn't fix with a hug and a teaspoon of Calpol. This was cancer.

I had to dig deep and be strong, not only for Joe but for my girls and for Freddy who were just as crushed as I was. Ian and I lent on each other for support as we worked on practical solutions and made plans to help our son in any way we could. At the same time, Ian's dad was (and still is) fighting his own battle with bowel cancer, compounding our worries and our concerns. Cancer takes no prisoners.

My son is so positive. He always finds the humour in even the bleakest moments. He makes it so much easier for everyone around him to cope. He has made me laugh when I've felt at my lowest. He is an inspiration.  He has taken on everything with dignity and courage, from the invasive tests to two major operations. So although we were immersed in a black cloud, we were also blessed with this huge emotional awakening filling us with love, pride and the strength of being a family. It has bonded us, making us even closer. It has reminded us to live everyday to its maximum potential, to focus on the good. We have seen the kindness of strangers and the warmth, compassion and love of friends. There is so much light in this world, even during your darkest hours. You just need to be open to it.

Thankfully, as I sit and write this, my son is recovering.

A successful surgery two weeks ago to remove the tumour, along with a margin of healthy flesh, has taken the cancer away. A huge scar is his battle wound running through his buttock and down the back of his leg to just above his knee. The muscle was stripped to the bone, but the cancer is gone. There have been complications, pain and a readmission to hospital, but the cancer is gone. The huge tumour that was a part of my son for the past four months is gone.

For years to come, every lump or pain or cough will be served up with a side of worry, but regular scans will become a part of his new normal. Offering peace of mind. Keeping him safe.

Joe has been lucky. His cancer diagnosis came relatively quickly and the surgery to remove it was done shortly afterwards. The operation was a great success thanks to the skill and care of his medical team. His recovery has been good, and although there has been a recent set back, he will get back on his feet again soon. The pathology of the tumour they removed showed that the cancer cells were low grade, minimising the possibility of it spreading or recurring. That is the best result we could have hoped for. No further treatment is required. At this moment, my son is cancer free and I can breathe again.

Remembering My Sister

I don't think that a single day has gone by when I haven't thought about my sister.  I have held tightly onto her memory, preserving forever in my mind the way she spoke, the sound of her laugh, how she felt, the heaviness of her thick hair, her sense of humour and the way she made me feel that I wanted to be exactly like her.

Today would have been her 54th birthday. Had she lived, I'm pretty sure she'd still be the same Carol that I idolised. She was the joker, the larger than life character, the life and soul of any event who had the incredible talent of making you feel like you were the important and special one.  I miss her so much that even now 18 years on, if I think about all the years spent without her, times together that have been lost, the tears come all too easily.

With every joyous celebration and with every heartbreak we have shared as a family, there has been something missing, someone missing.  That will never go away.  The empty space is ever present.

Her passing opened my eyes to the frailty of life and our own mortality.  A sobering realisation and something I found very difficult to deal with as I was pregnant at the time of her illness. Creating a new life as my sister's time on this earth ebbed away.  It was too cruel an irony.  But I went on to deliver the beautiful baby girl who took my sister's name as her own. In memory of the auntie she never had the honour of meeting or the pleasure in knowing.

I know that Carol's energy is still burning brightly. She's still here, a part of her own children and now a part of her first grandchild. I take such pleasure in that.  Holding my beautiful great nephew in my arms, I felt the connection and knew that she was there.  Part of his genetic make-up. Part of his very soul.  It is a comfort to me.

Life continues and the world keeps on spinning, but I will never, ever forget.

I'll raise a glass of red wine in your memory tonight.

I recently found this photo of myself as a baby with my big sister, in a collection of old family snaps.  I'd never seen it before and discovering it really made my day.  I love how happy I look on my big sister's lap.

Still missing you Carol xxx

Today would have been my sister Carol's 51st birthday.  She'd be preparing for an amazing party.  She loved this time of year.  Her birthday, Halloween and the promise of Christmas just around the corner meant she was in her element.  Dressing up, stringing decorations in the trees in her front garden, socialising, parties, family.  She was the best, most imaginative host ever.  She was fun, caring, hilariously funny, a little outrageous, giving, loving...the most brilliant person I've ever known.  I thank the Lord that I was blessed to have her as my big sister.  She inspired me, I aspired to be like her, I adored her.  She was a huge presence in my life, which is why even now 15 years after her death, I still miss her everyday.

At just 36 years old, my sister was cruelly taken away from us.  Six years earlier she had been diagnosed and treated for skin cancer.  The medical profession had not done enough and the malignancy found its way into her lymphatic system.  It was a fight that she could not win.  It devastated us. 

Sometimes I still find myself thinking "I'll phone Carol to tell her that."  I still remember her phone number as if it was just yesterday that she was my confidante, on hand to listen to her younger sisters trials and tribulations.  She was always the first person I turned to. Her dry sense of humour would always lighten up any situation. She knew how to handle things, how to turn situations around.  She made you feel special...that was her gift.

Carol never lived to know who the Spice Girls were.  Never read Harry Potter.  Never saw Toy Story.  She never saw the explosion of the internet.  How she would have loved Facebook and Blogging!  She'd have embraced the Social Media and I would have loved having her in my virtual world.  She would have adored Sky +.  Mobile phones with cameras and videoing capabilities.  Reality TV.  3D horror films at the cinema.  Laptops.  Pixar films.  Sat Nav's. Digital radio. MP3's. 

She never got to be there to see her children grow up into the beautiful, amazing adults they have become.  I am so proud of my nephew and niece and they have so much of their mother in them, it is a comfort and an honour to have them in our lives.  My third child was born six months after my sister died.  Carol knew I was pregnant, I told her the day before she died that I would give my baby her name.  My daughter Ella Carol Ann wears her middle names with pride, honouring the auntie she never got to meet.  We keep Carol's memory alive with the handful of old family videos and photos we are lucky enough to have.  We have stories...so many funny stories!  Carol lives on in our hearts and the four nieces and two nephews who will never know their Auntie in person, will know about the wonderful human being who will always be a part of our family.

Cancer devastates families.  It is responsible for 1 in 4 deaths in the UK.  420 deaths a minute are attributed to cancer, that is one death every four minutes.  Every number in these statistics is a real person, someone's loved one, someone who will be missed everyday.  Someone like my amazing sister Carol. 

Being fortunate enough to be finalists in the VW competition means we can support Cancer Research UK with a financial donation.  We are exteremely honoured to be able to donate £500 to this worthy cause.