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Heaven can wait

I'm so busy with my kids, I haven't got time to even think about dying...


Published by: Jemma Gillard and Kristina Beanland
Published on: 29 November 2012

Even when I sat at different angles, I couldn't get comfortable. As I fidgeted about on the sofa, my 10-year-old son Cameron kept taking photos of me with the camera we'd just bought him.
‘Sweetheart,' I grumbled. ‘Give it a rest please.'
‘I need to practice my snaps if I'm going to be a photographer,' he laughed. ‘Can we go to the seaside later?'
‘Maybe tomorrow,' I sighed. ‘I'm not feeling too great...' Next thing I knew, my daughter Beth, 13, had thrown herself onto the sofa next to me. ‘What are all the pillows for?' she asked. ‘I'm in agony,'
I groaned. For the past few months, I hadn't been going to the toilet properly. It had left me bloated, sore and unwell.
‘Please go back to the doctor,' my partner Ian, 41, said, worried.
‘I can't bear seeing you like this.' The pain was so bad, I could just about stand. But my GP insisted I just had a bad case of piles. I'd been given cream for it, but instead of relieving the pain, it was getting worse. I'd taken time off work from my hairdressing job and I hadn't been able to do anything with Beth, Cameron, or my youngest, James, three, for ages.
Dragging myself to the doctors the next day, I pushed for a proper diagnosis. This time, they agreed to perform keyhole surgery to investigate. Soon, I was back for the results. ‘We found a tumour the size of an orange on your colon,' the doctor said. I sat, shocked, as he continued.
‘It's been brought on by a rare condition called FAP, which causes tumours called polyps to grow on the colon.'
‘Really?' I gasped in disbelief. ‘Well, what can you do?'
‘Due to its position, if we remove the tumour, it will be life threatening,' he explained, gently. ‘But if we leave it to grow, it'll turn cancerous.'
I was in a no-win situation. Whatever I did, it would kill me. But it hadn't really sunk in yet. It was as if the doctor was talking about somebody else.
‘How long have I got?' I gulped. ‘It's hard to say,' he said, shaking his head. ‘A year... maybe more.'
Dizzy with shock, I stumbled home to Ian. Then I sat him down and told him.
‘I won't get the chance to see the kids grow up.'
I panicked. ‘I can't die.' I'd been numb to it all until then.
‘Oh, love,' he cried, holding me in his arms. ‘We'll get through this. You have to stay strong'
Death terrified me. But it was the thought of leaving my kids behind that weighed heavy on my heart. I might not see Beth pass her driving test or James start secondary school...
As I tried to get my head around it all,
I was dealt another blow when I next saw the doctor.
‘I'm sorry, but the condition is hereditary,' he said. ‘So, we'll need to test your children.'
I felt sick, angry even. A mum should protect her children, not pass on a deadly syndrome.
I was racked with guilt. ‘What if I've given it to them?' I sobbed, hysterically,
to Ian. ‘You don't know that yet,' he said. ‘They need to be tested first.'
I felt like the worst parent in the world telling them the news.
‘So we have to get tested?' Beth quietly asked. I could see she was scared.
‘Yes, you and Cameron will need a DNA test,'
I explained. ‘James has to wait until he's 10. We won't tell him yet.' Neither
of them said anything for a moment.
‘Are we going to be as ill as you, Mum?' Cameron asked,
so innocently. His eyes were filled with tears. More than anything, I wanted to hold him in my arms and take him away from all of this.
‘I don't think so,' I whispered. ‘I just wish I had more answers.'
It was simply a painful waiting game now...
The next couple of days seemed to drag on forever. Every waking minute was spent worrying about them. Finally, me and Ian went back for the results. It was the news I'd dreaded - both Beth and Cameron had actually inherited the condition.
‘No,' I uttered, my voice hollow and empty.
‘We've found out really early, though,' the doctor soothed. ‘So they should be fine. We'll remove the colon in the future, before it turns cancerous.'
‘So they'll be okay?' I cried, needing to hear it again.
‘Yes,' he said. ‘They'll just need regular check-ups.'
I slumped with relief. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
Finally, I had some good news for the kids.
‘But what about you, Mum?' Beth said, worried.
‘They're still working out the best option for me,' I said, giving her a cuddle. Me and Ian had already decided we had to be entirely honest.
How could I say everything would be okay, when we didn't know ourselves?
Now, two years on from my diagnosis, the tumour has doubled in size. My condition has deteriorated, but I have good and bad days. Sometimes I struggle to even eat or get
out of bed, other times, I've completed the Race for Life with friends and family.
I've been told there's a chance they could remove part of the colon, but the tumour would still be there. The last resort is for them to take everything out, including my stomach.
‘But that means you'll need a feeding tube,' Ian said, as we sat weighing up the options the other day. ‘It could give me more time, though,' I said.
That's the thing, we just don't know what to expect. I'm determined to try everything for the sake of my kids. I can't imagine not being there to force James to eat his veg, or to drop Beth off at her latest festival.
I just want to be a mum to my kids, and I'm definitely not giving that up without a fight.
I couldn't save myself from this fate, but I have been able to save my kids, and that seems like enough for me.
Whatever the future holds, I know we'll face it together as a family.
Louise McLean, 38, Chilwell, Nottingham