Sometimes, when things are hard and seeming hopeless, its difficult to see beyond what you are facing, like things will never change and it will never get better. I've been there many times over the past year and its a dark and scary place. But, there is a little saying that I've told myself a hundred times since becoming a mother and I know I will tell myself it a hundred times more over the coming years, and its this..."this too shall pass." Because nothing lasts forever.
On the morning of Tuesday 14th November I woke with a sense of disbelief. I couldn't quite believe that we had reached this day, that it had come, it was here and we were about to live it. Just another day to most people I'm sure, but to us it was a day that was so significant, so defining, and so important to Maisie's' journey and her life. Today was to be the end. Today was to be her last chemotherapy treatment.
I woke her from her slumber that morning and I held her tight in my arms. I looked down at her with so much love and fear in my heart knowing that we had reached this day before, 6 months ago, only to be told we weren't actually at the finish line. I've had to learn the hard way that when it comes to cancer we don't always hold the power. It does. It dictates when the suffering stops, when the fighting is over, when the treatment ends. We just have to do everything we can to push back and stay afloat. As I rocked Maisie in my arms that morning, her warm body was curled up against mine, her tiny hands were wrapped around the bottle, and her little cheeks were moving along with the rhythm of her suck, and I saw that she was still just a little baby. Barely more than a year old with so much of her life spent fighting against the odds. In that moment I prayed with everything that I had that today would be the end. That this time would come to pass and a new beginning would be waiting for her. I had never wanted anything as much in my entire life.
My husband, the glass half full person that he is, was keen to make the day a positive one. He even bought Maisie a very special little outfit for the day and said to me, "she will walk out of those doors today when she gets her last treatment." I loved him for this. His ability to see the best in situations, his drive to look forward and keep moving and his hope and belief that things would go our way. I needed that that day. But I also needed the confirmation from the consultant to say 'this is her last.'
Once we were in his office I didn't dare look directly into his eyes. I could remember his demeanour the day he delivered us the bad news of Maisie needing more chemotherapy and I was worried I would see the same look in his eyes that day. I couldn't bare to see that again. Instead, I focused my attention on Maisie's face and I watched her as she eyed up the stethoscope which hung around the consultants neck. She had become so familiar to this instrument that she would now take it and put it up inside her clothes herself, knowing exactly what its purpose was. This saddened me, I wished that she had gained this knowledge by innocently playing doctors and nurses with her dollies like most other children, and not from first hand experience. It reinforced to me how different her childhood experiences were from most, and more than that, what she has had to go through is not what I would call a childhood. Its far from it.
The consultant interrupted my train of thought by saying in a very bright tone of voice, 'well, this is it. Maisie's last day.' And just like that, my barrier broke. With those words I finally let myself go. My shoulders dropped, my stomach softened and my throat opened. I hadn't realised how tense I had become over the previous few months until that moment. The consultant reassured us that the scans that were taken half way through treatment showed no evidence of disease and they had no reason to believe that any further treatment was needed after that day. So for now, this was it.
When we were called into the little room at the back of the clinic the nurses greeted us with smiles knowing just what this treatment meant for us all and I knew they all felt it too. They have been there every week giving Maisie her treatment, they have seen her at her worst and they have watched her grow and change over the months despite everything that was happening to her. They have played such a vital part in Maisie's care and I will forever be grateful for their caring and gentle touch.
Just before they administered her two last doses of chemo they asked me for her name and hospital number, just like they did every other time. But this time, as I began to speak my voice was lost to sobs. In that moment the realisation of what was happening, of what this meant for Maisie, of everything we had seen and experienced over the previous 8 months hit me like a tidal wave. Hard, fast, suffocating and all at once. I choked out the digits of her hospital number as I held her close on my knee and I thought to myself, this is the last time I have to consent to my child having toxic chemicals inserted into her body. Chemicals which although were saving her life, were also making her so ill and wiping her of the ability to be the little person she is. I began to feel the weight of the guilt that I was carrying from being the person who allowed this to happen to her, for being the one who held her still every week to let them insert the chemo, for being the person who verbally gave over her name and number week after week, and for being the person who should have been protecting her from all harm. How is that for a case of mum guilt. I know it is misplaced and not mine to own but it is so difficult to shake off.
As usual, the whole experience never fazed Maisie one bit. In fact, once it was over and the nurses were saying their goodbyes to her, Maisie decided they all deserved high fives. My heart actually melted. High fives for a job well done, for helping save her life, and for being so wonderful to her. She made me so incredibly proud and I will never forget that little gesture, she is a true superhero and a genuine inspiration.
Walking back out through the clinic I struggled to look at anyone else that was there because I could feel the tears welling up. It was tears of relief and disbelief that we had gotten to this day, but also of guilt that we had made it though and others were still very much in the mix of it all. Its a strange feeling and one I cant really explain. The families and children that you get to know in the clinic become part of your thoughts and prayers. You think about them every week and wonder how they too are doing, how they are coping. You care about them and on this day for me, I wanted everyone else around us to be on their last day of treatment too. To feel like the end was in sight, that an end was possible. But, I knew that I had to separate myself from those feelings that day and remain focused on Maisie and what it meant for her.
At this stage Maisie still couldn't walk independently but she was willing to hold your hands and tiptoe about. So, before we left the clinic, my husband and I took one hand each and walked our little girl out those doors with her superwoman cape coming behind her. The first day she entered those doors she was just a baby who was facing the most frightening road in front of her. But, she left that day as a beautiful little toddler, on her feet, with a smile on her face and hopefully a long and healthy future ahead of her. Our strong, determined, resilient girl. The love of our lives.
We knew we still weren't done with this journey yet. we still had to have one final MRI to ensure everything was clear and the wait for that would be an anxious one, but we were getting closer. We could now dare to dream that this might actually come to an end, that our girl could be declared cancer free, and that she could finally get to live the life she deserved.
Wendy.
On the morning of Tuesday 14th November I woke with a sense of disbelief. I couldn't quite believe that we had reached this day, that it had come, it was here and we were about to live it. Just another day to most people I'm sure, but to us it was a day that was so significant, so defining, and so important to Maisie's' journey and her life. Today was to be the end. Today was to be her last chemotherapy treatment.
I woke her from her slumber that morning and I held her tight in my arms. I looked down at her with so much love and fear in my heart knowing that we had reached this day before, 6 months ago, only to be told we weren't actually at the finish line. I've had to learn the hard way that when it comes to cancer we don't always hold the power. It does. It dictates when the suffering stops, when the fighting is over, when the treatment ends. We just have to do everything we can to push back and stay afloat. As I rocked Maisie in my arms that morning, her warm body was curled up against mine, her tiny hands were wrapped around the bottle, and her little cheeks were moving along with the rhythm of her suck, and I saw that she was still just a little baby. Barely more than a year old with so much of her life spent fighting against the odds. In that moment I prayed with everything that I had that today would be the end. That this time would come to pass and a new beginning would be waiting for her. I had never wanted anything as much in my entire life.
My husband, the glass half full person that he is, was keen to make the day a positive one. He even bought Maisie a very special little outfit for the day and said to me, "she will walk out of those doors today when she gets her last treatment." I loved him for this. His ability to see the best in situations, his drive to look forward and keep moving and his hope and belief that things would go our way. I needed that that day. But I also needed the confirmation from the consultant to say 'this is her last.'
Once we were in his office I didn't dare look directly into his eyes. I could remember his demeanour the day he delivered us the bad news of Maisie needing more chemotherapy and I was worried I would see the same look in his eyes that day. I couldn't bare to see that again. Instead, I focused my attention on Maisie's face and I watched her as she eyed up the stethoscope which hung around the consultants neck. She had become so familiar to this instrument that she would now take it and put it up inside her clothes herself, knowing exactly what its purpose was. This saddened me, I wished that she had gained this knowledge by innocently playing doctors and nurses with her dollies like most other children, and not from first hand experience. It reinforced to me how different her childhood experiences were from most, and more than that, what she has had to go through is not what I would call a childhood. Its far from it.
The consultant interrupted my train of thought by saying in a very bright tone of voice, 'well, this is it. Maisie's last day.' And just like that, my barrier broke. With those words I finally let myself go. My shoulders dropped, my stomach softened and my throat opened. I hadn't realised how tense I had become over the previous few months until that moment. The consultant reassured us that the scans that were taken half way through treatment showed no evidence of disease and they had no reason to believe that any further treatment was needed after that day. So for now, this was it.
When we were called into the little room at the back of the clinic the nurses greeted us with smiles knowing just what this treatment meant for us all and I knew they all felt it too. They have been there every week giving Maisie her treatment, they have seen her at her worst and they have watched her grow and change over the months despite everything that was happening to her. They have played such a vital part in Maisie's care and I will forever be grateful for their caring and gentle touch.
Just before they administered her two last doses of chemo they asked me for her name and hospital number, just like they did every other time. But this time, as I began to speak my voice was lost to sobs. In that moment the realisation of what was happening, of what this meant for Maisie, of everything we had seen and experienced over the previous 8 months hit me like a tidal wave. Hard, fast, suffocating and all at once. I choked out the digits of her hospital number as I held her close on my knee and I thought to myself, this is the last time I have to consent to my child having toxic chemicals inserted into her body. Chemicals which although were saving her life, were also making her so ill and wiping her of the ability to be the little person she is. I began to feel the weight of the guilt that I was carrying from being the person who allowed this to happen to her, for being the one who held her still every week to let them insert the chemo, for being the person who verbally gave over her name and number week after week, and for being the person who should have been protecting her from all harm. How is that for a case of mum guilt. I know it is misplaced and not mine to own but it is so difficult to shake off.
As usual, the whole experience never fazed Maisie one bit. In fact, once it was over and the nurses were saying their goodbyes to her, Maisie decided they all deserved high fives. My heart actually melted. High fives for a job well done, for helping save her life, and for being so wonderful to her. She made me so incredibly proud and I will never forget that little gesture, she is a true superhero and a genuine inspiration.
Walking back out through the clinic I struggled to look at anyone else that was there because I could feel the tears welling up. It was tears of relief and disbelief that we had gotten to this day, but also of guilt that we had made it though and others were still very much in the mix of it all. Its a strange feeling and one I cant really explain. The families and children that you get to know in the clinic become part of your thoughts and prayers. You think about them every week and wonder how they too are doing, how they are coping. You care about them and on this day for me, I wanted everyone else around us to be on their last day of treatment too. To feel like the end was in sight, that an end was possible. But, I knew that I had to separate myself from those feelings that day and remain focused on Maisie and what it meant for her.
At this stage Maisie still couldn't walk independently but she was willing to hold your hands and tiptoe about. So, before we left the clinic, my husband and I took one hand each and walked our little girl out those doors with her superwoman cape coming behind her. The first day she entered those doors she was just a baby who was facing the most frightening road in front of her. But, she left that day as a beautiful little toddler, on her feet, with a smile on her face and hopefully a long and healthy future ahead of her. Our strong, determined, resilient girl. The love of our lives.
We knew we still weren't done with this journey yet. we still had to have one final MRI to ensure everything was clear and the wait for that would be an anxious one, but we were getting closer. We could now dare to dream that this might actually come to an end, that our girl could be declared cancer free, and that she could finally get to live the life she deserved.
Wendy.
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