The Beach: All Three.

Started from the bottom, now we’re here
Started from the bottom, now my whole team here

Started from the bottom, Drake

The moment came…thankfully the moment came.

Many of you have shared our lives. It has been a deep honour and an enormous privilege to have your love and support with us through this horrible journey. I’ve been humbled by humanity in all its forms.

I wouldn’t be standing here on this beach with all three of my children, all three, if it wasn’t for you all. My greatest fear was to be here with ‘two not three’. In terms of the world of oncology, we have by no means ‘made it’, but I’ve made it here…to a beautiful beach with my little family…to create some wonderful memories.

We made it. I made it to the beach; with all three. Let that sink in for a minute.

For those of you who have followed this journey, you will already know how much this means to me. It was a vision and a hope that I carried for so long. For this moment, a moment that I turned into a full day, we are here and we are living. We are together. I’ve been on my knees for too long; I’ve spent the time silently begging and hoping for a better and fair outcome. I couldn’t ask for more.

I hope you cry happy tears. I’ll let the pictures tell their own story.

And now a little video of their first time on a beach…they are running…

The hope and the hurt

The hope and the hurt
Has lived inside of me
But there’s gold in the dirt
I never took the time to see
But I knew of its worth
When you walked beside of me
And my hand fit in yours
Like a bird would find the breeze

…

We used to be giants
When did we stop?

…

Giants, Dermot Kennedy

I love walking in the park with you. I love it when we hold hands. I love how your hand slides into mine without question. I love being together. You also hold each other’s hands.

I have held and had to let go of so many tiny hands during treatment. I’ve walked side by side with little cancer fighters. We have high- fived and fist bumped.

I’m thankful that I get to be home now with all of my children and that I get to hold each of your hands in mine.

We fit just right. There’s just no question that you complete my picture. It means so much to me to be able to hold your warm hand and to know that you’re alive. It means the world to feel you grip it back. I take it in and I take things slower when I’m with you. I’m grateful.

I love walking with you and when you’re tired I move the pram with one hand and hold your hand with the other.

The hope and the hurt have both lived inside of me for so long and they still do; alongside fear and agony and helplessness and love. I have literally sat on a dirty hospital floor day after day after day answering questions, playing, fighting back fear, fighting back in tears, coping, longing for a change, desperately seeking reassurance, trying to unfuck the fuckedness of it all.

I lay in your cot with you. I held your hand but you let go. It was painful for you. I lay in your cot unable to sleep. Machines would beep, your body would shake, emergencies would happen….The hurt that childhood cancer causes is beyond comprehension.

You can feel all sorts of different things at one time. Being strong isn’t about being decisive and refusing to feel anything other than one feeling. It’s knowing it’s ok to feel everything and to then choose to feel the way that works best for you. Whatever gets you through is enough.

I’m rebuilding from the bottom up. I’m focussed on giving you the best life I can possibly give you. I read today that children who survive childhood cancer can go on to develop secondary cancers but they are also susceptible to other illnesses and a reduced life expectancy; After everything you’ve done to survive, this seems unfair. Putting all your side effects of treatment to one side, it would break me to see you go through chemotherapy again.

You could go at any point. You could still die before me and we would have to endure the loss. We would have to live without you.

It is agonising for me to see my friends ‘existing/surviving/coping’ without their children. It is an incomprehensible loss to bare. There are young siblings who do not have their brothers or sisters anymore. These are bonds that should not be broken except for with the passing of a lot of time.

I watch you playing together and I fear you feeling that hurt.

For now, I get to hold your hand and it fits inside of mine. Your whole tiny little hand fits inside of my palm. Now, I just need you to grow older and for that hand to get bigger and stronger. I won’t let go, don’t you let go either.

Sisters

So heart warming to see this happening just because they are close. It’s how I’ve been trying to raise them to be.

No, they weren’t told off. Anaya just came into the room and they were standing there.

Anaya: Aawwww. Are you ok babies? What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself? Mummy? It’s ok I’m here. I’m here.

Me: Nothing happened. They just love you and want a cuddle.

Always be there for each other. Love without fear and without ego. Be kind to each other. That’s all you need to do.

An extraordinary day

I’ve been feeling it more and more lately.

It’s been niggling at me. At first, I tried to fight the feeling and then I wasn’t sure if I should be fighting it. I’ve been looking at the girls; at Daya and Jasmine. I’ve been watching Daya and I can’t believe what she’s been through and how far she has come. That’s my trauma to carry.

Yesterday was a maybe. So was the day before but today it hit me.

Today, between commitments and contentment, happy and busy, calm and quiet, playful and focussed, it hit me………………….’she’s made it’.

If this isn’t ‘made it’ then I don’t know what is. I don’t want to wait until my last breath to be convinced that she’s made it. I’ve been through too much to wait that long.

For now, she’s here and she made it through treatment. She’s dealing with side effects and she’s in remission for a very aggressive cancer. I know the odds.

I’m going to let this feeling sink in slowly, slowly everyday. There may be wobbles and I know officially she hasn’t ‘made it’ yet but if this doesn’t feel like it then I don’t know what will.

This, today, is where we have strived to get to. An unremarkable day, playing and to the park, cooking and tidying up, listening to them talk and explore. There’s something very special about a feeling that fills you up, makes you feel so full you could burst into tears. It’s nothing like the one that drains you and empties you. I’ve fought back tears today. Happy tears.

Today, I looked at you in the park. You were free. You were both giggling. I could see the scars under your top. Our scars will stay with us and that’s ok. I was at peace knowing that in this moment right now you were here and ok; and that’s enough for me. I nearly burst out crying, instead I smiled at you.

I’ve been feeling thankful. Overwhelmingly, thankful. I’m content. I still get to see your face and feel your arms around my neck. You choose your Fireman Sam pyjamas and I try not to be hurt by all the scars I see as I change your clothes. I can’t overlook them yet. I’ve been looking at them more closely. I was there for each one. I’m still healing from the things I’ve seen. We have all come such a long way and through enormous, relentless trauma.

An ordinary day has become extraordinary, it’s become the day I’ve been waiting years for. Today, I felt relieved, content and at peace. You’ve made it. If this isn’t made it, I don’t know what is.

Freedom

Until this moment, I had never seen you run in the park. I had never seen you run.

You could feel the wind on your face and your hair was blowing. It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t strong but you were running. You were out of your pram and running.

Your face was happy. You looked free; as you should have always been. I was so proud of you.

We have come a long, long way together.