I dropped Eve off at school this morning. She sat quietly in the car.. not the usual chatty self. I was flabbergasted when two different parents came up to me and told me of their stories. One woman said her daughter came home the night before and said "Mummy, I'm not alone now!". Her daughter has a tumour in her leg. She's 10 or 11? What a horrible thing to go through.
Another mum stopped me and offered her support.. "I know what he's going through and how you're feeling" she said. She then confided that she was diagnosed with breast cancer before Christmas and was due to start a course of radiotherapy. I had no idea. We hugged, she offered any help she could - moral and logistical support....
I wish them both a speedy recovery - and to anyone that hasn't been able to come forward and say "I know what you're going through". Sometimes it's just a relief to talk.. no-one has to do anything but nod there head and say "oh dear... well, chin up.." They can fein interest if they like.. it's just good to get stuff off your chest I think.
At school, the headmaster came up to me asking how little man was doing.. then Mr. Cook came and squeezed my arm and told me everyone was thinking of us. I gave Eve a kiss before she lined up to go into school, and she just took the one.. Normally she'll insist on about 10, no, just one more.. just another one.. one more. Before you know it, half the school are in, the other half are just about to have morning break.. but today, just the one, and she walked in. I think she's getting lonely. Hardly surprising - The car is so quiet going to school now without them both chatting in the back.
The oncologist was supposed to be seeing us at 10am to discuss Joel's results from the histology. I'm hoping it's benign, but something tells me that if he'd known that last night, he'd have told us - putting us out of any prolonged anxiousness.. so I'm fearing the worst at the moment. I arrived at the hospital at about 9.40 (Traffic in Birmingham is a nightmare, as is parking at the hospital - but that's another blog post), and made my way up to the ward only to find his bay empty.. No bed, no Joel, No Louise... my heart sank. The armchair next to the bed looked like it had been left in a hurry.. was it an emergency??
Turns out there was an available slot for the MRI scan so they took him down for that early slot.. He arrived back and I was overjoyed to see him wide awake, and smiling.
Cancer is the scariest word of all?
Five minutes later, The oncologist Mr English (who happens to be Scottish - oh the irony) arrived to discuss the histology results with us, along with a lady named Sue from Macmillan. I doubted we'd be told the tumour was benign, and sure enough, the ride continued... downward.
They say 'cancer' is the scariest word of all. I think 'Malignant' trumps it. At least with 'cancer', there are so many positive outcomes. The odds are slashed when it's malignant... or at least that's what I have in my head.
I'm not sure that any consultant could even instil confidence in me that is not the case... It's a fear I'll have with me as long as Joel survives.
It's a Medulloblastoma, and it's malignant. He continued "There are 3 forms of this particular disease, a low risk, a 'standard' risk, and agressive. He's definitely not in the low risk category".
Once again, my heart sinks. It's too early to tell if he's in the standard or aggressive camp, but either way, it's a course of chemotherapy and radiotherapy. They aim to cure, which is good news, but we still don't want to hear it.
Louise cried - I held it together for a couple of minutes.. then Louise had to console me. I feel so helpless - almost a burden. I feel like I'm meant to be strong for both of them, but I find myself constantly receiving words of comfort from Louise.... Surely it should be the other way around. The fact that I have very little understanding of what's going on gives me a disadvantage, but if I'm honest, I'd prefer the doctors to talk 'medical' to Louise rather than dumb it down for me. She can always translate it for me later...
I suppose that's why it doesn't appear to be hitting me as hard as it is her.. at least not immediately.
So now the journey is even harder than I imagined, and longer.. he's facing upto a year of chemo and radiotherapy.. a long year at that, and an uncertain future. a 5 year survival rate of 80% is supposed to give us confidence.
It frightens me to death if I'm brutally honest.
So we're definitely not in the 'low risk' camp.. I just pray to god that he's not in the aggressive one. Time will tell.
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