Dear Jack
A few months ago I was following a blog about a little Belgian girl, Marie, who was losing her battle with cancer. I remember trying to imagine what it must feel like to be the parent of a very sick child. I was wondering how you can possibly get on with your life after losing a child and where you get the energy from to get out of bed in the morning and be there for your other children.
Little did I know at that time that I would be wheeling you into the oncology ward of the Randwick Childrens Hospital in a wheel chair tonight.
You've been quite sick lately and we've taken you to the doctor's a number of times. On 14 February, you spent an entire day at Sutherland Hospital, then Randwick Hospital, because they thought you had appendicitis. In the end, you were diagnosed with a virus and discharged. However, you kept getting temperatures and headaches and you were feeling very weak. Over the last few days you couldn't even walk 50 meters without a little rest. You had also become very thin and pale. When I noticed this morning that your temperature was up again, I decided to take you to the doctor's again. Dr. Patterson sent us off for extensive blood tests and a chest X-ray. You begged me to have the blood test tomorrow because you were still traumatised by the one you had at Sutherland but I managed to convince you to have it today. We drove to Miranda and dad met us there a little while later. After the test, you and dad had something to eat at Westfield while I ran a few errands.
Only a couple of hours after we got home, Dr. Patterson called and said I had to take you to the hospital straight away because there was something seriously wrong with your blood counts. I called dad to explain, packed an overnight bag for both of us and drove to Randwick. In the car you made me promise there would be no more blood tests and needles. I reassured you that we had already done the test so you shouldn't worry. Dad picked up the girls from childcare and took them to nanny and baba.
We didn't have to wait long at triage and were soon taken into a room. They told us you'd need another blood test, which made me feel like I had betrayed you. You also needed an intravenous antibiotic because your white blood cells were so low you'd never be able to fight an infection. And you needed a blood transfusion because your red blood cells were extremely low. I had no idea what was going on but I wasn't overly worried. Until a person came into the room and introduced himself as a 'blood and cancer specialist'... Shortly after that, a social worker came to see me. At that stage, it really started to sink in that these people were seriously thinking about cancer. I called dad in distress. He was already on his way to the hospital. In the meantime, they did the other blood test and put you on a drip. The staff were all extremely nice and helpful.
Dad arrived and we had a chat in the parent room while you were watching a DVD. We then took turns in keeping you company whilst the other one went for a walk to digest the news.
The oncologist came back to expain things again to dad. He said there was a chance it was just an infection. But I thought he sounded quite concerned.
Around 7.30pm, we were taken to the oncology ward. I was crying whilst pushing your wheel chair but tried very hard to hide it for you.
My heart sank when they took us into a room with three other beds. I hadn't expected a shared room at all.
You fell asleep soon after you lay down on the bed and didn't even wake up when they gave you the blood transfusion. You were exhausted.
Dad and I cried all night. I called several friends because I didn't want to tell opa and oma yet but needed an outlet.
Tomorrow you'll have another blood test, you poor little boy, to see if your blood count has improved. If not, you'll have a bone marrow test that will give us confirmation either way.
I'm trying to be positive and convince myself that it could just be an infection., but I have visions in my head of several months in hospital, you going through chemo and the girls just having to fit in with all of this.
The more I think about it, the more I get the feeling that the hospital staff already know what we don't want to hear: the pathology centre rushing the tests off to Dr. Patterson, Dr. Patterson sending me to the hospital straight away, the triage nurse letting us in without delay, the little room we were taken to whilst all other kids were just lying behind a curtain, the oncologist, the social worker, the need for a bone marrow test and finally being taken to the oncology ward... I don't get the impression people here take the possibility of an infection seriously.
I wish I could take your place in that hospital bed.
Let's just hope we'll find out tomorrow that this was all false alarm.
Sweet dreams, my dear Jack. I can't promise no one is going to hurt you again with needles tomorrow, but I can promise you I will be by your side and be as strong as possible.
Love
Mum
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