Introduction

So here I am, at the end of a very harrowing chapter of my life, looking back, and looking forward, with equal amounts of fear, trepidation and heart ache wondering where to start.

I guess the best place is at the beginning. As the bio of my book says, I grew up on Merseyside before moving up to Lincolnshire and then down to Buckinghamshire where I met my now ex-husband.

We had three beautiful boys together but when our youngest was just 6 weeks old, Dylan our middle son, was diagnosed with a metastatic brain tumour. He was just two years old.

What followed was two years of utter hell. Dylan was rushed into surgery, had 6 months of chemo, was given 6 weeks of adult strength radiotherapy and then a further year of chemo.

We nearly lost him countless times, we were in and out of hospital daily and we were juggling a 4 year old, a two year old who had zero understanding of what was going on and a newborn.

This took its toll on us all but especially my relationship with my husband and so, as Dylans' treatment was ending so was our marriage. I was then thrown into another incredibly difficult chapter.

I suddenly became a single mum to an anxious and bewildered 6 year old boy, a 4 year old with significant additional needs and an angry 2 year old who had a temper that rivaled the Hulk.

Dylan was adjusting to life outside of the hospital, he was starting school and he was establishing friendship groups. The boys were adjusting to our new normal but I was just fighting for survival.

I became a nurse, carer, teacher, counsellor, sole bread winner, lone parent and overall dogsbody over night. The learning curve was STEEP.

Then there was the divorce. It was messy, bitter and costly to all parties. It took two years to sort through it all.

The divorce finally came through and I was beyond elated. At last, I could pick up the pieces, rebuild my shattered life and concentrate on something more than just survival.

The elation was short-lived. Just a few short months after I had excitedly run around the house waving my divorce papers above my head, my world came crashing down again when, at a routine hospital appointment, Dylan's doctor uttered the words relapse, palatitive, terminal.

Let me write those again. RELAPSE. PALATITIVE. TERMINAL.

I was on my own, with three kids at my feet squabbling over a car garage watching the doctor's mouth move, willing it to stop!

It didn't stop. It didn't shut up. It kept spewing out words I didn't want to hear.

Then it hit me, I had no control over his mouth but, I could control my ears! I would simply stop listening. I would focus on my squabbling, normal, HEALTHY children and ignore every hideous word coming from his mouth.

Then another realisation hit me. I was on my own! I was the only adult responsible for three precious, beautiful, energetic boys and I had no choice but to woman up and deal with this.

A play specialist was summoned and the boys were spirited off to go and play elsewhere whilst I discussed options, arranged for my ex husband to be told and, more importantly, calmed down.

Dylan went on the only treatment the NHS was offering, palliative chemo. It made him sick, tired and miserable. All the time his doctor and I, with the help of The Brain Tumour Charity, scoured every corner of the globe looking for promising treatments.

We found one and after a successful crowd funding campaign, Dylan started this treatment. He changed overnight. He was energetic, bubbly and above all happy again. I was ecstatic.

Things were looking up when on a Friday in September 2020, Dylan's doctor called me with the results of his latest surveillance scan. He could barely contain his excitement as he told me the news. Dylan's tumour had shrunk from 11mm to just 2mm. It was working!!!

But again, my ecstasy was short-lived. Just two days later I took Dylan into hospital with an infection.

14 weeks later, he died in my arms, with his dad holding his hand and his brothers nearby.

Dylan was just three weeks shy of his 9th birthday.

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