Chapter 3
LOUISA
The need to tell Holly what’s going on has been burning in my chest, but I’ve been struggling to work out how to do it.
Maybe there was a part of me that hoped we’d suddenly become telepathic, the way twins are supposed to be, but that’s something we’ve never been able to claim.
We’re fraternal twins, and therefore no more alike than any other pair of siblings might or might not be.
In our case, it’s definitely the latter, but the differences between us are probably why we get on so well.
If we were more alike, we’d almost certainly clash more, but instead we’ve always been good friends.
Although it turns out we’ve suddenly got a lot more in common than I thought we had.
When my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer eleven years ago, I was devastated and I wanted to do whatever I could to help.
I hosted bake sales, ran a half marathon, and even shaved my head to support her, but I still never imagined something similar happening to me.
Maybe I’m paying for that arrogance now, but it felt like my role was to be there for Holly.
Holly’s cancer was detected early, and the tumour in her left breast was removed with clear boundaries.
There was no need for a mastectomy, and the chemo she had was preventative.
A year later, it was almost like it had never happened, at least for the rest of us.
But it brought up issues in Holly’s life, and she discovered the hard way who really cared for her.
I told her that was probably no bad thing.
She must have hated me, back then, for how simple I tried to make it all sound, and for my insistence that we focus on the positives.
Part of me hates myself too, now that I understand what it’s really like to hear the words you have cancer .
I was just trying to stay upbeat, thinking that encouraging her to look on the bright side would help, but sometimes it’s far more helpful to acknowledge just how crap the situation is.
Life isn’t all sunshine and Hollywood endings; sometimes the worst really does happen.
Holly’s been well for over a decade, and now it’s my turn to look to her for support, only I’ll be asking so much more of her than she ever did of me.
I think part of the reason why I’m struggling so much with what to say is that I know Holly’s instinct will be to focus on the cancer and to work out ways we can ‘fight this’, a phrase I’m already starting to loathe.
It’s not like anyone just rolls over and gives into this shit, is it? But sometimes people don’t stand a chance and, if I turn out to be one of those people, I don’t need another relentlessly upbeat cheerleader, telling me that if I just focus positively enough, I’ll find a way to prove the statistics wrong.
Tom has already taken that role and run with it.
After his initial shock on the day of my diagnosis, he now seems to refuse to accept anything that Mr Whitelaw said about what the scan indicates, and what it will mean if they’re right.
He spends hours every day googling my type of cancer and researching new drug trials or treatments under development.
He seems genuinely convinced I can be cured, and I hope to God he’s right.
But sometimes, in the three days since the diagnosis, his blind optimism has made me want to scream.
The chances are it’s not all going to be okay, and I’m terrified that means nothing for our children will ever be okay again.
At one point yesterday, when Tom showed me yet another ‘miracle cure’ for cancer being touted online, the only thing that stopped me ramming his teeth down his throat with my fist was the fact that Stan was in the next room watching the Paddington Bear movie.
I know it’s early days, but if he really wants me to focus on trying anything and everything to get cured, he should know me well enough to realise I’ll need a plan in place first in case none of the treatments work.
I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember, and having a contingency plan is the only way I feel safe.
A therapist would probably tell me it’s what comes of having alcoholic parents who preferred propping up the bar of the pub they ran, rather than spending time with their children.
Thank God we had our grandparents, they were the first back up plan we needed in order to survive our childhoods and maybe that’s what triggered the rest.
I thought all of that had taught me how to cope with trauma, but my reaction to my diagnosis is still muted.
Like Tom, I’ve done my share of googling and even though I know it doesn’t look good, most of my emotions seem to have been replaced by what feels like a core of tightly packed cotton wool.
I’m not happy, or sad; I don’t seem able to feel anything much at all, and when I googled ‘why haven’t I cried since my cancer diagnosis’, the internet told me I must be in shock.
The only times I’ve cried have been when I’ve looked at my children.
That’s when the gut-wrenching fear hits.
The terror I feel about their future, if I’m no longer around to make sure they’re okay, makes it hard to breathe.
I’ve never had a panic attack before, but that’s what it feels like, as if the walls are closing in on me and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
The longest I’ve ever been away from the children is two nights, and the thought of never seeing them again is too overwhelming to even be able to imagine, like the concept of a black hole and every bit as dark.
Tom adores them with all his heart, I know he does, but he’s always been able to compartmentalise, to go to work and focus on that, assuming all will be okay with the kids while he’s gone.
The love I have for them is different; they are never truly off my mind.
When they were born, I felt so grateful to have the option of putting my career on hold, and ensuring that my children had one parent whose primary focus was them.
The panic closes my throat when I think about them being sidelined in any way.
Without me around, I know Tom might not have the choice.
He’ll have to work, and it’s his passion, his raison d’être, but that never mattered because the children were my reason for being, and every time I look at them the gut-wrenching horror of the changes ahead of us hit me all over again.
I’ve managed to hide it from them so far, thank God, and it’s made me grateful that the rest of the time my emotions seem to have been deadened.
‘You look so well.’ It’s something he says at least ten times a day, as if to convince himself that Mr Whitelaw somehow got it horribly wrong, that he picked up the wrong scan results and someone else is blissfully unaware that they’re probably on borrowed time.
I understand why Tom is clinging on to that hope.
But when I look in the mirror, there’s a definite difference in how I look.
All the spark has gone out of me, the circles beneath my eyes are darker, and even my bones feel tired, but I don’t look like I’m dying.
No one has told me I am, and even when he was outlining the worst-case scenario, Mr Whitelaw was careful not to use the D word.
But if they can’t cure the cancer, there’s only one way this is going to end, and I’m terrified of my children’s security being ripped away from them.
Nothing in the house happens if I don’t make it happen.
Without me the children won’t get to nursery or school on time, let alone have whatever they need for their latest art project, charity fundraiser, or world-something-or-other day.
No one in the family will have their birthday remembered, immunisations will be missed, and none of the bills will get paid.
Stan won’t be able to come to his mummy for the cuddles that make everything better, and there’ll be no one who can spot that look in Flo’s eyes when something is worrying her, and who can find a way to make everything right in her world again.
If I think about all the milestones I’ll miss it kills me.
When the children were born those things flashed through my mind like memories that hadn’t even happened yet.
I pictured first days at school, and now I’m not even certain I’ll get there for Stan, never mind live to see all the other things I imagined.
I pictured teaching them both to drive, in the same way I’ve taught them to swim and ride a bike.
I saw myself being filled with pride, but a mess of soggy tears at the same time, when I dropped them off to start university, and being even more emotional watching them graduate and eventually leaving home for good.
I thought about their wedding days, and becoming a grandmother, but none of those things are going to happen unless there’s some kind of miracle.
I’d swap seeing any of those milestone moments for all the ordinary days in between, as long as it meant I got more time with my children.
When I looked in on them last night, their blissful ignorance broke my heart.
Flo had her thumb in her mouth, her beautiful blonde curls fanning out around her head like an angel’s halo.
Her biggest concern right now is moving on from infants to juniors at the village school, because it means I won’t be able to walk her all the way into her classroom any more.
She’s struggled with being separated from me ever since starting school and just last week she made me laugh and cry when she said she didn’t know how she could make it through the whole day at school without seeing me.
How can I possibly tell her that she might have to get through the rest of her life without me? I can’t even contemplate having to explain that to her, because I can’t bear the thought that I won’t get to see my baby girl grow up, or be there for her when she needs me, like I swore I would.
Every time I even think about it, I want to claw at my throat, because I forget how to swallow.
I have to press my hand against my neck to remind myself how to do even the most basic of things.
The feeling only gets worse when I think about Stan.
He’s such a mummy’s boy, partly because Tom is away for work so often, and whenever anything in life upsets his delicate equilibrium, which is pretty much an hourly occurrence at four years old, it’s me he turns to for comfort.
Tom and I joke that only Mummy will ever do.
It’s going to break his heart if I suddenly disappear from his life.
All the joie de vivre my son carries with him will be dimmed.
My little boy won’t be the same child he was before this happened, and the idea of that changing who he is breaks my heart too.
Stan should be able to rely upon me, to know that I’ll be there to read The Gruffalo just the way he likes it, doing all the silly voices that never fail to make him giggle, and to provide the soft embraces he needs at the end of the day, almost as much as I do.
Stan should be several decades away from having to face anything like this.
I’m terrified that losing me will rob both him and Flo of their childhoods, and that all the happy memories I’ve worked so hard to create will be completely wiped out.
I need to make a plan to somehow soften that blow, if the worst does happen.
I’ve got my PET scan tomorrow and if Mr Whitelaw doesn’t think the cancer is operable, I may need a biopsy further down the line to see what kind of chemo is most likely to help.
If the tumour can be resected, they’ll do the biopsy after it’s removed, which is the outcome I’m desperately hoping for.
I made the mistake of reading some online forums so I know what to expect.
I went down a rabbit hole about pancreatic cancer and the survival rates if it turns out to be stage four.
Stan’s only three months away from starting school, but in the worst-case scenario I won’t be here to see that day.
I can’t afford to let my thoughts spiral like that, so I’m focusing on planning for every possible outcome and I think the adrenaline of that is what’s carrying me through.
That’s why I need Holly.
I can’t do it without her.
Ever since they were born, the future has been all about Flo and Stan, and I’ve got no idea how to ensure that a future without me can still be a happy one for my children.
Like me, Holly understands what it feels like to have an absent parent, and it means I can trust her to put herself in the children’s shoes, and not keep up a relentless stream of platitudes, insisting it’ll all be okay – as Tom has.
I need someone I can talk to about the what-ifs, and my sister is the only person for the job.
I know it’s a lot to put on Holly, but I don’t have a choice.
I can’t even think about breaking the news to my parents.
They’ve never been able to cope with the usual stresses and strains of life without going on a bender, and I know they won’t be able to handle this without sliding into oblivion, courtesy of however many bottles of vodka that takes.
I’ll have to tell them eventually, but I want to have a treatment plan when I do.
If the tumour is operable, the prognosis will be far more hopeful, at least in terms of surviving the next few years, and I need to be able to dress this up in the best possible light for my parents.
It’s not lost on me that I have to shelter them from the harsh reality in the same way as I’m doing for my children.
I should be able to turn to Mum and Dad, to offload some of the burden and to share my fears about what I’m facing.
But I can’t do that; I’ve never been able to lean on my parents in that way, and I can’t rely on them to be there for Stan and Flo when I’m gone either.
Mum came home for good after she finally gave up trying to get sober, and my parents are still together.
They both drink far too much, and their house is like something out of one of those hoarder shows on TV.
There’s no way on earth I’d ever allow the children to stay with them.
In fact, I’ve never even taken them there.
We always meet in a park, or at the zoo.
Somewhere neutral with no access to alcohol.
Tom’s parents died before the children were even born, so we’ve had no support from grandparents, which is something most of my friends rely upon and take for granted.
I know I’d have felt the gap far more if it hadn’t been for Holly, but she’s been incredible from day one and I wouldn’t swap her support for any other kind I might have had, if things had been different with Mum and Dad.
Holly has been my built-in contingency plan since day one, and she’s the only one I’m letting in on the secret.
I can’t risk telling friends, because they’re bound to discuss it.
The last thing I want is someone else’s child hearing about my cancer before my own children do, or worse still, telling them about it.
Even my oldest friend, Joanna, who I’ve known since primary school might mention it to her parents and it could get back to Mum and Dad that way.
I can’t take the chance of any of my family hearing about this second hand and spiralling in ways I just don’t have the energy to deal with right now.
I wish no one I love had to be told about my diagnosis, but the only thing I can do in the midst of this hell on earth is to attempt some damage limitation and keep my circle as small as possible.
I’ve been trying to think of a way of telling Holly that won’t devastate her, but three sleepless nights haven’t delivered the inspiration I hoped for.
There isn’t a good way of saying this and time is running out.
Tomorrow morning I’m going in for the PET scan and I want Holly to know before I go, so I suggested we meet up for a coffee.
Except now I’m here I can’t stop shaking, and I’m worried she’ll guess that something awful has happened, before I even try to find the best way to explain.
‘Well, this is an unexpected treat!’ Holly kisses me on both cheeks as she comes into the room and runs a hand through the dark curly hair that tumbles down past her shoulders.
Whenever Flo and Stan draw pictures of their family, they add a series of circles to represent Holly’s hair, whereas my straight blonde hair is usually a row of spikes depicted with the aid of a yellow crayon.
It always makes us laugh and, in Flo’s last picture, we looked like Louis the Thirteenth and the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz .
Holly put the drawing straight on her fridge, in pride of place nonetheless, and I know she loves the fact that in every family scene the children draw, Auntie Holly unfailingly has a place.
I smile at my sister now, wishing that the reason I suggested meeting up was as simple as the one I’m about to give.
‘I thought we’d have a grown-up get together for a change.
You grab a seat and I’ll get the drinks.’ My voice sounds the same as always, not like the voice of a person who’s about to deliver bad news and suddenly I’m still not certain I can do it.
I’m scared that Holly’s response will be what breaks through the sense of disbelief that’s been protecting me so far, and I’m almost as afraid of my reaction to that as I am of hers.
For now, all I can do is keep up the act that everything’s normal.
‘What can I get you? Latte and a bit of carrot cake?’
‘Perfect.
We really should do this more often.’
I’m already desperately wishing that we had.
Now that there’s a good chance my time might be more limited than I ever imagined, I’ve got so many regrets.
All I want is to have more time with the people I love.
It’s not that I haven’t spent lots of time with Holly, but I should have spent some of it in a different way.
She’s always slotted into my life, rather than the other way around.
I told myself it’s because she’s single and doesn’t have children, and that it’s easier for her to be adaptable, but I’m already wishing I’d done more.
Even something as simple as enjoying coffee together.
Most of the time when I have a latte, it’s accompanied by the sound of noisy four-year-olds, in the soft play centre near our house.
I don’t regret any of those moments with Stan and Flo, but I should have prioritised Holly too, instead of asking her to meet me at Mr Happy’s Fun Factory, for what I told myself was quality time together.
No wonder she thinks meeting in a real coffee shop is an unexpected treat, but it’s not the only reason guilt is gnawing at me as I queue up to place our order.
I haven’t even given Holly a hint about why I wanted to meet, and it feels so cruel to spring this on her when she’s clearly thrilled we’re having some time together, but I think part of me wanted to leave the option open to chicken out of telling her at all.
I silently will the barista to take longer than he should to make the drinks, but he’s far too efficient and, no matter how slow I try to make the walk back to the table, I’m suddenly face to face with my sister.
‘Thanks, sis.’ Holly narrows her eyes as I set down the coffee and cake down in front of her.
We’re no closer to being telepathic than we’ve ever been, but she knows me better than anyone.
Even Tom.
‘Why haven’t you got anything to eat? Please tell me you’re not on a diet, there’s nothing of you.’
‘I’m not on a diet, I’m just not hungry.’
‘Have you had breakfast?’ She’s holding my gaze and, when I shake my head, she sighs.
Holly is only twenty-three minutes older than me, but she has always mothered me, right from when we were small.
From the age of six we were left to entertain ourselves in the flat above the pub, far more often than was good for us.
It was Holly who’d make us toast, if we were both getting hungry and neither of our parents had thought to feed us, and who’d tell me a story to calm me down if we’d watched something on TV that we shouldn’t have done.
It’s why I always knew she’d make an amazing mother, and why, until now, it’s been the biggest sadness of my life that she never got the chance.
Holly reaches out and puts a hand over mine.
‘I know you’re busy with the kids Lou, but you need to look after yourself, because if you don’t you’ll get sick and who’s going to look after them then?’
Holly’s words are like a punch in the gut.
She’s verbalising all the things I’m most afraid of.
Who will take care of my children if I’m not around? Tom will be there for them, but he can’t do this alone.
How can he possibly be everything they need when they’ve been so used to having a mother figure at the forefront of their lives? Will Holly step up to the plate? Is it even fair of me to ask that of her? It seems ironic that just lately I’ve tried to encourage her to broaden her horizons, because I was desperate for her not to miss out on the chance of finding someone who loves her the way she deserves to be loved.
Only now I want her to put her own life on hold indefinitely, so that she can become a stand-in mum to Flo and Stan if the worst does happen.
That’s not fair, I know it isn’t, but I still want her to promise me she’ll do it, if I need her to.
Except, as I look up at her now, my carefully prepared speech has fallen out of my head.
I spent most of last night thinking about what to say and how to say it.
I don’t want to make things sound hopeless, but I don’t want to gloss over everything in the way Tom is insisting on doing either.
Only now that I’m here, all of my plans have been forgotten and I fire the words out like bullets.
‘I’ve got cancer.’
For a second or two what I’ve said seems to hang in the air between us, and then her face falls as the reality hits home.
‘You can’t have.’ She gets to her feet, shaking her head, almost like she’s angry at me, but I know the rage she’s feeling isn’t really directed my way.
‘You had all the tests when I was ill.
There’s no faulty gene and you have a mammogram every year.’
‘It’s not breast cancer, it’s in my pancreas.’ Every time I think about that the absurdity hits me.
I’ve done all I can to protect myself from the risk of cancer, especially the kind my sister had, but the type I’ve got very rarely affects someone like me, a relatively young woman, who doesn’t smoke and with no family history of diabetes, let alone this kind of cancer.
‘Can’t they just take the pancreas out?’
‘Technically yes, but if they do I’ll be diabetic.’
‘That’s okay, that’s manageable.’ God, I wish it was as simple as Holly is making it sound.
‘I know you must be scared, but thank goodness it’s not an organ you need to survive, like your brain or your liver.
When they take it out, it will all be okay, you’ll see.’
Holly has gone from terror to relief in seconds.
As she sits down again and picks up her drink, her whole expression changes.
She’s had a reprieve from her very worst fears, and I hate the fact I’ve got to reverse that again.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I pinch the skin on the back of my hand in the hope that the physical sensation will somehow distract my emotions for long enough to let me get through this.
‘It might not be that simple if it’s spread.
If the tumour is too large to be operable, or has already spread elsewhere, the only thing I’ll be offered is palliative chemotherapy.’ I don’t even get the chance to tell her what the implications of that are, before she jumps back to her feet, the coffee cup slipping from her grasp.
It’s amazing how far a small amount of liquid can spread, and the tables on either side of us are caught up in the splash zone as Holly bursts into tears.
‘Oh darling don’t worry, it’s just a bit of coffee.
Everything will dry off; there’s no need to get yourself upset.’ The kindness of one of the ladies on the table to our right only makes Holly sob even harder.
I’m not sure if the stranger has been listening to our conversation, but she’s the one who has to offer comfort as my sister continues to cry.
I don’t know what to say, and Holly just keeps repeating the word sorry, over and over again.
My sister has always been the strong one and seeing her break down like this is terrifying, because it suddenly feels much more real and some of the numbness that has been carrying me through has worn off.
She’s been my mother figure, the person I could go to for a solution to fix any problem, but I’m going to die, and she knows it.
That’s something not even she can fix.
My children losing their mother has been my entire focus since I was told I had cancer, but, as I witness Holly’s meltdown, the realisation hits me that I’m not just losing the chance to see them grow up.
I’m losing everything.
I’m desperately trying to cling on to the sliver of hope that I’ll somehow get more time.
I’d give almost anything for the numbness to return, so that I can bury my head back into the sand that was protecting me from reality and focus on making things right for the children.
It’s bad enough that I’m leaving them; I can’t let them down before I go.
I need to stuff my own emotions back inside, and I’m going to have to ask Holly to try and do the same.
The trouble is, I’ve got no idea if that’s even possible.
The other customer is making soothing sounds and gently patting Holly’s shoulder, still believing the apology is directed at her, but I know it isn’t.
My sister is sorry because she’s terrified that there’s nothing she can do to change what I’m facing, but she’s wrong.
She might not be able to do anything about the cancer, but I know she can help in ways I haven’t even thought of yet and I need to be able to talk to her properly, so we can work out what they are, together.
I’ve never needed her more than I do right now, and somehow we’re both going to have to find a way to cope with our emotions, because I’ve got a terrible feeling we might not have much time.