Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
A SWEET STRANGER WITH SOME GIN
Neve
Isit next to Hope in an uncomfortable armchair.
We are half way through this round of treatments and it’s really taking its toll on Hope.
She sleeps for most of the day, only to wake up crying in pain or to be sick.
The anti-sickness meds are only helping so much; she’s lost weight and her body is weak.
Her eyes are sunken and the sparkle has gone from her eyes and if that’s not enough, she’s picked up a chest infection.
So at the moment no one is allowed to visit.
I haven’t left her side. Jack rings and speaks to her on speakerphone, as does Bella, Pearl and my parents.
She doesn’t make much conversation before she’s falling asleep again.
I am scared to fall asleep at night in case she needs me and I don’t hear her, or the worst, if she dies and I’m not there for her.
I don’t want her to be alone even for a second.
I hold her hand in mine even when she’s sleeping.
The doctors come in and out, wearing masks and plastic aprons.
They are happy with her progress and say the antibiotics should show sign of working soon.
“Mummy,” Hope rasps, her voice dry. She can’t even keep water down at the moment, her lips are all cracked and bleeding.
I lean over, holding her hand in mine. “What is it princess?” I ask.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” She whimpers. I blink rapidly to hide my tears. “It hurts, I’m tired. I want to go home,” she begs.
I give her a soft smile. “I know you do sweetie but you’re nearly there. Only a couple more weeks and you will be done. I promise you will start to feel better soon. You need to keep strong, so that you can get better and then we can go to Disneyland.”
She tries to smile. “Disneyland?”
I nod. “After all this and once you’re better we will go to Disneyland and you can dance and sing with Stitch himself. How does that sound?” I stroke her little face.
“And Lilo?” she asks, her voice cracking.
I nod, sniffing back the tears. “And Lilo. You just need to really work on getting better, okay?”
She nods, closing her eyes. “I will Mummy. I am going to give Stitch a big hug,” she says quietly as she drifts back off to sleep.
I let go of her hand and walk to the window, letting the tears fall silently.
I’ve never been religious but right now I would do anything, pray to God, to Allah, to all the Gods in Buddhism, all of them.
I would even sell my soul to the devil if it meant that she could get through this; that she will survive this.
I need her to beat this because if she doesn’t, I don’t think I can survive without her.
The doctors called a meeting and I wasn’t happy about leaving Hope alone.
The only upside was seeing Jack. He pulled me into his arms and just held me.
“Miss Smith,” the doctor called from her office door.
I sigh and break away from Jack. We walk in and take a seat and two other doctors join us via Zoom.
“We wanted to bring you in today to discuss stopping the Chemo treatment early.”
“What? Why? You said it would be aggressive, we are over half way now. You can’t just give up. She needs to get better,” I argue.
“It’s taking its toll on her body, she isn’t keeping food down and her body is weak. It needs time to recover. We are hoping that as it has been at least half way through that the tumour should have reduced slightly. But our main focus is her having a quality of life.”
“Well she will have a quality of life once she has had all her treatment that you wanted to do. Say you stop the chemo now, then what’s the plan after that surgery?” I snap.
“Like I said, it will depend on the scan results. But Miss Smith, her little body can’t take much more. She needs to recuperate,” she explains.
“Fine, when will you rescan?” I ask.
“Once she starts recovering from her infection then we will rescan. Miss Smith, I will remind you this isn’t the end of the battle, this is merely a regroup. We haven’t given up on Hope,” she assures me.
We talk some more, that Hope will stay in hospital until they start to see changes of her being able to eat and keep her food down.
We leave the room and Jack walks me back to Hope’s room. He peers through the door window seeing Hope’s little body curled up sleeping. “She doesn’t even look like her anymore,” he states.
“I know. She told me she doesn’t want to do this anymore. That she just wants to go home,” I tell him. He squeezes the back of my neck, his thumb rubbing soothing circles. “I promised her a trip to Disneyland,” I tell him smiling.
“As soon as she’s well enough we are taking her,” he agrees. “We will go all out, we will stay in the hotel there too.”
I turn to face him. “I will sort out the money once I know we have her home.”
He shakes his head. “Still don’t get it,” he states before kissing me and walking off.
I stare after him confused before turning around and getting an apron and mask and sanitising my hands. As I have been out of the room I will keep this on for a while. I don’t want to risk passing anything to her.
Mum and Dad came to visit the next day. They stayed outside the door not wanting to bring more germs in, same for Bella, Phil and Pearl.
They drop off balloons, teddies and fruit baskets.
With each day that passes Hope is awake a little more.
Her temperature is dropping, showing signs that her body and the medication are fighting the infection.
It may only be for twenty minutes of the day but in those twenty minutes I am seeing more and more of my daughter.
Day 8 after the meeting and the nurse brings Hope a banana sliced up for her.
Hope sits up and slowly picks up a slice and slowly chews it.
Smiling. “That taste good?” I ask her. She nods her head taking another piece.
She reaches for her water and takes a few sips.
She doesn’t eat anymore, but for her it’s an achievement, being able to keep even just those two pieces of banana down.
The doctors visit and are happy with Hope’s recovery, so they decide to perform the MRI.
I walk with Hope as they wheel her in her bed down the halls of the hospital.
People smile at Hope as she passes. She is wearing her crown that the nurse gave her and waves saying good morning to everyone like she is a member of the royal family.
A couple of the staff that know Hope bow and curtsey as she passes making her laugh.
We reach the MRI room and I kiss her cheek. “I will be right out here waiting for you okay?”
“I will be fine Mummy.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s the movie today?” I hear her ask the staff before the door shuts behind her.
I take a seat and wait, flicking through my phone. “She’s quite a character,” a woman sat beside me states. I look up and nod.
“Oh yes,” I agree.
“What type?” she asks.
“Brain tumour. Stage 3,” I answer.
She sighs, shaking her head. “Oh the poor dear, no one deserves to get cancer, especially a little dot like her. My husband had stage 4 liver cancer. Lost him last year and now I’m here because my daughter has found a lump.”
“Oh I am sorry,” I say, offering my sympathies.
“She’s an adult now. She’s in her 30’s – still too young – and she’s my baby. But I know she will fight whatever it maybe. It could be nothing at all of course. I guess it’s being back here in this waiting room. Brings back memories.” She smiles sadly.
I get up and move to sit next to her. “They said Hope will never recover from this, that she will just have to live with cancer. I just pray she gets to live a full life for as long as possible. To experience her first kiss, her first love. Even her first alcoholic drink. To laugh and be silly and carefree with her friends. To have what all children have, the chance to grow, the chance to experience life and everything that comes with it.”
She hands me a bottle. I frown, taking it. “It’s a gin and tonic.” She winks.
I smile and open it, taking a sip. “Oh my god, that is delicious.” I moan, handing her back her bottle.
“Now I don’t want you thinking I am a drinker, but on days like today where my nerves hang by a thread and a mother’s worries soars through the roof, I need a little zing to bring me calm,” she states, putting the bottle back in her bag.
“Plus I mean no offence by this, but you look like you could do with a long soak in the bath with a very large glass of gin,” she points out.
“You’re not wrong. And about a year’s worth of sleep too.” I smile.
She pats my leg. “Children bring us an abundance of joy and yet also a lifetime’s worth of stress.” She laughs.
I laugh with her. We chat for a long while.
It’s nice being able to talk to someone who has sort of experienced it.
It gets tiring when everyone just looks at you with sympathetic eyes.
Her daughter comes out and she says her goodbye.
We never exchanged our names, just two strangers supporting each other in a time of need.