Page 18 of A Mother’s Last Wish
18
HOLLY
Hearing the results from Lou’s latest tests were like someone slamming a baseball bat into my abdomen, and I was every bit as winded by them. The chemotherapy is poisoning her. Her immune system is shot to pieces, and her kidneys are on the brink of failing altogether. Even worse than that, it doesn’t seem to be doing anything to shrink the tumours. Tom and I were both there with her when we got the news, and he gripped my hand as Mr Whitelaw outlined the options, Lou’s consultant taking her hand before either of us could. The fact that even he seemed to be feeling the emotion of the moment, and the implications of what that meant, made me shiver, and I could feel Tom shaking too. Mr Whitelaw might have been outlining Lou’s choices, but it feels like they’re running out far more quickly than we ever feared they would. There was talk of targeted treatments, and the possibility of radiotherapy, but then Mr Whitelaw had closed his eyes for a second, before opening them again.
‘Of course, there is another option, which is to stop treatment altogether. Sometimes patients decide that quality is better than quantity, and it might be something you want to think about.’
‘No way.’ Tom hadn’t even given Lou the chance to respond, and he said exactly what I wanted to say, but my eyes slid towards my sister, who was biting her lip. We can’t bear to let her go, and I know that’s the last thing she wants to do, but I’m scared that we’re putting pressure on her to go through hell when all the torture of the treatment won’t change anything. I need to talk to Tom about it, but I’ve got to wait for the right time, when Lou has had a long enough break from the chemo to hopefully start to feel a bit better. She’s so weak right now that we had to take her to the appointment in a wheelchair, and I’ve taken indefinite leave from work to help out. I need to be here for Lou and the kids, and for Tom, because he’s in danger of falling apart. It’s only two days until the end of term, and it’s about to get even harder to hide the progress of Lou’s illness from the children, so Tom can’t afford to collapse, and neither can I. We’ve got to keep trying to prop one another up, because although I might not be able to predict which way Lou will go with deciding whether to continue treatment, one thing I know for certain is that she’ll want us to prioritise the kids over everything else.
‘Auntie Holly, look at my hat!’ Flo suddenly appears in front of me, twirling around and risking dislodging the straw boater perched on top of her head. I remember that hat, Lou wore it when we went to Bruges last summer, on a glorious day when the prospect of anything like this happening would have been laughable. We took a boat trip down the river, and then a horse and cart ride around the cobbled streets, before lunching in a restaurant in the square. The whole trip consisted of people watching, eating delicious food and drinking good wine that almost cost less than the water. Every so often we’d plan that kind of day together, just the two of us, and I was always grateful that Lou made time for me, despite how much else she had going on in her life. She told me recently that she feels she never did that enough, and I did my best to reassure her that she’s wrong, because I never once felt sidelined in her life. I just wish we could have a thousand more of those days. Although right now even one would do.
‘That looks great, sweetheart.’ I smile for the first time in what feels like forever, as I look at Flo’s hat. The children in her class have all been asked to decorate a hat for the end of year school assembly, and with everything that’s been going on she’s been left to her own devices a bit. There’s a tiny teddy bear tied by a ribbon around its neck safety pinned to the band around the hat, and coloured splodges of paint all around the brim. Flo has taken some of the dried lavender from the vase in Lou’s hallway and attempted to stuff it into the crown of the hat, in the gaps where the strands of straw are woven in and out of each other. Unfortunately, most of the lavender seems to have been lost in the process, and what is left is a series of greyish, brown stalks.
‘It needs some glitter.’ Flo makes the assertion with confidence, like a fashion designer who knows just what final touch will complete the outfit and I smile again.
‘I think we can arrange that.’ Ten minutes, some craft glue and a pot of rainbow glitter later, and Flo is satisfied with the finished product. I know there’s been drama at her school in the past where parents have been accused of getting too involved in ‘helping’ in the children’s competitions, but I don’t think anyone looking at Flo’s hat, which is now drying on the table, would suspect even a moment of parental involvement. And I figure aunties don’t count anyway.
‘I wish Mummy was coming.’ Flo’s happiness at adding glitter to the hat has completely evaporated and, as she looks at me, the sadness in her eyes is so agonising it’s as if I can actually feel something inside me breaking.
‘Me too, sweetheart.’
‘You’ll be there, won’t you, and Daddy?’ Flo’s eyes are round with concern, and I nod, pulling my niece towards me and holding her as tightly as I can, for my sake as much as hers. ‘Stan will be there too.’
‘Who’s going to look after Mummy?’ Flo’s words are muffled against my chest, and I wonder if she can hear how fast my heart is thudding, as I try to think of a way to respond that won’t make her worry about Lou even more than she is already. I thought I’d come to terms with my parents’ shortcomings a long time ago, but over the past few weeks the anger I was convinced I’d buried has come bubbling back to the surface. They should be the ones we’re leaning on, but they’re far too flaky to trust with Lou’s safety. Instead, we’re having to call on friends to bridge the gap and, just as we’d suspected they would, my parents have turned to an old friend of their own: alcohol.
‘Mummy’s friend, Joanna, is going to stay here to keep her company, because she’s going to be feeling a bit sad about missing your assembly, but I’m going to record you so Mummy can watch it. We might even be able to FaceTime her so that she can see it straight away.’
‘Cool.’ Flo suddenly sounds seven going on seventeen, and I’m glad her disappointment seems to have been so easily alleviated, for now at least. There’s going to be so much more disappointment and sadness, but if we focus on what’s coming, we’ll miss the chance to snatch whatever good moments we have left with Lou. Tom and I have been hatching some plans to make the most of that time. When he came to find me, the night I went to the cinema, we spoke about everything. He told me how sad he felt that the only reason he and Lou seemed to have to go out these days was appointments at the hospital. Lou had already confided in me how sad she was that she’s going to miss so many milestone moments, so I came up with an idea about how to give her at least one of those back.
Something else Tom told me was that when they broke the news of Lou’s cancer to the children, they made a list together of fun things they wanted to do, and so far the only one they’ve crossed off is a visit to the toy shop. Lou had started off fired up with enthusiasm about taking them on a trip of a lifetime to Disney, and visiting a country where Flo could see penguins in the wild, but as her illness has progressed she just hasn’t had the energy. Lou’s doctors have already said they won’t sign her off as fit to fly, but there must be a way around that, so we can still make some of those things happen, and we’re both working on it. The reality might not be as perfect as Lou wanted it to be, but we’ve got to face the fact that’s where we are now. The chances of any day being perfect are almost certainly gone forever, but I have to believe there will still be good moments for Lou and for the people who love her the most. I’m going to do whatever I can to make every single one of them count, because once she’s gone, I’ve got no idea if there’ll be any good moments left for those of us she leaves behind.
Mira from the Macmillan nursing team is everything a nurse should be. She breezed in today, bringing a wave of optimism with her that I don’t think any of us have felt since Lou got her last results. She talked about things getting better again for a while, as though that was a real possibility, and she explained how the chemotherapy can sometimes be worse than the disease. But she also sensed that Lou needed to talk about what the end result of stopping chemo will be, and that Tom and I might not make it easy for her to do that. It’s why she sent us both off ten minutes ago to make tea, as if that’s a two-person job. I thought for a moment that Tom was going to argue and insist on staying, but I shot him a look I hoped he would understand – that Lou needs the space to be honest with someone who’s ready to hear what she has to say – and thankfully he seemed to get the message. Lately, we often don’t need words to communicate; we’re on the same wavelength because the shared pain of losing Lou makes it feel like we understand one another in a way no one else does. When Tom turned up at the cinema, I felt bad for my friend, Dan, because it was as if he wasn’t there. Luckily he seemed to understand that I needed to cancel our plans to go for dinner and drinks after the cinema. Dan knows only too well the hell cancer can wreak and, even though I still felt bad about it, there was no way I was going to do anything other than be there for Tom. I didn’t tell Dan quite how bleak Lou’s prognosis is, because every time I talk about that, it becomes a little bit more real. So he’s probably wondering why I broke the promise I made to call and rearrange for another time. He doesn’t know that that the progress of Lou’s illness has taken over all our lives, and that making plans to do anything other than be there for her is on indefinite hold.
Joanna has taken the children to the park, and Tom is currently searching around in the back of the cupboard for biscuits, while I set up the tea on a tray as if we always put milk in a jug, and use the Wedgewood tea set that I think someone bought Lou and Tom when they got married, and which is usually for display purposes only. The truth is, it’s usually mugs all round, but what’s the point of saving things for best and never enjoying using them, especially at a time like this?
‘Do you think she’s going to stop the treatment?’ Tom pulls himself upright, clutching a packet of chocolate HobNobs that have somehow evaded the children.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’re okay if she does?’ It almost sounds like an accusation, and I understand why. Until the last couple of days, I’d have felt much the same way as he does, insisting that she keeps trying every treatment available. But now I’m not so sure, and I need to try and make Tom understand why I’ve changed my mind.
‘Of course it’s not okay, none of this is okay. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, way worse than my own cancer. I’ve only ever lived twenty-three minutes of my life without Lou, and I don’t remember that, so I’ve got no idea how to navigate the rest of my life without her. But what’s even worse than that, is the thought that, because of me, or you, or Stan and Flo, she’ll keep putting herself through treatment that we know isn’t going to work, and that it will rob her of the time she’s got left.’ My emotions feel as if they’re battering up against one another, like waves in a storm. I’m filled with rage that this is happening to my lovely sister, and at how much she’s suffering, but I’m terrified that she might want to stop treatment, and desperately sad that whatever decision she makes, we’re still going to lose her. I can’t think straight, so I can’t even imagine how Lou feels right now.
‘What if the treatment gives her a lot longer than she would have had without it?’
‘Do you really think that’s going to happen?’ It’s my turn to ask the difficult question, and Tom holds my gaze, unblinking, until his shoulders finally drop.
‘No and I’m so fucking angry that not one single thing has gone the way it’s supposed to. Even in the midst of this shitstorm, things just keep getting worse. This isn’t the way our lives were supposed to be, and it’s so far from being what Lou deserves that it fills me with rage. It’s our tenth anniversary next month, and I should be taking her to Paris to eat amazing food in a beautiful restaurant, but instead…’
‘You’re left with a horse shit sandwich at the Fucksuckery Inn.’ For a moment Tom just stares at me, and then he starts to laugh and so do I. Of all the words we’ve tried out lately to sum up the situation, this one feels the closest to summing it up for me and he clearly thinks so too.
‘You finally nailed it. That’s it, fucksuckery, that’s the word we’ve been looking for.’ Tom’s laugh dies in his throat, as a strangled sob takes its place. ‘I’m just so scared that’s what the kids’ lives are going to be like once she’s gone.’
‘We won’t let that happen.’ I’m crying too, but there’s something else surging inside me, a determination not to allow losing Lou to be her legacy, and I put my arms around him.
‘Look who’s come down for some tea and biscuits.’ The sound of Mira’s voice makes us pull apart, and I spin around to see my sister standing next to her, leaning on her arm and looking exhausted, just from getting down the stairs. There’s no sign of anything else on her face, no confusion at seeing Tom and I embrace, but my scalp prickles anyway, because it feels like boundaries are being crossed and I don’t know how to redraw them with the situation we’re in.
‘Turns out even with cancer I’m scarily motivated by the promise of a chocolate biscuit.’ Lou smiles, but I barely recognise her as the person who’s not just my sister, but the love of my life. And another little piece inside me breaks forever.