6 weeks into chemo and I’m now sleeping alone, have barred others from using my en-suite bathroom and hand-sanitizer stands sentinel at our front door. My immune system is at an all-time low.
I have now found a way to ease the difficulty of injecting Neupogen into the tender flesh of my belly to boost my white blood cells. I know to reward myself with a small piece of chocolate once it’s done - just enough to taste good as it’s one of the few things that still does now my mouth is ulcered and tastebuds register mostly only “metallic”. So just a taste, but not enough to get me worrying that I might be feeding those cancer cells with sugar when we’re doing all we can to kill them.
Tonight I’m woken by my son’s voice from his room across the hallway. I can hear the rustle of him tossing and turning, babbling feverishly in his sleep and then I hear him call for me. “Mummmy. Mum! I don’t feel good”. I instinctively roll out of bed and am halfway to my door when I realise, I can’t go to him! I can’t risk getting whatever he has!
This reminds me of those nighttime feeds when I’d already be stumbling to the bedroom door before realizing my breasts had woken me with the tingling of milk flow in response to my baby’s hungry waking noises. This time, I have to stop myself from going to him. It kills me.
“I’m here Elliot, but I can’t come to you, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. If you have a fever, it wouldn’t be safe for me. I can’t risk it. I’m really sorry, darling… What are you feeling?”. “I don’t feel good” he whines.
And at that moment my step-daughter Hanna stumbles bleary-eyed into the hallway saying; ”Elliot, are you okay? Do you want me to come and snuggle with you?”. As she pushes his door open, I see him reach out his arms to her as she bends down to rearrange the kicked-off covers
My legs weaken with the effort and emotion and I collapse back in my empty bed sobbing with relief at the loving tenderness she is showing her brother and how readily he can welcome her closeness. “They’ll be ok without me” flashes through my mind - equally reassuring and heart-wrenching.
The next morning, when everyone else has left the house to meet their days, I rip a page from my journal and write him a note:
“I’m sorry I can’t come to snuggle with you. I really love you. Hugs, Mummy xx”.
I fold the wings, crimp the nose and hold my breath as I fly my paper aeroplane through the door to where he is waking.
So beautiful.
This is beautiful Emma. Thank you for sharing this. Miss writing with you...