My name is Emily Hart and Im 49. I work as a nurse on the night shift at the Royal General Hospital. Ive been here for two decades nowthere isnt much I havent seen.
Ive been divorced for eight years. I have a son, Oliver, whos just turned sixteen. He lives with me. Hes a wonderful boythoughtful, diligent, never gives me any trouble.
Well, thats not entirely true. He did give me one problem. The biggest of my life. Not that it was his fault.
Six months ago, Oliver started complaining about headaches. At first, I thought it must be his eyesmaybe he needed glasses. I took him to the optician. His eyesight was perfect.
The headaches went on. Then he began getting nauseous in the mornings. I wondered if it was something he was eating at school, so I started packing his lunches myself. The nausea stuck around.
One morning I found him in the bathroom, being sick. His face was so pale. He said he felt dizzy, that the room was spinning.
I rushed him to A&E. They ran all the basicsblood tests, the lot. Everything came back fine. The doctor told me it was probably stress, that teenagers often internalise the pressure of schoolwork.
But Im a nurse. Ive looked after patients for twenty years. My gut told me this was more than stress.
I pushed for more tests. The doctor gave me that looklike I was making a fussbut in the end, ordered a CT scan.
I remember that day as though its imprinted on my skin. It was a Tuesday. I was at work when the hospital rang. They needed to speak to me urgentlyI had to come straight away.
I dropped everything and drove like mad to the hospital. They called me into a consulting room. Inside was a neurologist I hadnt seen beforea sombre man in his fifties.
Ms Hart, weve found something on Olivers scan, he told me. Its a brain tumour. Well need to do more tests to figure out exactly what kind it is and how advanced.
The world just caved in around me. Ive broken bad news to families for years. Ive seen our worst-case scenarios. I thought nothing could shake mebut nothing could have prepared me for those words about my own son.
The next days became a blur of endless scans. MRIs. Biopsies. Meetings with consultants. Medical jargon I know inside out, but which, now, only sounded like a kind of death sentence.
Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade 4. Aggressive. Inoperable, due to its location. Treatment: chemotherapy and radiotherapy, to try to shrink it. The outlook wasnt encouraging.
When the oncologist explained everything, Oliver sat beside memy boy. Hearing his own diagnosis: terminal cancer in his brain.
Am I going to die? he asked, with a calmness that broke my heart.
The doctor looked at him with that gentle, professional compassion Ive used myself a hundred times. Were going to do everything we can to give you as much time as possible, he said.
More time. Not Youll be cured. Not Youll be alright. Justmore time.
That night, Oliver hugged me and said, Mum, dont cry. Were going to face this together. Well fight it.
And we did. Chemotherapy every fortnight. Oliver lost his hair, then weight. He was sick all the time. But he never once complained, never asked, Why me? He kept smiling.
His friends came to see him. At first, they visited often. Gradually, their visits fadedits hard for sixteen-year-olds to look mortality in the face. All but one: his best mate since primary school, Tom. Tom turned up every day after school, filling Oliver in on all the gossip, bringing homework, playing video games togethereven when Oliver was too weak to hold the controller.
One evening, as I was making dinner, I overheard them chatting in Olivers room. The door was ajar.
Are you scared? Tom asked.
All the time, Oliver replied. But I dont tell my mum. Shes got enough to deal with.
Whats the scariest?
That shell end up alone. That shell hurt. That I wont get to say a proper goodbye. That shell blame herself for things that arent her fault.
I had to slip away before they noticed me listening.
The treatment isnt working now. The tumours still growing. The doctors have talked to me about palliative carefocusing on his comfort, making the time left as good as it can be.
How much time? No one knows for certain. Three months, maybe sixwith luck. Maybe less.
This morning, Oliver asked if Id take him to school. He hasnt been in weekshe gets too tired. But he wanted to see his classmates again, to feel normal for just a few hours.
So I took him. Helped him out of the carhes so thin now, so fragile. His friends ran over to hug him. His favourite teacher came to say hello. I watched him smilinghow, for a moment, he wasnt the boy with cancerhe was just Oliver.
When I picked him up three hours later, he was exhausted, but happy.
Thanks, Mum, he said in the car. Thanks for taking me. For everything you do for me. For being the best mum in the world.
Youre the best son in the world, I told him.
After a pause, he said, Mumwhen Ive gone, I want you to be happy. I want you to live. I dont want you to spend the rest of your life grieving for me.
Dont talk like that, Oliver
We have to, Mum. We both know whats coming. I need you to promise youll be okay. That youll carry on. That youll remember me with smiles, not just sadness.
I promised, though I dont know if its a promise I can keep.
Tonight, hes sleeping in his room. I went in a while agohe looked so peaceful. So small still. My little boy.
Tomorrow morning, the palliative nurse is coming for her weekly visit. The day after, theres an appointment with the oncologist to go over the latest resultsnot that we expect news.
I sat down in the lounge with a mug of tea that went cold in my hands. I look at the photos on the wallOliver as a baby, on his first day of reception, at his tenth birthday party, six months ago, healthy and smiling, with no knowledge of what was ahead.
I dont know how to get through this. How do you survive putting your child in the ground, at sixteen? When they have a whole life theyll never get to live?
But, for his sake, Ill try. Ill be strong, so long as he needs me. Ill smile when he looks at me. Ill do everything to make his remaining days as bright as I can.
And afterwhen hes goneI have no idea what Ill do. But thats for another day. For now, all that matters is being here. For him.
How do you tell your child you love them, knowing time is running out? How do you pour a lifetime of love into the days you have left?
