How does a mum whose son survived comfort a friend whose child died?
In the final part of this year’s most shattering memoir, two women share the intimate diary of how their friendship was challenged by a terrible twist of fate
MEETING at university, Kerry Fisher and Pat Sowa never expected their friendship would become a lifeline.
Kerry became an author, living with husband Steve, son Cameron and younger daughter Michaela; Pat, a head teacher, living with husband Jan and sons Greg and Dom.
Last week, in our first extract from their memoir Take My Hand, Kerry, now 53, and Pat, 54, told how they both found their teenage sons facing life-threatening illness. Kerry’s son Cameron began chemo for a rare cancer, while Pat’s son Dom was receiving counselling after emerging mental health issues prompted an overdose.
Here, in the final part of their deeply moving story, Kerry is about to learn whether Cameron, turning 18, is responding to treatment. Meanwhile, 17-year-old Dom has gone missing during a family holiday, sparking a major police search.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
PAT HERE in Cornwall, hundreds of locals are looking for Dom. Caged in our holiday cottage, I want to be out there hunting, too, but the police ask us to stay where we are in case he turns up.
My husband Jan, our older son Greg and I are by turns prowling, sitting, scrolling through messages. I text Kerry to tell her we fear the very worst — that we have lost him.
Later, the world falls dark and silent as the helicopters and search parties head home for the night.
In bed, I lie awake and think of my boy. I try to will him alive with my mother love. But, as my tired and bruised heart searches for hope, a coldness creeps over me.
Monday, October 30
PAT THE hell we have been living in continues with a hideous rhythm all of its own: the police, the updates, the stuttering radios. Then, the detective in charge of the search bursts in and asks us to sit down. He is panting heavily and apologises, saying he had to run to beat social media.
He explains that they have found a body in the sea. It is a young male.
The three of us cling together, heads bent against this news as my world compresses to a pinprick of light, then explodes into a million shards of pain.
KERRY HAVING cancer has not dimmed Cam’s enthusiasm for birthdays. We all join in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ but my mind keeps drifting to Cornwall. Although I have railed against the injustice that Cam will be celebrating his 18th with a blood test, Pat’s situation makes me painfully aware that there is always someone worse off.
At The Royal Marsden Hospital, the process is swift and the nurses make a fuss of the birthday boy. He soon goes back to school.
Then, the news from Cornwall comes in: they have found Dom’s body. I message Pat to let her know I could be with her by tomorrow afternoon if any use. She says she’ll save my company for later when the numbness wears off.
Tuesday, October 31
PAT
THE day after Dom’s body is found, the weather is beautiful. Jan, Greg and I go for a walk together along the coast.
As we walk, Greg says: ‘Dom didn’t do this to hurt us.’ Dom was ill; the proper help just wasn’t there. The view in hindsight is searingly bright, and we can only spend so much time discussing the ‘if onlys’ before it hurts too much.
At the end of the week, Dom’s body is taken back to Yorkshire, where we live, and we must follow. We drop Greg at his student digs in Cornwall, then fly home.
I have tried to ready myself for stepping over the threshold into a house without children. But when we arrive our home is filled with a warm glow, with every candle lit and a welcoming committee made up of nearly all our closest friends.
Friday, November 3
KERRY
CAM and I drive to the Marsden for the scan, halfway through his treatment for a rare cancer of the lymphatic system, to see whether it’s working. At home afterwards, I find a text from Pat. She asks about Cam’s scan and I text back: ‘No idea until next week. Wish you were here to hug.’ Only a really special person could be generous enough to ask about my son when hers is lost to her for ever.
Six days later, we are back at the hospital for the results. Our oncologist tells us it’s excellent news — Cam’s tumour has shrunk by 60 per cent. I send a blanket text to everyone to let them know, then I go with Cam for his next chemo.
As I sit watching the poison pump into Cam, hope seeps into the cracks where despair was. I wonder how Pat and Jan are coping with our good news, when theirs is so painful.
Then a text full of champagne corks arrives from Pat, followed by an email from Jan to say the news about Cam really lifted him.
November 2017
PAT
FOR the first weeks after losing
Dom, nothing matters beyond surviving, finding a way to carry on through the pain.
A bird feeder that Dom and I built connects me to him and I tend to it religiously, obsessed with the idea that I must keep the starlings alive.
I spend hours watching them through the window, tears quick to flow as I wish for a return to the times Dom and I did this together.
Amid the despair, I have moments of pure rage at the unfairness of Dom’s treatment. I have Cam’s fivestar cancer treatment to compare it with, which sharpens my gaze.
I realise how the professionals tasked with helping Dom lacked the tools to see how ill my boy was, and failed to give me and Jan any useful support to keep him alive in our role as de facto carers.
The stigma around mental health holds us all back from investing in it, improving survival rates. Slowly, I am finding some fuel to live on: the need for things to change.
I long for a sign of life from beyond. One night I am rewarded with a vivid image of Dom smiling and haloed in golden light. I wake weeping and take the dream as a blessing.
Tuesday, November 21
KERRY
THE night before Dom’s funeral, Steve and I arrive in Yorkshire and have dinner with Pat and Jan at their home. It’s so good to be able to hug them tightly. It is just over three months since Pat came to join me in hospital when Cam was first diagnosed. Three short months in which she has lost her son, and we cling to the hope that we’ll keep ours.
Wednesday, November 22
PAT
ON THE day of my Dom’s funeral I am stiff from the effort of not collapsing. At the chapel, I register it is packed but face resolutely forwards, only pausing to place my hand on Dom’s coffin. Silently, I tell him I love him to Pluto and back a million times.
Huddled on the front pew, our family feels pitifully small. Feeling the wall of love at my back gives me just enough of a lifeline to inhale air.
Then it is my turn to talk about Dom. Gazing out from the lectern across the sea of familiar faces, I dare to talk of when he came out as gay and the bullying that followed. And how it taught me that kindness is really the only way to create a decent world. I
speak out loud my love for him. It is too late but I hope he can hear me.
KERRY AT THE chapel, I wonder how this gorgeous boy can really have believed the world was better off without him. I have flashes of fear that this is a dress rehearsal for us. I feel selfish and small for thinking that way, but I can’t help it.
When Pat talks about Dom, I don’t think I have ever respected anyone more in my life. I love her for making sure we understand that Dom’s suicide isn’t what defines him — it was the devastating outcome of his diseased mind.
Hearing her say, ‘I wish I’d known how to stop him slipping through my fingers, but it comforts me to know he is free and at peace and wants us to live our lives joyfully,’ breaks through the steel doors I have built around my heart. I cling to Steve’s arm, sobbing, as Pat dips her shoulder under Dom’s coffin and, with Jan, Greg and her brother, takes Dom on his last journey.
December 2017
PAT
IN THE aftermath of Dom’s Gathering, as we called his funeral, I cry endlessly. I am not ready to go back to work but Richard, a fellow head teacher, asks if I would like to speak at next summer’s teachers’ conference about mental health. I leap at the offer.
January 17, 2018
KERRY CAM had his last chemo in December. I should feel relieved but all I have been able to focus on is the tick-tock of the clock towards today’s scan which will tell us if the cancer is still active.
The day after Cam’s scan, the oncologist puts us out of our misery. There is no sign of cancer activity; he doesn’t need radiotherapy.
Steve laughs, Cam and I cry; we burble our thanks. But what words would be strong enough to thank anyone for giving us back our son?
We let everyone know, Cam dashes straight back to school. I cry all day. Pat texts: ‘Just heard the news. FANTASTIC xxxx.’
Sunday, January 28
KERRY TEN days after Cam’s clear scan, I don’t yet know if Pat can bear to hear about Cam or whether it’s just clumsy to mention him. But I do want to know how she’s doing, so I telephone, determined to be cheery. I don’t realise we’re going to have
the conversation today, but when I hear her voice I know this is not something I can dodge.
She makes it easy for me by asking how Cam is and I tell her I feel awful talking about Cam when Dom’s not here any more.
She doesn’t hesitate: ‘I get that,’ she replies. ‘But how would it possibly make me feel better if Cam had died?’
‘I don’t think it would make you feel better,’ I tell her. ‘But up until now we were both in the same boat.’
‘Don’t stop talking to me about Cam, otherwise our friendship won’t be real.’
The elephant leaves the room as we both sob. Eventually, we default to our established coping mechanism of laughing in the worst possible circumstances.
We agree we’re glad we had no idea what life had in store for us when we met at Freshers’ Week.
When I put the phone down, the strength that underpinned the conversation takes me back to the day of Dom’s funeral.
I’ve never known Pat quit at anything in her life and I am certain that, even given the Herculean task of finding a way forwards, she won’t do so now.
July 2018
PAT I AM addressing a conference centre full of fellow teachers about mental illness and what more we must do. I have practised day and night and held myself together by imagining Dom listening in.
As the final lines of my speech echo around the hall, I receive a standing ovation. I’ve done it. Only nine months ago, my son was ripped away from me and this feels like a way of honouring him.
Afterwards, a stranger thanks me: ‘I’m a youth worker and I know it needs saying. You will have saved lives today.’
September 2018
KERRY SINCE Cam went into remission, he’s had a cough that lingered all summer. We can’t quite believe it’s just a virus. But two days before he is due to leave for university, we hear he is still in the clear.
Driving him to his new life, I feel barely capable of holding in such conflicting feelings — delighted he is finally doing what he should be doing, but afraid because no one will be secretly inspecting him for ‘return of cancer’ as I often do.
But, as I hug him goodbye, I recognise my own distress for what it is. Normal, not exceptional, heartbreak. Amen to that.
ADAPTED from Take My Hand, by Kerry Fisher and Pat Sowa, published by Thread Books at €10.99. © Kerry Fisher and Pat Sowa 2020. Also available in ebook from amazon.co.uk SAMARITANS 24-hour helpline: 116 123 YOUTH SUICIDE PREVENTION IRELAND: 021 2427171, youthsuicideprevention.ie JIGSAW: jigsaw.ie AWARE: Call 1800 80 4848