‘Stop! he’s alive!’
I’d given my little Dylan one last cuddle…
As Dylan opened his presents on Christmas Day 2015, I was expecting to see his face light up. Instead, he looked pale and unhappy.
‘What’s the matter, baby?’ I asked. ‘Not well,’ he said. His temperature was normal, so I put it down to him getting up early and being excited.
But a couple of hours later, Dylan, 2, began struggling to breathe. He didn’t want anything to eat or drink, and was crying hysterically.
Worried, me and my husband Mike, 37, dropped off our eldest son Bryce, 7, with family, and rushed Dylan to the local walk-in clinic.
It was discovered his oxygen levels were dangerously low, and he was blue-lighted to A&E.
When doctors couldn’t regulate his breathing, Dylan was sent for an X-ray.
The results were more devastating than we imagined.
‘Dylan’s right lung has collapsed, and there are some outlines of cysts we’re worried about,’ the consultant told us. ‘He’ll be OK, though?’ I asked. ‘It’s too early to say,’ he said. The thought of something bad happening to my beautiful boy was devastating.
Over the next couple of weeks, Dylan’s lung began to heal, but then it collapsed again.
He had to have a drain fitted, and a biopsy of the cysts was taken. Then he stabilised enough for us to come home.
But, soon after that, Dylan suddenly collapsed and stopped breathing.
One of the workers at his playgroup successfully performed CPR, but this time both his lungs had collapsed.
Dylan was raced back to hospital and put on life support.
As we sat with him, praying for his recovery, Dylan’s consultant walked in.
The biopsy results were back.
Dylan had a form of lung cancer called pulmonary Langerhans cell histiocytosis, extremely rare in children.
‘He’ll need to start chemo and steroids straightaway,’ the consultant said.
It was a blow, but weirdly comforting to have a plan.
Four weeks later, though, Dylan developed bacterial pneumonia.
His temperature sky-rocketed and he had a seizure.
My poor lad’s already battered lungs couldn’t take any more – 80 per cent of them was covered in cysts, and the rest ravaged by infection.
Dylan’s heart rate hit 200 – shockingly high – and his kidneys were failing.
He also had internal bleeding in his stomach, and his oxygen levels had dropped too low to sustain life.
His condition was getting rapidly worse, and he was dangerously close to death.
‘We think you should consider turning off his life support so he can go peacefully,’ his doctor told us.
I understood, but the thought of choosing to end my own son’s life was impossible.
That night, I sat by Dylan’s bedside with Mike.
As the hours passed, I came to my own sad, quiet acceptance that he wasn’t going to make it.
If we didn’t let Dylan go, we could risk him being in pain.
So, next morning, I brought Bryce to hospital.
‘Dylan has to go and live with the angels, so you need to say goodbye,’ I said.
By then, I was six months pregnant with our son Logan.
Distraught, I rubbed my bump and sobbed, realising he’d never meet his big brother.
A couple of hours later, with the heaviest of hearts, I gave the doctors permission to turn off Dylan’s life support.
They began by switching off one of his drugs. We had to wait for the effects to wear off before doctors would then start to remove all of his tubes.
As we waited, I cuddled Dylan, started saying goodbye...
But, just then, I spotted Dylan’s feet moving.
Then his hands and fingers started to wiggle. Next, his legs were moving. Not much, but enough to confirm he wasn’t brain dead. ‘Stop! He’s alive!’ I shouted. At that moment, Dylan’s consultant burst into the room clutching a piece of paper.
Dylan’s latest blood results had come back. There’d been a
His hands and fingers started to wiggle. Then his legs moved...
sudden turnaround. His organs were starting to perform better.
Better still, his heart rate had dropped to an almostnormal level, and his oxygen levels had drastically improved.
Afterwards, Dylan was kept sedated and given pain relief, which was gradually reduced over the following days.
It was a slow, nerve-racking process but, nine days later, he was breathing for himself.
A fortnight on, all his drugs were stopped, and Dylan was able to sit up in bed and talk.
His doctors were astounded – so were we.
Last May, five months after he was first admitted, we brought Dylan home.
Just in time for the birth of Logan, now 1. I felt so lucky. To look at Dylan now, you’d never tell there was anything wrong with him.
He’s still having chemo to try to ensure the cancer never comes back, but he’s like any other 4-year-old.
I’ll never forget my boy’s incredible recovery.
And I’ll never stop being proud of his fighting spirit.