Will you call from heaven, Mummy?
Despite raising her sons in the shadow of cancer, Paola Domizio, 57, wasn’t ready for all their questions…
As I sank into the warm water, two little figures bounded into the bathroom. It was December 2010 and my twins, Aron and Sasha, were typical boisterous toddlers. Sasha pointed at the 15cm long scar snaking across my back. They’d never noticed it before but were now curious.
‘What’s that, Mummy?’ Aron asked. At two-and-a-half, they were too young to understand it was the scar from my breast reconstruction surgery following a mastectomy – a reminder of my battle for survival.
I chose my words carefully. ‘Mummy had cancer,’ I said. ‘It’s a disease which sometimes goes away but sometimes spreads and gets worse.’ As their eyes widened, I said, ‘Don’t worry, Mummy’s much better now.’
Devastating news
I knew it was a lot to take in for two such small boys. My husband and I had always wanted a family. Following failed fertility treatment, we’d felt blessed to adopt our sons in 2008.
That November, when they were five months old, I settled them into their cots before heading to the shower. Smoothing soap over myself, I noticed a lump in my right breast. Tracing my fingers across my armpits, I found further, smaller lumps.
I knew it was bad. Within weeks, tests confirmed my fears. ‘You have oestrogen-positive grade two breast cancer,’ the consultant explained. It had spread to my lymph nodes.
I went back to my home in Highbury, London, and held the boys close. ‘How can this be happening?’ I thought. The boys needed me. I couldn’t be ill.
My husband and I both tried to keep positive and in December 2008, I started six months of chemotherapy at Barts Hospital followed by a mastectomy and breast reconstruction in June 2009.
After radiotherapy and antioestrogen medication, I carried on as normal. But the doctors warned my cancer was so aggressive it would probably return within two years.
It made every moment bittersweet. I’d been able to see the boys learn to walk and talk but how long would I be around to watch over them?
I vowed to be honest with them, no matter how hard it was. Occasionally, I’d drop cancer into the conversation. ‘You know, it might make Mummy ill again,’ I’d say, gently. But I’d always make sure we had lots of fun times.
One year passed and then another, with no sign of my illness returning.
In September 2012, I dressed them in matching uniforms for their first day at school. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ I said. And in December 2014 we celebrated five years since my diagnosis. Only, within
‘How long would I be around to look after them?’
months, I developed a persistent cough, back pain and a stomach ache. In April 2015, a colonoscopy revealed that a mass in my abdomen was secondary cancer, which had spread to my bowel and bones. I was told I only had a few months left. Devastated, I sat down with Sasha and Aron. ‘Remember Mummy had cancer?’ I said. They nodded. ‘Well, the thing is that, it’s come back,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s very sad but Mummy’s going to die.’ They climbed on to my lap, lots of questions firing back… who would look after them? Why couldn’t the doctors make it better? I answered each one, explaining that Daddy would look after them. At the end, they ran off to play. Having grown up understanding cancer it helped ease the shock but I did wonder if the truth had registered.
The next day, Sasha came home with a piece of paper. He’d drawn six boxes and written in them activities such as playing with his brother and going to the park with his dad. But he’d left one box empty. ‘Because you won’t be here,’ he explained sadly. I felt my throat ache with tears but in a way, I was glad he was accepting it.
Difficult days
I was admitted to hospital for chemotherapy but it didn’t work. My weight plummeting, I was reliant on morphine and a feeding tube.
Whenever the boys visited, there were tears and questions. ‘Will you go to heaven?’ Aron asked. ‘Yes, but I’ll watch over you always,’ I replied. Then Sasha asked, ‘Will you call us from heaven, Mummy?’ The innocence of his question crushed me.
I wrapped my arms around them. ‘I won’t be standing anywhere so I won’t be able to call you.’ I said. ‘But think of me as a bird on your shoulder. Wherever you go, I’ll be there.’
I hoped my explanation had helped. But within days, the boys said they wanted to die too. ‘We want to come to heaven with you,’ Aron said.
‘You have to live your lives here first,’ I explained, trying somehow not to let my voice break.
The gift of time
We arranged for them to see a children’s counsellor, Marco, at the Marie Curie Hospice in Hampstead where I had respite treatment. Marco painted with them, and answered their questions. It seemed to help.
In July 2015, I was switched to chemotherapy tablets. Within two weeks, my energy and appetite returned. After five months, I no longer needed the morphine feed. It felt like a second chance.
The medication has continued to keep me alive. I love taking the boys, now nine, to school. Sasha is mischievous, Aron is calm and steady. In the evening, we cuddle and chat. ‘Aren’t you dying any more?’ they ask. I force a smile.
‘We thought that it would happen sooner, but it turns out I get a little bit longer with you,’ I explain.
So far, I’ve outlived my prognosis by two years. The chemotherapy tablets will stop working eventually, but until then, I cherish every moment.
‘I think there’s grass in heaven and you’ll sit under a tree and relax,’ Aron said recently. ‘That sounds wonderful, darling,’ I replied.
My boys understand that cancer will take me one day but, despite that, they’re happy. I’ll never regret being honest. Most importantly, they know just how much they’re loved.
‘My energy and appetite returned. It felt like a second chance’