From the heart: A friendship deepened by despair

Laying a picnic blanket out next to the River Avon, I spotted my friend, Pat, striding over. ‘There you are,’ she beamed, sitting next to me and pulling out a book. It was 1985 and we’d met when we’d started at the University of Bath the year before. I was in awe of Pat. She was fiercely intelligent and always made me laugh. We were 19, carefree and sure our futures were bright. We had no idea about the tragedy life would later throw at us, or how much we’d need each other.

Pat and I shared a house for much of our time at university, experimenting with weird and wonderful fashions and learning to cook, with unusual results.

I spent our third year teaching in France, while Pat studied in Barcelona, where I visited her at Christmas. We immersed ourselves in our studies and social lives, never taking life too seriously or worrying too much about tomorrow. After we graduated, Pat pursued a career in marketing while I taught English in Spain, but, no matter how much time we spent apart, we always picked up where we left off.

In the early 1990s, we both married, Pat to Jan, me to Steve. Our husbands were actually old school friends themselves and Jan had introduced me to Steve during a visit in 1989. Our parallel lives continued when Pat’s son, Greg, was born in March 1998, followed by my first child, Cameron, a year and a half later. Then, in June 2000, Pat’s youngest, Dom, was born, while my daughter, Michaela, arrived two summers afterwards. We’d gone from carefree students to busy wives and mothers living at opposite ends of the country. Still, we managed some weekends with each other and a couple of family holidays.

At the beginning of summer 2017, I noticed Cameron, then 17, was sleeping a lot. ‘Typical teenager,’ I said to Steve, convinced it was nothing to worry about. But then he developed a cough, too.

‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Cam insisted, flying to Australia for a three-week rugby tournament. But when he got home, his cough was worse and his weight had plummeted, so Steve took him to the doctor.

A chest X-ray picked up an unusual mass on Cam’s chest, and, after further tests, the consultant said it was likely to be cancer. I’d never felt so sick with fear.

Telling Pat

Arriving home after midnight, leaving Cam at hospital, I immediately wrote an email to Pat, not quite believing the words I was writing.

‘They think Cam might have cancer…’ I said, and, although she lived 200 miles away in Harrogate, she arrived at our house in Surrey the following afternoon.

Pat took over at home, walking our dog and cooking for Steve and Michaela, while I stayed at the hospital with Cam.

For three days, Pat held us all together, playing cards with Cam and listening to me admitting the deepest fears that I didn’t dare say to Steve in case he agreed with me. ‘We could lose him,’ I blurted out. Before Pat left, she gave me

a hug that spoke a thousand words and I knew she’d always be there for me.

Cam started chemotherapy, and I put my career as an author on hold to look after him. Pat’s endless kind messages helped me to stay positive. However, that September, a month after Cam first went into hospital, an email arrived that was very different to the rest.

‘Dom is also very poorly – he has taken an overdose,’ Pat wrote. My heart broke for her. Dom had suffered bullying and struggled with his mental health in his early teens, but now, aged 17, Pat had thought it was all behind him.

‘It’s come as a total shock,’ Pat told me, explaining how she’d found him and called an ambulance. Dom pulled through, but was very poorly, and, while he was referred for counselling, Pat was effectively on suicide watch and gave up her headteacher job to look after him.

United by pain

Suddenly, we were both going through hell together. It was a lifeline to be able to unload our angst at all hours to each other, another mother who understood real fear. Nursing a teenager through cancer is relentless and distressing, but Cam had a coherent treatment plan with constant monitoring of his progress. Pat was dealing with something else entirely, as Dom, who’d always been happiest with his friends, withdrew completely. Despite our pain, on all but the darkest of days we drew on our long friendship to comfort each other.

Then, one afternoon that October, Jan called Steve: Dom was missing. As we waited for an update, I texted Pat to send my love. I was unable to stop thinking about her, imagining her with her face pressed against the window, desperately hoping for good news. Jan called at lunchtime the next day. Dom’s body had been found.

I could hardly process the magnitude of what had happened. I desperately wanted to be with Pat, but when I offered to visit she said she had a lot of family there, so we decided to wait until the funeral.

Three long weeks later, Steve and I left family looking after Cam so we could support Jan and Pat through something no parent should ever experience: their youngest son’s funeral.

Pat and I held each other in silence – a hug that felt more powerful than any words, emails or text messages.

While Pat was deep in overwhelming grief, we found out Cam’s tumour had shrunk and, by January 2018, he was in remission. Cam bounced back, carrying on with life, sitting his A-levels and going to university, something Dom would never do. While my family was given a second chance, Pat’s pain was forever. I felt guilty talking about Cam at first, until I broached the subject. ‘I don’t want you to stop talking about Cam, otherwise our friendship wouldn’t be real,’ Pat said on the phone, and we cried and laughed as we’d always done.

For a while, Pat and I walked down parallel paths, but our life stories had different endings. The one thing that remains the same, though, is that we will always support each other.

Take My Hand, by Kerry Fisher and Pat Sowa (£8.99, Thread Books) is out now. It is also available as an e-book on amazon.co.uk (£2.99)

Pat Sowa, 54, says: ‘What Kerry and I both experienced took our friendship to another level. When Cam was diagnosed, it felt so huge and I instinctively wanted to be there to help. During that time, Kerry confided in me, and I felt honoured to be able to support her.

Dom’s overdose shortly after was a total shock. He’d experienced bullying after he came out as gay at 14, and struggled with his mental health, but we thought it was all behind him. Dom was referred for counselling, but from then on he was battling to stay alive.

Since losing him, I’ve become a trainer and campaigner in suicide prevention and mental-health support. I’ve tried to use my pain to make a change, but there are coping strategies I have to use to make sure I’m looking after my own well-being too. My friendship with Kerry is one of those. Our friendship took on a whole new meaning during the darkest times of our lives, and I know we will be there for each other, come what may.

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