Pregnancy is romantic and beautiful… but we had this whole other journey
Evelyn. ‘That email and that phone call with her that day just changed everything,’ Evelyn says.
‘For me to hear her son’s voice in the background, to know that he was a real person and he was being a bit of a brat in a lovely, wonderful way… All those dreams I had in my head for my own child, this eightyear- old at the end of the phone brought it all to a head. It was evidence, it was proof. That day was the most extraordinary thing, and we’re still in touch all the time.’
After six sessions of chemotherapy, Evelyn was finished in November – and the upcoming birth became more real, while the timing was crucial. If she went past her due date, and if she ended up undergoing an emergency C- section, the wound would have to heal before she could begin radiotherapy.
So Evelyn and John decided she would have an elective section on February 2, and Ross was born healthy and happy — while his parents collapsed into tears of relief.
‘He is a miracle, and when things are tough and bad, life, you’re having a bad day or whatever, he’s my talisman,’ Evelyn says. ‘Now I know good things can happen. I just look at him and go: “All the love and luck and medical science in the world, look what we can do.” So he is my kind of lucky charm.
‘He’s the person who just convinces me every time, reminds me every time, of how wonderful and great and amazing life can be — and that’s a lovely gift.’
Her joy turned to blackness, however, when she brought Ross home on day six, and she sought counselling, exhausted and overwhelmed by the entire experience. ‘I remem- bered the advice to be aware days six, seven, and eight are really kind of vulnerable days for new mothers, so it’s not a surprise.
‘But I’m really proud of myself and John. We asked for help. I rang the Irish Cancer Society and I said: “I need to talk to somebody.” They put me on to Arc Cancer Support Care.’
She attended several sessions and began feeling better, but what she didn’t realise was that she’d find a different, cathartic way of processing the whole experience — writing.
After finishing radiotherapy, and getting the all-clear, one day Evelyn sat down and began to write to her son, the letters of which have been made into a book, called Dear Ross.
‘I wrote a letter to Ross, and I don’t know why,’ says Evelyn, now 41.
‘I just did it, and John read it and loved it and said: “Wow, this is really interesting.” Both he and my mum felt that it was a really good idea to write it and not put pressure on myself but just see what that was.’ She adds: ‘So many bright, smart people talk about mental health issues, and it’s brilliant we’re all talking about this now. I was concerned. I knew I’d been through a huge experience, but I was so busy with two small children and moving forward, I was worried. “What if I haven’t dealt with this? What if this is a shadow that’s somewhere that I need to look at?” So in a way, the book was partly therapy for me.
‘It was incredibly cathartic, because now I know I’ve examined it. I’ve looked at those dark moments. I’ve pummelled them, and I think they don’t have power and a grip on me now. The fact it’s turned into a book was a whole other stage, because you don’t know — how can you? — when you sit down to write something so deeply personal, if it’s going to resonate beyond your sitting room walls.’
In addition to outlining her struggle as a pregnant cancer patient, the book includes letters from Evelyn to Ross — particularly after huge, revelatory moments during her story. ‘I suppose we don’t write letters any more, and how else do you address a baby with something that you want to be permanent?’ she says.
THERE’S a romance to it, and i t’s something you grow up learning about, parents writing to their children. There’s something really gorgeous about that and sincere and fabulous and loving. I suppose maybe it was just all that instinct. The words “Dear Ross” made sense to me.
‘The story was so chaotic, and the time was so chaotic, and I needed all the time for him to be clear that within all that medical stuff, that myself and himself, we were actually fine — and that what was happening between us was straightforward, a nd our connection utterly untouched by the madness of the medical records, the tests, the blood tests and all that.’
Since Ross’s birth, she has become a passionate advocate for increased cancer research funding, particularly through a charity called the All I r el and Cooperative Cli ni c al Research Group (ICORG), which focuses on research and drug trials.
‘Research is just key,’ says Evelyn, who is back working for RTÉ on the Arena programme. ‘The incidence of cancer is just rising and rising, so we have to just spend lots and lots on research.
‘Money is stretched and all that, but it’s just so important. I want to normalise the experience of cancer. I want it to feel like something that can happen to anybody, because it can and there should be no mystery or secrecy around it.
‘The reason Ross and I are here and safe and well is because, through trial and error, researchers over the years have worked out the drugs you can administer safely to pregnant women. That’s extraordinary.’
She adds: ‘I’m so grateful for anyone who ever bought a pink ribbon or took part in a trial because it all led to me and Ross being able to walk away safely.’
Now for Evelyn — who must remain on medication to regulate her oestrogen levels for several years — every day with Ross is a miracle.
‘I had no superpowers with this; I am extremely ordinary,’ she smiles.
‘I wouldn’t have thought I could cope with it, but you’re tougher than you think.
‘And if I could get through that, trust me, chances are other people can do it really well.’