Born with a sinister health secret
Our tiny baby had a battle on his hands before he’d even arrived in the world
Watching my partner, Neil, 35, cradle our newborn son, my heart felt like it would explode with joy. ‘A daddy at last,’ I whispered. Neil was grinning from ear to ear.
Proudly rocking baby Jack from side to side.
It was December 2015, and we’d waited a long time for this special moment.
Not long after getting together in May 2010, we’d decided we wanted a baby.
I had two older children from previous relationships, Rachel and Declan.
But Neil, already a brilliant father figure to my two, was desperate to be a dad himself.
I’d soon fallen pregnant, but then, sadly, I’d suffered an early miscarriage. We were both devastated. We’d tried again straight away, but it wasn’t until March 2015 that I’d fallen pregnant again.
The pregnancy went smoothly, apart from some fluid around our baby’s kidneys at the 24-week scan.
‘It’s quite common,’ the sonographer had reassured.
And now, here we were, with our precious little boy Jack.
‘Can I hold him?’ squealed Rachel, 13, rushing into the Maternity ward.
Declan, 11, and my mum Isabelle, 54, followed behind.
‘My wee doll,’ cooed Rachel as Jack was placed in her arms.
Finally, our family was complete.
Jack was such a good baby, hardly cried.
And he slept through the night, too. I’d have to wake him up for his feed.
‘I don’t want him getting hungry,’ I told Neil one night in the early hours, when Jack was 7 weeks old.
Only, when I reached into Jack’s Moses basket, I realised his sleepsuit was wet. He was soaked with sweat.
Stripping him off, I felt his sticky little hands. They were cold. ‘Maybe he has a virus?’ said Neil.
Next morning, Jack was still sweaty and his belly was swollen.
Leaving Rachel and Declan
with Mum, we drove to Paisley’s Royal Alexandra Hospital.
‘I can tell he’s poorly,’ said the paediatrician, feeling Jack’s protruding tummy.
They took him away for blood tests and a scan, while we sat in the consultant’s room, clutching each other’s hands.
‘He’s alright, though?’ said Neil, desperate for reassurance.
‘I don’t know, babe,’ I admitted, feeling numb.
The longer we waited, the more a terrible feeling of doom came over me.
By the time the consultant arrived a few hours later, I knew it wasn’t good news.
‘I’m afraid we’ve discovered a tumour in Jack’s abdomen,’ she said. ‘What does that mean?’ I blurted.
‘We won’t know until we do more tests,’ she replied.
I turned to Neil, but he’d walked out.
A few minutes later, he came back.
‘We’re going to do this together,’ he gulped, gripping my hand.
That night, we slept on a pull-out bed at the hospital beside Jack’s cot.
Jack dozed soundly, but we hardly slept at all.
Early next morning, we were blue-lighted to Glasgow’s Royal Hospital for Sick Children.
Not wanting to leave us, Neil took time off his job as a labourer to stay there, too.
‘We’ll be home as soon as we can,’ I promised the kids over the phone.
A few days later, in February 2016, doctors confirmed that Jack had a rare form of children’s cancer. Neuroblastoma. It was advanced, stage 4. Had already spread to his bone marrow.
Jack was only 2 months old. How had it spread so quickly?
Shockingly, doctors believed Jack’s cancer had developed in the womb.
The fluid around his kidneys detected on the scan may have been the first sign. My boy, born with cancer. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Blaming myself, I broke down. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ I sobbed into Neil’s arms. But I had to be strong. Jack had to start chemotherapy straight away.
Still so tiny, he yelped in pain when they fitted a tube into his chest.
For three days, nurses pumped drugs into his heart.
Tiny wisps of his downy brown hair fell out. His skin got so dry.
We couldn’t even cuddle him in case he got an infection. Just sat by his bed...helpless.
Months went by and Jack’s skin got greyer, his body thinner.
‘He’s wasting away,’ I cried to Mum one day.
‘Stay strong,’ she urged, tying balloons up around his cot.
But Jack didn’t notice them, seemed dazed, lifeless. Like a doll. A terrifying emptiness in his face.
The doctor said we should prepare ourselves for the worst.
‘If the chemo doesn’t work, there’s nothing more we can do,’ he said.
Heartbroken, I jotted down plans for our boy’s funeral. ‘We should play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star – he loves that song,’ I told Neil. ‘I’m not giving up on him yet,’ said Neil, shaking his head. A few days later, in July 2016, we were thrown a lifeline. Jack was offered a new type of chemo on a clinical trial. We had nothing left to lose, jumped at the chance. And after a month on the new treatment, some colour returned to Jack’s cheeks. Weeks later, me and Neil went for a walk. When we got back to the ward, Jack was wide awake! He looked straight at us – and a big smile spread across his face.
I felt like I’d just won the Lottery!
‘Mummy and Daddy are back, little man, and it looks like you are, too,’ I beamed.
That night, we bathed him and he screamed his head off.
‘Nothing wrong with his lungs, then,’ Neil laughed.
Eventually, Jack was sitting up to gobble mashed banana.
And finally, in January 2017, the doctor had some good news.
‘The cancer is gone,’ he announced.
‘Yes!’ shouted Neil, utterly overjoyed. I sobbed with relief.
A few days later, Jack was discharged.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
To think, just months before, I’d been planning his funeral.
Now, we’re making up for lost time.
Jack, now 3, spent the first year of his life in hospital.
And I missed out on precious time with Rachel, now 16, and Declan, 14, too.
But, thankfully, we still have our precious boy.
We’ll never forget how lucky we are.
His skin grew greyer, he was wasting away...