I Want Evelyn To Remember Me
The day after Emily Locking, 36, gave birth to her daughter, she developed a tummy ache that wouldn’t go away...
One mother’s heartbreak
My daughter was barely three months old – I was supposed to be there for her
After a day spent splashing about in the pool during our holiday in Rhodes last summer, Evelyn took to the dance floor for the hotel’s disco. She was in her element, per forming some of her best ballet moves. I could have watched her for hours.
I cherish every memor y I make with Evelyn. My biggest fear is that I’ll die before she’s old enough to remember me.
Evelyn was born in October 2015, the most beautiful little thing I’d ever seen. My husband, Matthew,
and I were so happy.
The next day, a tummy ache refused to budge. I mentioned it to my GP, who assured me there was nothing to worry about. They’d told me there was nothing to worry about when I experienced rectal bleeding during the pregnancy too – all part of pregnancy, they said. I wasn’t so sure. I knew my body and something did not feel right.
Six weeks after Evelyn’s birth I told my GP the pain hadn’t gone away, and so began blood tests and scans at Milton Keynes Hospital.
Just before Christmas 2015, I was diagnosed with advanced bowel cancer that had already spread to my liver, where there were seven large tumours.
“There’s nothing we can do,” my consultant explained as Matthew and I stared at him in disbelief. The tumours were inoperable and chemotherapy would be palliative. If I responded to treatment, I might live up to five years. If I didn’t, I could be dead in eight weeks. I knew I was ill, but I could not believe I was actually dying.
Matthew and I stumbled home in shock. I felt devastated. Evelyn was barely three months old. I was supposed to be there for her. I was supposed to cheer when she learned to walk, buy her first school uniform, and help with her homework. I was not supposed to die. As 2016 began, I saw a private oncologist for a second opinion. “Time is not on your side,” he explained. “I recommend you tr y all the chemo drugs at the same time. I’ve got people worse than you through this.” That gave me hope. If chemo shrank the tumours enough then I would be eligible for surger y to remove them.
Chemotherapy began. The level of toxicity was so high I was only supposed to have
eight cycles but I had 26 in an attempt to obliterate the tumours. I also had Selective Internal Radiation Therapy (SIRT) a targeted, precise treatment which shrank the tumours in my liver while protecting the healthy tissue around them. I responded brilliantly – the tumours shrank so much they were deemed inactive. In March 2017, I had surger y to remove the remaining cancer cells in my bowel. Three months later, the majority of the tumours in my liver were removed.
Meanwhile, cancer had struck my family twice more.
Two months after my diagnosis, Dad was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Two months after Dad, Mum was diagnosed with stomach cancer. It wasn’t genetic, just horrible luck. Dad had surger y and recovered well, but Mum and I both spent 2016 on chemo. We never spoke about dying. We focused on the positives, like our love of Bon Jovi and going to gigs together.
Mum died in Januar y 2017. I was devastated. Now I knew what it would be like for Evelyn when cancer took my life. I missed Mum so much and couldn’t bear being the cause of Evelyn experiencing the grief I felt.
I continued with my treatment. In January 2018 I had an operation on the last remaining tumour in my liver. I developed a leak in my bowel which became infected, leading to sepsis. I spent four months in and out of hospital. I missed Evelyn learning to talk, but I had a real chance to be around for much of her life. I can’t be the mum I want to be. I can’t lift her or carry her, but Evelyn keeps me going. Now three, she knows I have a bad tummy but more than that, she’s too young to comprehend. More cancer cells have been found in my lungs and a 5cm tumour returned to my liver, which meant more radiotherapy. I have to wear a stoma bag to deal with the bowel leak, which will never heal.
However, there’s no point focusing on the bad stuff. Evelyn and I are off to her first Bon Jovi concert soon and we’re so excited. These moments are what matter.
When cancer returns to my liver, which it inevitably will, treating it will be a problem because I’ve already had so much of it removed and it’s been battered by chemo. My only chance of survival is a transplant. But that’s not available in the UK for bowel cancer patients, so I’m fund-raising to go to Norway. It’s going to cost in the region of £150,000 but it might save my life. Before Mum died, I promised her I’d be OK. I’m trying my best to keep that promise. For Mum. For Evelyn. For me.
To donate to Emily’s fundraising campaign, visit WWW.GOFUNDME.COM/ EMILYLOCKING
I was in hospital for months but had a chance to be around for Evelyn’s life