Stronger together

Josie Connar, 49, from Exeter, was devastated when her little girl had cancer. Then she got her own diagnosis.

Ripping open the paper, my daughter Ruby’s eyes lit up. ‘A bike!’ she squealed.

It was Christmas morning, and for months, Ruby, then eight, had begged me to get her a new bike.

And she was so happy that Father Christmas had come through and sent her a bike in her favourite colour – bright pink.

For the days that followed, Ruby would go cycling almost every day around our quiet village in Devon with her friends.

One morning, I watched her race to the shed to fetch her bike.

But when she emerged, I saw her from the kitchen window, clutching her wrist. ‘What’s wrong love?’ I called. ‘I pulled my bike out too hard and hurt my wrist,’ she said.

But it wasn’t swollen, and Ruby could still move it around.

She didn’t seem to be in any pain, through, and was more concerned about going to see her friends, so I let her go.

An active and fearless girl, Ruby was always the first to climb to the top of a tree or charge down a steep, snowy hill on her sled, racing her older brother Jack, then 20.

So it wasn’t the first time she’d ended up hurting herself.

‘Just Ruby being clumsy again,’ I’d say, when she came home from school with another plaster.

The following January, Ruby knocked her wrist again while playing in the school playground.

When I picked her up that afternoon, she was in agony. ‘It’s really sore,’ she cried. Normally, she’d never make a fuss, so, worried, I took her straight to hospital.

‘It’s a fracture, but it looks like it was broken weeks ago,’ the doctor said.

I realised she must have broken it when heaving her bike out of the shed.

And I felt awful for not realising it.

She was given a pink cast while she recovered, but over the next three months, she suffered more fractures in both her wrists and her right elbow from leapfrogging and falling over in the playground.

The doctors just thought she was clumsy.

But by this point, Ruby was in so much pain, she could hardly walk anymore, so I hired her a wheelchair from the Red Cross. Even then, she wasn’t fazed. ‘Look, Mum!’ she’d say, racing around the garden in her chair.

Doctors kept telling me that Ruby’s walking problems were psychosomatic – in her head – but I couldn’t accept that.

It would take something serious to keep my daughter from her horse-riding, ballet and tap classes.

Then, in November 2011, I noticed her eyes were bloodshot and her joints looked inflamed, so I took her to Exeter Hospital.

They referred her to an arthritis specialist at Bristol Royal Hospital where she had tests.

A few days later, I was called in for the results.

‘Ruby has leukaemia,’ the consultant said gently.

I could see her lips moving as she continued talking, but I couldn’t hear a thing – until one word tore through the silence – cancer. ‘Please don’t say that word!’ I screamed, bursting into tears. The consultant explained that leukaemia was a cancer of the body’s blood-forming tissues, and the leukaemia cells were pressing against Ruby’s bones, causing multiple fractures. I was terrified. Was it possible that my little girl would not live to see her teens?

But while I did everything to stop myself from falling apart, Ruby just nodded bravely.

She didn’t fully understand, but she was given a book that explained it to her in a simple way.

‘You must have a high pain threshold,’ the consultant told her.

‘I’ve been in a lot of pain but I didn’t want to upset Mummy,’ Ruby said.

Cradling her in my arms, I willed myself not to cry.

Soon after, Ruby started on chemotherapy, and the weekly sessions were hard on her.

She was exhausted, bloated, and lost her long, brown hair.

But she was far from being upset – she was more excited about trying on the new wigs and hats I bought her, especially the fluffy black and

white panda one.

During her first few weeks of chemo, nurses from the cancer charity CLIC Sargent came to see us to offer advice as well as financial support.

I was a single mum, and had to give up my job as a police officer to take care of Ruby.

Jack came to visit, staying in CLIC Sargent’s home away from home facility near the hospital.

Her big brother encouraged Ruby to walk, and she took her first steps in months.

That December, we were thrilled to learn that Ruby’s cancer cell count had fallen from 94 percent to under five percent.

Having made such good progress, Ruby was well enough to return to school in April 2013, and I went back to work.

Things were finally returning to normal – until one day in the shower when I felt a lump on my right breast. Given an urgent referral to Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital, I had a biopsy and an ultrasound scan, but I was too anxious to wait for the results.

‘Do you think it’s cancer?’ I asked the doctor.

‘My daughter is having treatment, so nothing you say can really shock me.’ ‘Honestly?’ she replied. ‘I do.’ Of course it was a shock, but I wasn’t upset about it.

Nothing felt as bad as being told my little girl had cancer.

Ruby was still undergoing chemo and I didn’t want to cause her or our family any more stress now.

But a week on, the results confirmed that I did have breast cancer, and I faced six months of chemo and surgery to

remove the tumour. Knowing the chemo would likely cost me my hair, I had to reveal the truth, so I told Jack, then 22, first. ‘Stay positive, Mum, we’ll get you better,’ he promised. Telling Ruby was just as hard, and when I

sat her down, I desperately tried to hold back my tears. Although she was doing well in her treatment, I was plagued by the thought of this terrible illness taking us both.

‘Mummy isn’t very well,’ I said, explaining as best I could that I had cancer, too.

‘That means you can share my wigs and hats,’ she smiled. ‘Yes,’ I laughed. ‘I suppose it does.’ I realised then that I needed to face my cancer with the same resilience and bravery that my little girl had.

Although we were both having chemo at the same time, we were on different wards, and I felt guilty for not being with her.

Luckily, Jack and my sister Sarah stayed with Ruby while I went to the other side of the hospital.

When we parted, I gave her a big hug and kiss, and told her Mummy would see her soon.

‘I’ll be fine, Mum!’ she replied with a smile, as if it was nothing. On the days when chemo made me especially ill, Ruby would bring me cups of tea.

‘This will make you feel better,’ she’d say. She was amazing. We’d take silly photos together, and Ruby would rub my bald head while I made her laugh by trying on her wigs.

Her sense of humour in dark times was inspirational.

I was eventually told that I needed a double mastectomy with full reconstruction on 14 January 2014 – the day that Ruby’s treatment ended. That became our redemption day – one that would mark the end of something so awful, and also a new beginning. Now I’m in remission, while Ruby, now 15, was given the all clear last November. It’s not been an easy few years for us and our strength as a family has certainly been tested, but we’re all still here – we made it.

And we did it together. For more information and support, go to www. clicsargent.org.uk.