COUNTING OUR BLESSINGS
Sophie Lidbetter, 30, from Worthing, is determined to make this Christmas the best yet for her brave little girl.
Seeing the look of sheer elation on my little girl’s face, I chuckled. At two years old, Olive was really getting into the festive spirit. She carefully put a mince pie on a plate, and I placed a can of beer next to a pint glass.
‘Don’t forget a carrot for Rudolph,’ she said.
She was so excited she was bouncing off the walls, but it was lovely to see her experiencing the magic.
Her little sister Florence was just nine months old, so my fiancé Dan, 38, and I could focus all our attention on Olive in the buildup to the big day.
Popping Olive and Flo in their Christmas pyjamas, we snuggled up while I read them a festive story in bed.
‘When I wake up, will Father Christmas be gone?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure he’ll leave you lots of presents!’
The next morning at the crack of dawn, I stirred as I heard excited little footsteps running down the hallway.
‘It’s Christmas!’ Olive shrieked, bursting into our bedroom. ‘Has he been?’
‘Why don’t we go and find out?’ I smiled.
As Olive saw her bulging stocking stuffed with presents, her eyes widened.
Hanging above it was Belle’s yellow dress from Beauty and the Beast. Olive looked at me, like a bunny in the headlights. ‘Go on then,’ I laughed. She didn’t need telling twice.
She dove straight in, and within minutes festive wrapping paper was flying around the living room.
It was chaos, but it was wonderful.
As the new year rolled around, Olive got a cough and a snotty nose that she couldn’t shift, and she had a temperature, too.
But after the bustle and excitement of Christmas, it was no wonder she was wiped out.
It’s that time of year, I thought to myself, dosing her up with Calpol.
We settled back into our routine, but one evening, on 13 January, I was bathing Olive
Festive wrapping paper flew around the living room
and I noticed her shins were black and blue.
As I counted them in horror, I realised there were more than 40 fingerprintsized blemishes across her legs.
‘Dan,’ I called downstairs. ‘Come and look at this.’
As he came running up, his jaw dropped. I sent a quick message to the childminder.
Has Olive fallen over at all this week? I asked.
No, her reply pinged back. But I noticed the bruising, too. It was worrying.
I went to get Olive out of the bath – but as I reached for the towel, she burst into tears.
‘I can’t get up Mummy,’ she sobbed, tears streaming. ‘My legs aren’t working.’
‘What do you mean, darling?’ I said.
‘I can’t stand up, my legs aren’t well,’ she cried.
She couldn’t seem to put any weight on them.
Lifting her out of the bath, I dried her off, put her pyjamas on and carried her to bed.
She drifted off to sleep, but an hour later, at around 8pm, I heard her crying.
Running upstairs, I felt her forehead and it was burning hot.
I gave her some more Calpol but it didn’t touch her temperature, and she was up and down all night.
‘I’ll see how she is in the morning, and if she’s not any better I’ll call the doctor,’ I said to Dan.
But the next day I noticed what looked like burst blood vessels under the skin between her toes and on the soles of her feet.
It looks like meningitis, I thought, going to grab a tumbler to do the glass test.
When the rash didn’t disappear, I freaked out, and called the doctor straight away.
Thankfully they were able to see her that morning.
‘I don’t think it is meningitis,’ he said, reassuring me. ‘But I’ll refer you to the hospital.’
‘So shall I take her sometime this week?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, but you need to take her right now,’ he said.
Heading out of the surgery, I rang Dan, and after dropping Flo home with him I took Olive to the kid’s day unit at Worthing Hospital.
On arrival the nurses saw us and tried to take blood samples, but they just couldn’t get enough blood.
After one last attempt, they sent us home saying it was most likely hand, foot and mouth and to make sure she got lots of rest.
But Olive was still poorly, pale and lethargic, with big dark circles under her eyes.
And back at home she rapidly declined, with her temperature nearing 40.
‘This isn’t right,’ I said to Dan, calling the hospital back.
They told me to bring her back in, and this time, they managed to get enough blood to do a full screening as well as
a urine sample.
We went home again to wait for the results. By the time we got back it was 3am, and we were both exhausted.
I tucked Olive into bed and was just about to get into my pyjamas when my phone rang. It was the hospital again. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but you need to come back right now,’ the nurse said down the phone.
Something in the sound of her voice turned my stomach.
‘Something bad is happening,’ I sobbed to Dan.
He stayed at home with Flo, while I got Olive up and drove up back to the hospital.
When we arrived, we were taken into a side room by two nurses and a doctor – one played with Olive, while the others sat me down.
‘I’m sorry,’ the nurse said. ‘Olive’s blood results show she has leukaemia.’
‘But...leukaemia is cancer...’ I said, trying to process it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ the nurse said. ‘I can’t lose her,’ I said, as tears started coming. ‘Don’t let me lose her.’
Then I just started wailing at full volume.
‘Mummy, why are you crying?’ Olive asked, alarmed.
‘Mummy’s just a bit sad,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry, play with your toys.’
How could my perfect little girl have cancer?
‘Is she going to lose her hair?’
I asked.
It hadn’t long started growing, and she had gorgeous bouncy blonde curls.
‘Yes, she will at some point,’ the nurse said.
That set me off again. The nurses rang Dan, and he came down with Flo and my mum, Barbie.
We were all devastated, and we barely had time to process it before we started talking about treatment options.
We spent the next two nights in Worthing Hospital, before moving to Southampton, where there was a specialist children’s cancer ward.
Olive needed another test there to confirm the diagnosis, and find out what type of leukaemia it was.
On 18 January she was transferred. Flo was only 10 months old and still breastfed, but I had to hand her over to Mum to look after.
It was horrible, but Olive had to be my priority.
Straight away, Olive was whisked off for tests and procedures, and she was given steroids and chemo.
The steroids made her poor little body swell up, and she soon lost all of her lovely curls.
Feeling it come out in clumps as I ran my fingers through her hair broke my heart.
I was so proud of the way Olive coped with everything, though, and the team at the hospital were amazing at keeping all our spirits up.
After two weeks we came home – but the next few months were exhausting, with continuous rounds of chemo.
But even though there were scary, painful times, there were also times when she laughed and had fun with the nurses.
Even with everything she was going through, she was still the happy, bubbly Olive we knew and loved, and her personality, courage and bravery pulled us all through.
She responded well to her treatment, and eventually we were together as a family again.
It had been a tough few months, but we could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
Now, Olive’s prognosis is looking good – she’s on maintenance chemo until March 2024, but she’s back to her cheeky, energetic self.
Her lovely curls are growing back, too.
Olive has blown us away with her spirit and resilience, and now we’re all looking forward to Christmas – we’re planning a super special one to make up for the last year.
I want to make it really magical for Olive, and she is already so excited.
We have Lapland UK booked as a surprise for the girls, and I can’t wait to see the look on Olive’s face when we give her the special invite from Father Christmas.
‘Is he coming again this year?’ she asks constantly.
‘Yes, he’s got some extra special presents for you,’ I smile. ‘But you have to be good.’
‘I know, I will be,’ she grins.
Dan and I are also hosting this year, and I can’t wait for the whole family to be together and enjoy the day.
Our girl is on the mend, and that’s the best Christmas present I could ask for.
● Visit: leukaemiacare.org.uk
Our girl is on the mend and that’s the best gift