From the heart: I’m so sorry we couldn’t save you – one mum’s story
Despite her best efforts, Wendy Willcock, 42, knew time was running out for her precious boy
Cradling my son Dawson in my arms, I breathed in his newborn scent, stroked his cheek and vowed, ‘I’ll do anything to protect you, my darling.’
It was September 2015 and Dawson was my longed-for baby – the final piece of our family jigsaw. Discovering I was pregnant with Dawson was a dream. Four months earlier, my husband David and I had exchanged our vows, watched by my children Will, then 12, and Abby, eight, from my first marriage. After our wedding, we had to delay plans to try for a baby until I’d stopped taking my medication for rheumatoid arthritis.
The odds seemed stacked against us but then the unexpected happened. During a hen weekend, I realised my period was late, so I did a pregnancy test and saw two faint lines. I bought a giant cookie for David, emblazoned with the words, ‘You’re going to be a daddy.’ He was thrilled, as were Will and Abby.
On 20 September 2015, Dawson arrived weighing 9lb 4oz. He was beautiful, with bright blue eyes. Shortly after his first birthday, Dawson took his first faltering steps. But, as weeks passed, rather than gaining confidence, he grew increasingly wobbly and lost weight.
Devastating news
Initially, the GP said it was a virus. But after I found a swelling on Dawson’s side during bathtime in January 2017, we were referred straight to Queen’s Medical Centre in Nottingham. Panic rose as Dawson was rushed for a scan and then a doctor took us aside. ‘Your son has a large tumour on his liver,’ he said. ‘No,’ I gasped. ‘It can’t be.’
But further tests revealed more. ‘Dawson has a rare liver cancer called hepatoblastoma,’ the specialist explained. A nurse gently lifted Dawson from my arms as David and I started to shake. ‘How can this be happening?’ I sobbed.
While Dawson was too young to understand, Will and Abby were terrified. ‘Is he going to die?’ Abby asked. ‘We’ve got to stay positive, love,’ I soothed.
‘The odds seemed stacked against us’
Because although Dawson’s cancer was rare the doctors said it was treatable. We were reassured that with intensive chemotherapy and surgery, Dawson had a chance of recovery.
We clung to that hope and in February 2017, Dawson began chemo. It made him sick and his lovely brown hair fell out. But he was as smiley as ever, giving the doctors and nurses fist bumps and performing his favourite trick – a ‘fake cough’. ‘Put Pat on, Mummy,’ he would say, asking to watch Postman Pat.
As my rheumatoid arthritis had returned after pregnancy, I was unable to lift Dawson. So David left his van-driving job to sleep every night at the hospital,
while I went home to look after Will and Abby. But treatment didn’t go to plan. By April 2017, the original tumour had barely shrunk and there were new tumours in Dawson’s lungs. Surgery was cancelled. Instead, he endured further chemo.
Then, in May 2017, a doctor explained the tumours were still growing. ‘I’m afraid Dawson’s chances of survival are diminishing,’ he said. I shook my head, refusing to accept it. Our son wasn’t yet two. He’d never gone to school, or sat on Santa’s lap.
‘I’ll do anything to save him,’ I said, and David nodded beside me.
I’d heard about a paediatric haematologist-oncologist Dr James Geller, in Cincinnati, USA, who treated children with hepatoblastoma. But miracles came at a price – £500,000.
Fundraising for a miracle
We launched a fundraising appeal called Dollar for Dawson and in five months, our families, friends and local community raised £350,000 – enough to fund initial treatment. But before we had a chance to book our flights, Dr Geller called. ‘I’ve looked at Dawson’s scan and I’m so sorry but the cancer is more aggressive than I thought,’ he said. It was the worst moment of my life. All we could do was agree for Dawson to have daily chemotherapy tablets in an attempt to extend his life by up to 18 months.
In September 2017, we celebrated his second birthday at Butlin’s in Skegness. The whole family, 18 of us, spent the week celebrating and enjoying family time. But the chemotherapy medication was making him sick. He was lethargic, tired and nauseous, and on 1 November 2017, we made the hardest decision. ‘We think Dawson should stop chemotherapy,’ we told the doctors. We wanted him to enjoy what time he had left.
We let off fireworks in our garden one night and Dawson stared intently at the sky, his eyes shining. As we sent up a rocket, I thought, ‘We’re sending a special boy up into the sky soon. Take care of him.’
As days went on, Dawson grew weaker. On the morning of 20 November, he started being sick. Three days later, his breathing became laboured. ‘It’s OK for you to let go,’ I whispered, my face wet with tears. Not long after, he shut his eyes and whispered, ‘Night-night, love you.’ Then he was gone. Dawson’s pain was over but ours was just beginning. Hundreds came to his funeral. A horse-drawn carriage carried his tiny coffin – decorated with pictures of Postman Pat – to Mansfield Crematorium. ‘I’m so sorry we couldn’t save you, Dawson,’ I thought. As his mum, that was all I’d wanted to do, and I couldn’t.
Now, we’re determined to help other sick children and their families in our son’s memory. We donated some funds to a children’s cancer laboratory and also started a charity with my friend Michelle called Dawson You Are My Sunshine. Through the charity, we invested in two holiday homes at Butlin’s in Skegness for the families of seriously ill children.
As for David, now 32, Will, 15, Abby, 12, and me, we’re focusing on the two wonderful years we shared with Dawson, rather than the lifetime we must live without him.
Now, at every anniversary of his death, we will let off fireworks and remember our brave boy – the brightest spark in the sky.
‘It was the worst moment of my life’