From the heart: Running for Isabel
Kay Springham, 37, thought her pregnancy was going smoothly, but then she was given news some devastating
Getting into the car, I waved to my daughter as my husband and I drove away, leaving her with her grandparents. It was May 2009 and Sophie, 21 months, was being looked after by my in-laws while my husband Trevor, then 26, drove us to Basildon University Hospital. I had just gone into labour at 41 weeks and was looking forward to meeting our new baby girl. Since I’d been through labour before, I thought I knew what to expect as we drove to the maternity unit. I’d already given up my job as a nurse to be at home with the girls, my birth plan was ready, and we’d washed all the baby clothes, Trevor had even painted the nursery.
Panic and confusion
Arriving at the hospital, we were feeling calm. Only, as the doctor did some checks, his face darkened.
‘I’m sorry, but the baby is showing signs of distress, Kay,’ the doctor explained calmly. ‘We need you to deliver now.’
‘What do you mean? What’s wrong?’ I asked, the panic rising inside me.
Trevor and I tried to ask more questions, but no one could tell us anything. Midwives took me to the delivery ward, where my waters were broken, and moments later, contractions were coming strong and fast.
After 40 minutes, I was told to push.
But as soon as the baby was born, she was whisked away, I didn't even get to see her. ‘What is it? Where is she going?’ I cried. ‘She’s very unwell,’ one of the midwives told us. I should have been cuddling and feeding my newborn, but instead, she’d been hooked up to machines and was undergoing tests.
Trevor went with the baby while I went through the after stages of labour, but he was given little information. An hour later, he wheeled me down to see our newborn, Isabel. She looked so frail, wires going in and out of her tiny body.
‘But everything had been fine,’ I cried, looking at her through the glass. Minutes later, a doctor appeared. ‘I’m so sorry, but your baby has leukaemia,’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s very rare, but that’s why she was in distress in the womb.’
Trevor and I shook with tears as the doctor explained that Isabel’s chances of
survival were very small and she needed to be transferred immediately to Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH), 30 miles away, for chemotherapy.
I was blue-lighted with Isabel in an ambulance while Trevor went home to pack a bag. While there, he phoned our parents to let them know what was happening. They were distraught, but held back their sorrow to tell an excited Sophie that her sister had arrived.
Gruelling treatment
Arriving into GOSH, Isabel was taken for more tests and, at just 14 hours old, she started her first course of chemotherapy.
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ I sobbed to Trevor. All we could do was sit and watch as it took effect. Isabel was so weak she could barely cry or wiggle.
For the next three days, Trevor and I rarely left Isabel’s bedside while she underwent hours of treatment each day.
Later that week, doctors told us the cancer wasn’t spreading, and it was a slither of hope we held on to as Sophie came to visit for the first time. She was too young to understand what was going on but shrieked with glee at the sight of the new baby. ‘I love my sister,’ she declared. Five days after Isabel started treatment, I finally got to hold my girl.
‘I love you so much,’ I whispered to her as she fell asleep in my arms.
A nurse helped me carefully change her and feed her for the first time, too. It was so far from what I’d imagined our first experiences with her would be and I kept bursting into tears, I was so overwhelmed.
Four weeks later, after a second round of chemotherapy, Isabel was strong enough to come home for the weekend.
For a short time, we got to be a proper family again and spend time together, playing with Sophie and watching TV. In August, it was Sophie’s second birthday and as Isabel’s treatment was still going well, we were allowed to bring her home again. Sophie was so excited to have a guest of honour as she blew out her candles.
Days later, we went back into hospital feeling positive for Isabel’s third round of chemotherapy. But just four days in, while Trevor was at home, she stopped breathing and went into cardiac arrest.
Shaking, I rang Trevor and told him to come back as quickly as possible, but just after he arrived, she had a second cardiac arrest.
‘I’m so sorry,’ a doctor explained. ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’ ‘This can’t be happening,’ I sobbed. ‘Can we say goodbye?’ Trevor asked, taking my hand. The doctor nodded and I held Isabel after they took her off the breathing apparatus, whispering to her that Mummy loved her as she took her last breaths.
We stayed with Isabel for a couple of hours. Nurses allowed us to wash and dress her and we spent some time cuddling and kissing her. Leaving her at the hospital was unbearable, and we drove home in silence. ‘Isabel has gone to be an angel in heaven,’ we explained to Sophie, that night. What else could we say?
The next few weeks were a blur. I’m not sure how we coped, but 11 days after she died, we held Isabel’s funeral in the bluebell woods of our local cemetery. We were so broken, but we had to carry on for Sophie, who still needed her parents to be up and dressed and ready to play tea parties.
Finding a new focus
Feeling empty, I signed up to the London Marathon in order to try to give me something to focus on. I’d never run before, but I found the training gave me respite from the terrible grief. The following April, when I crossed the marathon finish line, I was thinking of Isabel and managed to raise over £15,000 for Children with Cancer.
It took a long time before Trevor and I could even think about trying for another baby. But five years ago, we had Arthur, our rainbow baby who already knows all about his big sister. Last year, she should have turned 10; Trevor and I ran 10 half marathons – one for each of the years that we’ve missed Isabel – to raise another £15,884 for Children with Cancer. Friends and family ran with us, and after the last race we went straight to the woods where Isabel was laid to rest.
Nothing will ever bring her back and we’ll continue to grieve for the rest of our lives, but we just hope the money we’ve raised can go to finding a cure and helps stop other families going through what we did.
For more about childhood cancer, visit childrenwithcancer.org.uk. Or to visit Kay’s fundraising page, go to virginmoneygiving.com/isabelsbigten
‘Sophie still needed her parents to be there’