As I did so, I wondered how high a price anyone could pay for being cured, let alone a child. Hannah was wracked with pain, and although I wished I could feel it for her, I couldn’t. Doubts and distress filled me as I watched her suffer. Sick and exhausted, she lay in bed as the drugs worked their way through her body – her face the chalk white of marble, the only movement coming from pink tears which trickled from the corners of her eyes because her mucous membranes were so fragile that tiny spots of blood had seeped into them. Silently, Hannah would cry tears the colour of sunsets which left red crackled lines behind on her pale skin – the fragile markings of her pain.
I bled with Hannah too. Soon after Christmas I’d discovered I was pregnant with my fourth child and was pleased despite everything. I knew it was a bad time and people would wonder how we’d ever cope, but I felt that any life was a blessing and this one was no different. Soon after finding out, though, I had started bleeding and knew I was miscarrying. I told myself the baby had died for a reason and I needed all my strength to look after Hannah. But as I looked at her pink tears, I didn’t know if I could believe in reason any more. What was happening to her simply didn’t make sense.
Hannah sat in the middle of the towel-covered bed. The drugs for her second chemo cycle had finished last week and the curtains were drawn around her bed as a nurse stood in front of us holding a pair of hair clippers.
The previous day Hannah had looked into a tiny pink Barbie mirror before turning to face me.
‘I look like Bert,’ she’d said. ‘Can I be like the others, please?’
Bert was one of her favourite Sesame Street characters, and I knew what Hannah meant. Many of the children on the oncology unit had completely lost their hair and she had obviously had enough of being only halfway through the process. I was glad she was telling me what she wanted again because it meant the little girl I knew was coming back to me.
‘Of course we can give you a haircut, my darling,’ I said. ‘Shall we ask a nurse to do it?’
‘Yes, please.’
I knew I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Hannah’s pale gold hair had always framed her beautiful blue eyes and I didn’t feel able to rid her of it when only weeks before I’d tied it back into bunches and plaits ready for school. It had felt like such a milestone when she started, as if she was moving a step in front of me to venture out into the wide world – the beginning of the rest of her life.
‘This won’t take a minute,’ the nurse said with a smile as she stepped towards the bed.
Hannah had seemed excited as we’d planned her hair ‘cut’ but now didn’t look so sure as the clippers’ harsh metallic buzz filled the room. She was silent as the nurse started cutting and I stood motionless as the last of Hannah’s hair started to fall to the floor and tears ran down her face.
‘I want my hair,’ she said with a sob.
I longed to comfort her, to tell the nurse to stop even as I made myself smile brightly to try and calm her.
‘Nearly there, Han,’ I whispered. ‘Soon you can try on one of your pretty hats.’
I’d bought a couple that I hoped she might like – a straw boater covered with flowers, a red chequered baseball cap and a pink beanie made of soft sweatshirt material.
Hannah was quiet again until the clippers finally fell silent and I looked at my child transformed. Her head was completely bald and her eyes looked even bigger in her gaunt face as she lifted her hand to touch her naked skull – an almost questioning gesture, like a toddler reaching out a tentative foot as they try to climb a step for the first time.
‘Which hat would you like?’ I asked.
Hannah pointed at the boater and I slipped it onto her head.
‘It’s too itchy,’ she said.
‘Silly Mummy,’ I said as I took off the boater. I hadn’t thought of how straw would feel on newly bare skin. There were so many things to learn.
‘Can I try on the pink one?’ she asked.
‘Of course you can.’
I slipped the beanie onto her head.
‘That’s better,’ Hannah said, and smiled. ‘My head’s not cold any more.’
Oli’s third birthday was in late January, and after almost six weeks in hospital with Hannah I was desperate to try and get home for it. I thought of him and Lucy all the time: as I woke in the morning and wondered if they were still sleeping; as I ate my lunch from a hospital tray and hoped Andrew had persuaded them to eat their vegetables; when I heard the sounds of a TV programme Oli liked and imagined him watching it; or when a baby brother or sister came onto the ward and I thought of Lucy’s smiles.
We saw them every other weekend and they’d also come to stay with us for a night. But it wasn’t a great success because Lucy had been in Hannah’s bed and Oli was beside me on the pull-out so no one was comfortable. But I couldn’t bring myself to use the family suite because it meant leaving Hannah on the ward overnight and we both felt anxious if we were apart too long, as if the million invisible strands joining us were strained by distance.
But I was nevertheless aware that children’s lives move fast because things had already changed. I had been sitting by Hannah’s bed one day when I looked up to see Lucy toddling towards me. She’d been on the cusp of walking for a while but my heart missed a beat as I realised I had not been there for her first steps. It was a moment that could never be recaptured, which was why I wanted to be at home so much for Oli’s birthday. Hannah was also going to make the journey with me because, although very weak, the doctors thought she could manage the short trip and I’d been on and off the phone all week organising Oli’s party. He’d asked for a pirate theme and I’d arranged for a bouncy castle to be put up in the garden. I’d also managed to slip out of the hospital for a couple of hours to buy pirate hats and party bags. Now Hannah seemed as excited as I was that we were going home.
‘What presents will Oli have?’ she kept asking as we waited for Andrew to pick us up.
‘Pirate ones!’ I exclaimed with a smile.
We were all a little quiet on the ninety-minute journey home and after pulling onto the drive, Andrew lifted Hannah out of the car to take her inside. I followed behind and stepped over the threshold to smell a different home. Everything was spotless – even the black-and-white checked kitchen floor that was usually covered in paint splashes and crumbs. I knew Andrew and his parents had gone to a lot of trouble, but I felt strange – like an animal that’s gone back to its lair to find the scent of a stranger there. My home felt different now that I was not in it.
‘Mummeeeeeee,’ Oli shouted as he ran towards me. ‘Look at the food. Have you got my present? When does the party start?’
I felt a rush of pleasure to see him so excited as he took my hand to lead me into the garden and look at the bouncy castle. But as we walked outside I suddenly felt anxious. Was Hannah OK? I took a deep breath as I told myself she would be fine. Andrew was looking after her now. This was my time with Oli. He deserved that.
As the party got under way the house filled with children and parents and I went to get Hannah from the lounge to carry her into the kitchen. I wanted her to feel part of the day, not separated from it, and I sat her on the work surface so she could look out of the window at the children playing in the back garden – a gaggle of three-year-olds oblivious