A letter to myself
It’s the 7th of May 2024, you’re receiving this letter from me, it’s February 2025.
You’ve just been told Oliver has a brain tumour. I need you to sit with me and read.
I’m writing this to you, for your heart. Not to discredit the immense support you have around you, those going through this with you and those who will help you through this… but these words, are for you.
I am so proud of you and I know you are sat there feeling like you should have caught this sooner, wondering what signs you missed and feeling like you’ve let Oliver down some how. Oliver has been seen, diagnosed and is safe. You persevered today and didn’t let the doctors turn him away. He can now receive the help he needs, because you knew something was wrong.
You did right by him.
People are going to remind you of this.
It’s taken me a while to hear it and believe it and that’s okay.
I know you’re scared right now.
I need you to sit with that feeling, and know that it’s because you love him so much. You’re going to do everything you can to fight for him, you’re stronger than you feel.
His life has been taken out of your hands and I understand as his mum, you want to protect him.
Lean on those around you, your feelings need to be heard. You don’t need to protect others from how you feel.
I know you’re scared to take him to theatre on Thursday, he’s already asked you to sing his bed time song to him. He understands he needs to go to sleep. You can and will do this for him, it’s going to be hard, but you hold yourself together so bravely. Look for the nurse specialist in royal blue, she will hold you when he falls asleep in your arms, it’s okay to cry with her.
Oliver’s surgery will be 8 hours long, I need you to keep busy, wear some comfortable clothes, make sure you eat and drink something hot. Colouring is a good idea, Oliver has some paw patrol posters, pick one of those with him Wednesday night, so he knows where you are and what you’re doing while he’s in surgery. Listen to your gut instincts always, you haven’t been wrong yet.
It’s okay to be open with Tomos about what is going on with Oliver, I know this worries you. I know he’s only little 6 years old right now, but he is so strong and brave. He is more understanding than I realised, you’re going to need his hugs and bouncy energy to keep you going. You’re an amazing mummy to him too. You have good open conversations with him and he heals a part of your heart every day.
Mum guilt is going to hit hard as you split yourself in two, but try not to talk negatively to yourself.
Please know that when Oliver is scared and hits out at you, or gets angry at you, it’s because he feels safe with you and he knows your love is unconditional.
I need you to hear that your boys know you love them and you’re doing an amazing job. Listen to others when they tell you this.
Oliver has grade 4 medulloblastoma.
This is a malignant brain tumour.
Oliver has cancer.
I understand this is the most heart-breaking thing you could hear, and you’re wondering how your heart will survive this. I’m still scared now and that’s okay. You will feel joy again, I promise. You will hear him laugh again, you will see him learn to walk again, you will see him learn to eat and talk again and you will be so intensely proud of every single moment he fights through.
He is going to get through this because you’re his mum. You’re right by his side.
You’re going to be scared to watch him lose his hair, to lose what you know your little Oliver to be. You were never meant to see your little boy’s body endure the treatments to come.
It’s going to be hard to sign those consent form for treatment, but please understand this is out of your hands. Trust his team.
You’re scared you’ll lose Oliver.
I’ll let you know if that fear ever eases, I’m not entirely sure it will.
I guess it feels as if every day is borrowed time. Don’t forget to remain grateful, it will be hard not to fall amongst the grief.
It’s okay to grieve the days pre diagnosis, but know he is here with me now. He is safe, he is loved and he is okay.
And, so are you, I promise.
A lot is going to happen between where you are and where I am right now. I won’t overwhelm you with the details, maybe I can write to you again. Telling you what I know you need to hear in this moment, has helped heal a part of me today.
Thank you for sitting with me to read.