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My son Alfie was fighting for his life in hospital, but an unexpected arrival was stopping me getting to him. Would I make it to his bedside in time? By Chelsey Gregory, 27
My phone rang and when I answered, it was my son Alfie’s doctor. What she told me made my stomach lurch.
‘I need you to come to the hospital urgently,’ she said.
We’d only just come back from there, after picking up Alfie’s medicine.
Why do they need us back so soon? I wondered.
When Alfie was 14 months old, he’d been diagnosed with leukaemia. But after eight months of gruelling chemotherapy, he’d been given the all-clear.
That was a year and a half ago and, apart from his regular check-ups, we’d just started to feel like a normal family again.
I was 34 weeks pregnant with another baby, and Alfie and his sister Grace were both so excited about having a new baby brother or sister.
Now, as we headed back to the hospital, I fought down the panic rising inside me.
When we arrived, I braced myself as I sat in front of the doctor.
‘Alfie’s cancer has returned,’ she told me.
Although I’d known it was a possibility, I’d hoped for his sake that he’d never have to face this horrible disease again.
‘What now?’ I asked, fighting back tears.
She explained Alfie would need another six months of chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant.
‘We’ll have to find a suitable donor,’ she told me.
As Alfie was admitted to start treatment, he said: ‘Do I have to have the tubes back down my nose, Mummy?’
My heart broke as I explained: ‘Your poorly blood is back, so we need to get you better again.’
I was by Alfie’s side every day, only leaving him when I went into labour and gave birth to his baby brother, Harlow.
Alfie had always wanted a brother, so he was thrilled.
As his chemotherapy came to an end, I was tested to see if I could be a bone marrow donor for him. I was only half a match, but as no other donor was a full match, it was better than nothing.
‘I’m getting Mummy’s special blood,’ he told all the nurses.
Thankfully, the transplant was a success. When his doctor told me he was cancer-free, I wept with relief.
In time, Alfie started school. At first, he struggled around other children, having spent most of his life in hospital. But the school helped him slowly settle in.
Then, two years on, Alfie developed a persistent cough and I started to worry again. I kept flagging it to the hospital, but at his regular check-ups, his tests came back clear.
But when he couldn’t shake the cough, I became convinced something was wrong. When his lymph nodes swelled too, he was sent for another blood test.
We were told the results would take a week, so when the hospital called the next day, I knew what was coming.
‘Your son has leukaemia,’ the doctor said, and my legs gave out from underneath me.
But I had to hold it together for Alfie as we headed back to the hospital.
This time Alfie would have to have radiotherapy, as he’d undergone too much chemo already.
He also needed another bone marrow transplant, but it couldn’t come from me.
After two months of searching, the hospital found a 48-year-old male donor.
‘He’s not the best match, but he’s the only match,’ the doctor explained.
After Alfie’s radiotherapy, which completely wiped him out, he was given another transplant.
But when he became very poorly afterwards, they discovered his transplant was failing.
He was given a top-up transplant, but it didn’t work.
My poor little boy began having problems with his lungs. The smallest movement would leave him gasping for breath and he was kept on oxygen continuously.
A scan revealed a mass on his lungs, but he was too poorly to be put to sleep to find out what it was.
Then one day, I went home to Alfreton, Derbyshire, to collect some bits we needed, when I started feeling unwell.
My mum was with me and she said: ‘Are you OK? You look pale.’
‘I’m just exhausted,’ I replied.
We packed the car and started driving back to the hospital where Alfie was being cared for, but we hadn’t made it far when pains shot up my back.
‘Something isn’t right,’ I told Mum.
We drove to a nearby hospital and went into the A&E.
When I was checked over by a doctor, he looked up at me, puzzled.
‘Do you know you’re in labour?’ he asked.
I laughed, thinking he was joking, but he wasn’t.
‘This can’t be happening,’ I said to Mum.
I’d been so focused on Alfie, I had no idea I was even pregnant.
As I was rushed into the delivery suite, I called the hospital where Alfie was.
‘He’s been moved to intensive care,’ his doctor told me.
‘Please keep me updated,’ I said, feeling utterly helpless.
A few hours later, they called me again. By now, the labour was in full swing.
‘Alfie doesn’t have long left,’ the doctor said.
I couldn’t process it. One doctor was telling me my son was dying, and another was telling me to push out a child I never knew I had.
Finally, I gave birth to a little boy. But when the midwife went to hand him to me, I shook my head.
‘I want to put him up for adoption,’ I told her.
I thought it was for the best.
Four hours later, I was discharged, and I drove straight to Alfie’s side where a doctor told me he had irreversible lung damage.
‘My poor boy,’ I said, sobbing.
Over the next days, Alfie’s condition stabilised, giving me hope.
As he began to improve, I suddenly felt awful about my decision to leave his brother in hospital.
Realising I’d made a mistake, I called the social workers.
Two hours later, he was placed in my arms.
‘Please forgive me,’ I said, as I held him.
Walking into intensive care with him, Alfie’s eyes grew wide with excitement.
‘This is Mason,’ I told him. ‘He’s your brother.’
I placed Mason in his arms and helped him hold him.
‘I’m going to help look after you,’ Alfie told him. ‘But I
won’t change your smelly nappies.’
I chuckled.
Alfie was so chuffed, he told all the doctors it was his baby and it warmed my heart seeing how happy he was.
But over the next weeks, there was more bad news. Lumps began to appear in Alfie’s neck, collarbone and back, and tests found his lungs had started to tear and were leaking.
‘He’s only got a few months,’ his doctor told me.
Soon after, I went to get a few bits from the hospital shop and to order Alfie the KFC he’d asked for, when I was called straight back to the ward.
There I found a nurse pumping Alfie with morphine.
Sitting by his bed, I took his hand.
‘Can we go to the park soon, Mummy?’ he asked.
‘Yes, darling,’ I said, fighting back the tears.
Over the next hour, his condition deteriorated rapidly.
Then I had to make the heartbreaking decision to turn his oxygen off, as it was prolonging his suffering.
He lay in my arms, and I stroked his
hair as he passed away. He was just seven years old.
It was the worst moment of my life.
For his funeral, we paid for him to have a rainbow horse and carriage, and his coffin — which we called his forever bed — was painted with the logo of Nottingham Forest, his favourite football team.
Afterwards, the only thing that got me out of bed was taking care of Alfie’s little brothers. Although I hadn’t known I was having Mason, he was the best surprise I could’ve asked for.
We had Alfie’s ashes placed in a teddy bear, which we take everywhere with us to keep his memory alive. We’ve even had a suit made for him for my brother’s wedding.
Alfie will live on in our memory forever, and when Mason’s older I will tell him how brave and wonderful his big brother was.
