Fourth Floor at GOSH

In the GOSH foyer, standing before the marble statue of Jesus with a child in His arms and the caption "Suffer the little children to come unto me", I thought, 'With my hope for one little child those words are very appropriate.'

Sean sent a text message when we approached the lift. Making our way to the fourth floor as the lift jerked upwards, I struggled to put out of my mind all that could happen. Thoughts sought to gain entrance like uninvited guests: What did they know of cancer in St Peter's day? Did I trust in ground leaves from a tree? Did I believe in the Garden of Eden?
I felt Sean press his hand on my back. "OK, let's go."

The familiar metallic doors swished open and I steeled myself to follow the familiar arrows and grey flooring. I pushed swing doors and a vivacious young blonde woman ran towards us, linking arms with Sean.

Sean said, "John, Rachel...Rachel, John."

I could see Liz and Becky ahead of us sitting in hospital armchairs beside Wesley's bed. Two weary bodies rose to greet us, their tired eyes heavy.

After a warm embrace, Liz said, "I see you've met Rachel? She works with Save the Children." She looked at me knowingly. I hugged her again and held her for a few seconds.

I nodded. "It looks like Rachel has her own hostage."

Rachel giggled, "Hello again."

My gushing Irish friend fawned over her; a strong arm encircled her waist.

"Hi, Daddy," Becky pecked my cheek. I hugged her, struggling to keep my emotions in check.

"Hello, little man," I kissed Wesley's head, noticing his yellowing skin and gaunt frame.
He managed a smile.

Becky told me, in a whisper, choking back the emotion, "His organs are gradually failing, Daddy." His little body was linked up to machines and intravenous drips, the beep-beep reminding me that time was slipping away, second by second.

"Well, come on, Boss," Sean said. "Do we make a brew with the magic powder and drink it like Typhoo, or do we just sprinkle the powder on his head?" He was trying to inject humour but was also being pragmatic.

"I must admit, getting the box and leaves is one thing, but I'm not sure how to use them," I said combing my fingers through my hair.

"Wesley can't eat the leaves; he would vomit them up straightaway," Becky said.

After a few silent moments, Rachel suggested helpfully, "In the Bible, Jesus made a mixture of soil and water and rubbed it on a blind man's eyes -- like a poultice."
Sean beamed and gave the thumbs up.

Becky thought Rachel's idea to be a good one, so I followed her into the kitchen for patients' families and opened the white cloth bag. We mixed some of the contents with water in a paper sluice bowl. I placed the bag back into my pocket.

Back in the ward, Becky dipped her fingers in the dark brown gooey mixture and gently applied it to Wesley's forehead and chest. A smell of cinnamon, oranges and pine wafted from the dark patches. Within ten minutes, no visible trace could be seen on Wesley's skin. We didn't know what to expect or how long it might take.

"I guess now we just wait? Take turns at his bed?" I suggested.

The machines continued to beep. Children cried and nurses moved around.
Minutes turned to hours. Wesley slept comfortably while we slept intermittently in the waiting room on couches and chairs, taking turns by Wesley's bedside. The drinks machine was broken so Sean and I made trips to the ground floor, bringing back trays of drinks and sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria.

Night turned to day and the ward sounds increased. The hospital staff turned a blind eye to our numbers. The nurses had cared for Wesley throughout his illness and I surmised from their faces that they thought we were reaching the end.

*

At daybreak on Wednesday morning, I saw Wesley stretch his arms and yawn. I rubbed my eyes, then shook myself and finger-combed my hair.

"Morning, Mummy," he said, red rosy cheeks in contrast to his white pillow. "Can I have some toast?"

Liz looked at me, astonished.

Becky said, "Yes, of course, sweetheart. Are you sure?" He nodded, and Liz went to organise it. Sean and Rachel gathered around his bed. I just gazed in wonder.

"He looks amazingly healthy," I said to all within earshot. "The yellowness has gone." I couldn't stop smiling. I rang James.

"I've nursed children all over the world," Rachel said. "It looks to me like he's turned a corner."

Sean nodded and swirled her around, met by stares from the nurses' station.
Wesley chewed his toast, played on a Nintendo, and improved hour by hour. Nurses and doctors did tests and then repeated them, looking mystified. I understood their bafflement: they lived with pain and disappointment, their empathy and hope blunted by suffering.

At noon, Mr Thomas the specialist appeared with an entourage of student doctors, each holding clipboards and wearing stethoscopes around their necks. Hospital screens were pulled back to make room for a semi-circle of observers. Sean stood sentry-like.

"I've never seen anything quite so remarkable," Mr Thomas stated, glancing at the students one by one. "According to the ultrasound the tumours appear to have shrunk. The symptoms of disease have abated. The patient's blood count is approaching normal. Of course everything will need to be verified, but at the moment he should cease treatment and we will review his case and prognosis."

Silently I breathed a prayer of thanks as I felt inside my jacket pocket. Aware that others also knew and sought the leaves, I determined that I would guard the bag with my life. I emerged from my thoughts by the conversation between Becky and the doctor.

You've done all you can, I know that," Becky said, looking directly at the consultant. "I'm not an expert like you. I know your word is law here. But you must admit, something unusual has happened, hasn't it?"

Mr Clive Thomas MRCP, appearing at a loss for words, said, "Err...yes, I agree Wesley's condition has improved. But, Miss Morgan..."

"Becky," she said.

The medical students gathered closer.

"Becky," Mr Thomas said, "it's too early to talk about a cure. We need to conduct more tests."

"You can do tests later," Becky was still looking the consultant firmly in the eye, "but in the meantime I'm taking him home."

Liz hugged Becky. Mr Thomas relented, finally agreeing with Becky's pleadings that we could take Wesley home temporarily.

A nurse came and removed the drips and test equipment.

As I lifted my grandson from his hospital bed, a beaming little smile on his face, I knew I was carrying a miracle. My heart skipped with joy. Our family left the hospital in Liz's Nissan. Sean followed Rachel in his Range Rover to a nearby hire car drop-off point and soon caught up with us on the motorway. London looked a different place now. Traffic on the motorway appeared polite and friendly. Green fields sparkled with dew, birds sang in trees. The world had changed.

By early December 2011, Wesley had been home from hospital for almost ten months, his happy sounds echoing around the lawns while he played with the dogs. The house was filled with noisy clumping footsteps as he and his best friend Alan ran to and fro. We took turns driving Wesley to school every day. Rachel had moved in with Sean, in his flat above the garages, Sean's tree house.

The dark cloud once hovering over Kirmingsham Hall had dissipated. The true source of Wesley's healing was known only by an intimate few.

With the box and its contents locked in my safe, we made plans for Christmas and a special birthday party.