Background
If John Morgan were a tree, he'd be an oak, others find shelter from his strength. A character firmly rooted; drawing others to his family circle: under the shadows of the Eden Tree.
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The darkness appeared in 2008, like a suffocating cloak, when my grandson, Wesley John, then a two-year-old, became seriously ill.
With the family, I sat with him through test after test until a doctor at Great Ormond Street Hospital in London called us into his office on the fourth floor. I sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair studying the certificates on his wall, attesting to the skill of the mild-mannered man before us. A stethoscope dangled from the pocket of his checked shirt, strong aftershave filled the air: such a contrast from hospital disinfectant assaulting my nostrils. His crestfallen countenance and quiet whisper indicated "bad news" to me even before the bombshell he dropped. I felt Liz grab my arm tightly and heard Becky swallow.
"I'm afraid it's not good news," he said, lifting a brown manila folder from his desk and extracting notes from it. "Wesley has neuroblastoma -- a cancer -- already at stage four: treatment must start immediately." The room became dark.
Becky, leaning forward with hands trembling, said, "Are you sure? Can there be a mistake?"
"The results are undeniable I'm afraid," the paediatrician said. "I'm so sorry."
'It's not his fault,' I thought, anger and resentment flooding my soul. My fist clenched, I asked myself, 'Why Wesley, why us?'
Collecting Wesley from the playroom, we thanked the nurse and slowly trudged to the elevator. I felt feeble before our caved-in world. Our little family stood silently while the machinery hummed down to the ground floor. Wesley was cuddled in his mother's arms, as we looked for the exit.
The buoyant but pale toddler asked, using two words that he could put together, "Home, Mummy?"
"Yes, darling, for a few days," Becky said in a weak voice. "But then the hospital wants to do some more tests."
More tests, more needles and vomit-inducing chemotherapy to come, but our little soldier trustingly replied, "OK."
London blurred lifelessly by, as if numbed by our news. I drove home on autopilot. The traffic on the motorway seemed unreal as I weaved in and out, dodging vehicles. Speeding home, I raged with anger. Becky sat in the back of my BMW, holding Wesley's hand. He seemed bewildered by the fuss, pointing out the passing vehicles from his booster seat.
"Big truck, Mummy," he strained in his seat belt to watch the overtaking HGV, black smoke spurting from its exhaust.
"Yes, darling, it's a really big truck."
Becky caught my eyes in the rear-view mirror as I accelerated. I swallowed a lump in my throat. I turned the steering wheel rapidly as if it was to blame. Sweeping past blue road signs, I hurried home. Liz opened the glove box, wiped her eyes with a tissue and stared hypnotically from the passenger seat. We exchanged few words.
Over the months, Kirmingsham Hall and our family entered a confusing universe we didn't know existed.
"I feel that we're lost in a maze," Liz said. I agreed, as tests, treatments and anxiety were waiting like spectres around every corner.
Slumped on a stool at the kitchen counter, Sean and I shared a coffee.
Sipping from my cup I said, "You know, we've both seen suffering in Afghanistan when we helped injured military, or wounded civilians caught in crossfire. Bloodied clothes, ragged bandages on limbs and a sense of helplessness in the hospitals. The grief. You know that, Sean, right?"
"Yeah, Boss, I know what you're talking about," he placed a strong tattooed arm around my shoulder. Our minds were often in sync. "But this is different, isn't it? When it's one of your own it's different."
"You're right, Sean." I placed my mug down. "The awfulness of watching children -- especially your own -- undergoing chemotherapy and suffering daily bouts of sickness is like a rack of torment; it's such a contrast to his happy birth."
By 2011, the years of romps and play with Wesley John seemed a distant memory. A maelstrom of hospitalisation and treatments pulled him in. Hair lost through the chemo, his body little more than a skeleton. From his weary torso, thin arms protruded, wrists bruised and pin-cushioned where needles had been inserted. For almost four years, he'd undergone chemotherapy, radiotherapy and two surgeries. Yet, after each course of treatment, the tumours returned, always aggressively. Slowly the light of our lives faced being extinguished, and we felt helpless.
Great Ormond Street Hospital, or GOSH, London's renowned hospital for sick children, famous for breakthroughs and medical excellence, gave Wesley the very best treatment and care.
"I'm afraid it's not good," the paediatrician and head of children's oncology sombrely announced. Looking into each of our faces, speaking quietly, he said, "Without further radical treatment his life expectancy is two to three months."
"And with it...what hope does he have?" Becky's lips quivered as she gripped my hand. I gazed around the familiar office. We had sat here many times over the years of Wesley's illness. Had we reached the end? I wondered, feeling a hole in my heart.
"It won't be good," he said. "We'll do our best." He placed his glasses in a pocket and stood to shake our hands. Clive Thomas: a caring man with such a burden. I guessed he found it difficult to say more; he'd walked this path with others.
Travelling back to Cheshire for a brief respite, we were silent. I crossed the hall, forcing my legs to move. Becky conveyed Wesley to his room and an eerie silence pervaded the house.
In the lounge, the second hand of a silver wall clock twitched uncaringly. I poured Liz and me a drink, spilling clear golden liquid on a tray. I gulped it down, the burning sensation making me cough. I poured another, the smell stinging my eyes when I forced down another swallow. James was in his room and I called him down, and I rang Sean asking him to come over so we could tell him the news. James gripped the edge of the lounge table with whitened knuckles. Gazing at the carpet, he shed no tears.
"James shows his feelings differently," Liz said to me quietly. "But he does care." I nodded and finished my drink with a gasp.
Rising from a leather recliner chair, Sean hugged Liz and me, and I heard the front door close. Through the patio window, I could see him at the far edge of the lawn, kicking some trees and bushes, throwing rocks into the lake. 'I like to get it out of my system by work or doing something,' Sean always said. Sean's coping mechanism differed from ours too.
Coping with the black cumulus, I clung to the hope that fate would give us a chance. We needed a miracle.
