1
Suburbia
I had been awoken from my slumber by terrifying screeching, echoing out from across the road. It sent shivers down my spine. I peered out from underneath my covers and grabbed the first cuddly toy I could see, Larry the lamb. I held him tightly, loving his softness and smell. Needing to reassure myself that I was safe, and that the terrifying noises wouldn’t come any closer, I knelt up on my pillow and pulled my bedroom curtains open, peering out of the window to see the rain lashing down across the night sky. The lamppost opposite threw eerie shadows across the road; beyond that I could just make out the train line and the allotments. A fox came briefly into view running close to the line, followed by others. Relief flooded me that it was just the foxes creating havoc in the early hours of the morning.
Reassured that the monsters weren’t going to get me, I slipped back under the warm covers and curled up into a tight ball and shut my eyes.
‘Amanda, it’s time to get up!’ I heard my mum call some hours later. My eyes fell open upon the burgundy uniform, smart tie and blazer hung up ready for me to wear. Excitedly, I flung myself out of bed and ran downstairs for breakfast. At six years old, it wasn’t hard for me to get up as, like the train line being a haven for the foxes, school was a haven for me.
Dad appeared a little later to take me and my older brother, Mark, on the short walk to school. Dad did shift work at the Observer newspaper in London’s Fleet Street, where he spent his days moving heavy plates to produce images for the newspaper. Mark and I liked Dad taking us to school because we knew we would arrive on time.
Stepping outside our semi-detached, pebble-dashed home on the outskirts of London, a dampness hung in the air from the earlier downpours and, with no time to think, I trotted beside Dad, trying to keep up. I chattered away to him breathlessly, his large hand enveloping mine, his pace long and fast – within a few minutes we approached the bridge over the train line. Mark, as usual, was a few steps behind us, lost in a world of make-believe and the latest book he was reading. Both born in the seventies, we were eager to get to school to have our milk, served in a little glass bottle with a straw.
It was another five minutes before Dad briskly said goodbye and left us to finish the walk to school, Mark and I content in each other’s company. I reached my classroom and Mark waved goodbye as he hurried after a friend in his class.
Mark and I were close growing up and spent hours playing together. I always felt protective of my brother and hated it when he was unhappy, and would do my best to cheer him up. He hadn’t had an easy life, being born with a congenital disease where nerve endings were missing from part of his colon. Within days of him being born, he had become very poorly and nearly died on the operating table. The many operations and procedures that followed over his first five years must have taken a toll on my parents.
Sunday morning dawned and I could smell the sausage sandwiches Dad was making for us as a special weekend treat. Any minute now his voice would bellow across the house, calling us all downstairs. After breakfast Mum ushered me, Mark and my other brother, Paul, upstairs, to dress in our Sunday best, ready to attend the large Anglican church in town. Mum then proceeded to clean the kitchen, hoovering up any crumbs left behind from breakfast; only perfection would do. The perfect house, the perfect appearance and the perfect family. Mum met all our physical needs and strived to provide my brothers and me with many extracurricular activities, something she had missed out on. We attended church each week without fail and, like school, I enjoyed it, especially the Sunday school.
We arrived on time and, after a warm welcome, we were handed our hymn books, before the usual argument between me and my brothers ensued about who would sit where in the pew. The minutes seemed to tick by slowly before my brothers and I were released to attend our children’s groups. Registration taken, we settled down to hear a story from the Bible. This week my group learned about Jesus standing at the door and knocking, which the teacher explained was an invitation from Jesus, for Him to become a part of your life. I remember nothing about the lesson except the Bible passage that said if we hear Jesus’ voice and open the door, Jesus will come in.[1] A shiver of excitement went down my spine that I could do this later on.
Returning home, we all stood on the clear plastic lining that covered the hallway, protecting the carpet from any dirt or mud. Shoes taken off and coats hung up, we were allowed some free time while Mum finished off the Sunday roast. Holding on to the handrail, I headed upstairs to my tiny box room. With excitement, I knelt next to my bed and prayed, ‘Dear Jesus, I’ve heard You knocking at my door. Will You come in? Amen.’ I fully expected something to happen, or something to change, that I would feel different or be aware of Jesus. Feeling nothing, I wondered if I had prayed the prayer right and decided to try again. ‘Jesus, I’ve heard You knocking at the door. Will You come in?’ Yet again, nothing; it was a mystery to me. Now I understand that this was a significant part of my journey where I became a Christian and received the promised Holy Spirit.[2]God had been at work even in the quiet. Standing up, I shrugged my shoulders and picked up my small picture of Mother Teresa, hidden among my things, in case of any mocking from my brothers. I had always wanted with all my heart to be a missionary like her, to visit other countries and to help others. I wondered if this would ever be a reality.
That afternoon my brothers and I entertained each other with our wild games in the garden. Still laughing, we came indoors to raised voices. With an argument brewing between my parents that would inevitably turn nasty, Paul suggested we played our version of a Doctor Who adventure. The bathroom door became the door to the Tardis and, shutting the door behind us, we imagined ourselves flying off to strange planets full of unusual characters and some nasty villains. Paul led us safely through these adventures, playing the protective big brother until the voices had died down.
The excitement and anticipation of secondary school loomed when my school friend Rachel turned eleven years old in the August. To celebrate, a few of us had been invited to a show at the Barbican Centre, in London. We set off on a warm summer’s day, with Rachel’s mum driving so we could park close by. The four of us chattered away about the show, secondary school and what we would be getting up to for the rest of the school holidays. Soon enough, we had taken our places in the theatre and spent the next few hours lost in a world of make-believe.
After the show, we walked back to the car, along corridors of concrete walls. Having sat still for a couple of hours, I was eager to stretch my legs. I challenged one of my friends to a race and we began running. With the end in sight and fearing my friend would beat me, I pushed myself to full speed, elated to be in the lead. Suddenly, the hard, grey wall in front of me appeared bigger and closer than I had realised. I tried to stop myself hitting the wall, yet it was too late, and my face took the full impact, with such force that I was knocked unconscious for a few seconds. Upon waking, I saw Rachel’s mum by my side, comforting me and telling me I would be OK. I could feel the bloody mess in my mouth yet wasn’t sure what I had done. Rachel’s mum decided to drive us all home, then I could be with my family and they could look after me. She must have felt terrible.
We were all subdued on the way home, my mouth throbbing from the pain. Rachel’s mum explained to my mum what had happened, and Mum appeared calm until the front door shut. Then she angrily shouted at me, ‘How could you have been so stupid? Go to your room.’ Taking myself upstairs, I collapsed on my bedroom floor in tears and confusion. It had been an accident, a foolish accident; I hadn’t done it on purpose. The tears rolled down my face while the excruciating pain continued, with no one comforting me. I realised in that moment that I was on my own emotionally; I would have to look after myself and rely on no one else. I hugged myself, trying to bring comfort, as I took a vow of independence that no longer would I even bother trying to have my emotional needs met. They never had been and they never would be. In my childlike way I reacted from my gut, knowing I needed to protect myself.
2
Red shoes dancing
At three years old I began my journey into the world of ballet. In fact, my first-ever memory was of being in a ballet class, dressed in a red leotard, wearing tiny red leather ballet shoes, with my blonde curls swept up into a meticulous ponytail, enjoying the fun of being chased by other class members. Throughout my school years I continued the ballet classes alongside learning jazz and tap, and now with my school years completed shortly before my seventeenth birthday, a new chapter had begun. Excitement alongside nervousness bubbled over on that first train ride to Lewisham College where I would be studying A levels and a two-year dance foundation course. It became the start of a love affair with contemporary dance as I was introduced to this new technique, which was very different from anything I had experienced before. I loved the raw earthiness of the movement which allowed me to dance with a physical freedom.
Eighteen months after I had started at college, a hand-delivered letter arrived on the doormat from a man in his twenties who had the kindest eyes. I had met him the previous weekend at a church event and it was with surprise and delight that I realised he had written to me, asking if I would like to go out with him. The main issue with this was my mother. Mum’s desire for everything to be perfect mixed in with her iron control of my father, brothers and me had been the norm in our house. Mum would decide what I wore and where I went, and made it nearly impossible for me to go out on a Friday evening or any evening in my later teens. I can now see that she must have been lonely with my father often out working and, to be honest, I hadn’t disliked those evenings despite the subtle manipulation to keep me at home. Seeing the emotional scars inflicted on my brother Paul when he refused to be controlled had further deepened my compliance and avoidance of conflict. I therefore had no idea how I could possibly be allowed to see this man, despite being eighteen years old. For now, though, these thoughts would have to wait as I looked at my poorly brother.
‘Mark needs to see a doctor, Mum, something is very wrong with him,’ I pleaded.
‘Not until he brushes his teeth,’ replied Mum.
Dad and I went into Mark’s bedroom to help him up. He was worse than we had realised, unable to walk unaided. Again, I urged Mum to phone the doctor and this time, thankfully, she relented and picked up the phone.
I had originally thought he had a cold; however, looking at him unable to get up or even properly open his eyes, I had a sinking feeling that this was very serious. It wasn’t long before the GP turned up and almost immediately called an ambulance, breezing in and out of the house. We sat there for a moment in shock. It had begun to feel like a freight train gathering speed. This really wasn’t good news. The doorbell rang for the second time that morning and in a blur of activity the ambulance crew readied my brother to carry him down the stairs and into the ambulance. Within minutes Mum, Mark and I were all strapped into the ambulance and were blue-lighted to the hospital, ten minutes away, Dad following us in the car.
In a buzz of activity, Mark was settled into a bed in A&E, blood tests ordered and monitoring of his vital organs began. Sitting by his bed, I noticed some strange, coloured patches on his body which seemed to be spreading. In the far recesses of my mind, I tried to remember what this meant; he was clearly very ill. As a precaution Mum and I had been given aprons and masks in case he was infectious. Before long a doctor appeared and took Mark’s medical history, announcing that he would shortly be given a lumbar puncture – a procedure that involved removing some fluid from the spinal column. This would ascertain what the infection was.
The staff directed us to the café so they could look after Mark and find out what was happening. In the meantime, Dad had arrived at the hospital and found us in the café, where we all proceeded to drink hot, sweet tea. None of us talked much or wanted to be there. My mind wandered to the audition at London Contemporary Dance School (LCDS) in Central London which had happened a few weeks previously, in the spring. The smell of the café was reminiscent of the stale dance studio where the audition had taken place. I had stood alone in this large white room, feeling small in my navy cotton unitard, bare feet and hair scraped up in a ponytail. The tension coursed through my muscles while I internally urged the music to begin, feeling pressure from the professional dance teachers sitting expectantly in front of me.
I had wondered if I would be able to control my body and remember the routine I had spent hours working on as the first notes of the music rang out. Tentative steps were taken; the soothing tones of the music helped me to grow in confidence. At the end of my dance, the panel had thanked me for my time and I left convinced that my dancing had not been good enough, yet I had loved ‘The Place’, as it was fondly known. The bright classrooms evoked memories of my childhood and the beat of drums in the distance hit something deep in my gut. I wasn’t the best dancer and didn’t have a lot of faith in my abilities, so I was amazed when I was offered a place and given a year’s scholarship.
That had been a happy day where a new adventure lay before me, where I would be studying for a dance degree in one of the best schools in the country.
Still the freight train continued its hurtling course, now threatening to derail. Hopes and dreams would have to be put on hold. Mum’s voice brought me back to the here and now as we returned to A&E to see what was happening. By the time we arrived, Mark had been moved to the intensive care unit. We then spent the next few minutes navigating corridor after corridor, until we arrived at ICU. They allowed us to see Mark briefly, hooked up to all sorts of machines, where a couple of nurses monitored his condition. His poor body was consumed by a high temperature where the strange patches had turned into purple blotches contrasting with his pale skin. It felt like a horror movie. Due to the spiked temperature, Mark was hallucinating about the blotches which covered his body, asking us why he was covered in mud and lying in bed, convinced he had been playing football. We tried to reassure him before the ward sister escorted us out of intensive care and led us along a stark-looking corridor. We all followed quietly, not quite sure what would happen next. She took us to a little bare waiting room and briskly told us that a doctor would see us as soon as possible.
It seemed ages before a tallish, middle-aged man with thin, receding hair entered the room. With compassion he delivered the grim news. Mark had contracted meningococcal meningitis and there was a high chance septicaemia (blood poisoning) could occur. He didn’t mince his words and told us Mark could die from this; his chances were complicated by the fact he was allergic to penicillin. They had set Mark up on a drip with a cocktail of different antibiotics that they hoped would start to fight the bacterial infection. He gave us plenty of time to ask questions and offered comfort despite the difficult words.
As soon as the door shut, Dad’s face crumpled, and the locked-up emotions started to tumble out as Dad wept quietly for his little boy. This wasn’t the first time he had faced losing him.
‘Don’t cry, Fred, don’t cry,’ said Mum, who was sitting there with a stiff upper lip, completely self-contained in this situation. My mind felt a mix of thoughts and confusion. Surely, it was OK to cry? How could my mother say otherwise? Why don’t I want to cry? Surely this is a time to cry… why does crying feel completely alien to me? Worried for my brother, I could not think of him dying. The freight train had totally derailed and was sliding at high speed towards a wall.
We returned to the hospital regularly for the next five days, praying that Mark would pull through. On the sixth day, on a cold and windy afternoon, we pulled up in front of the bleak red-brick building, our minds equally bleak as we relived the nightmare of the previous days, the nightmare continuing. Paul was by my side, Mum and Dad in front. Mum and I went in first to see Mark, where the horror of the illness confronted us. My dear brother’s hands had been bandaged. Septicaemia had been on a path of destruction through his weakened body. The doctors, not convinced that they could halt its rampage, had operated to remove the dead flesh. It had resulted in Mark losing the tips of six fingers.
The doctor on duty in intensive care that day came and spoke to us. He explained that Mark had turned a corner and they were optimistic that my brother would now make a full recovery. My breath slowed down as I realised the freight train had stopped, millimetres from the concrete wall.
A couple of weeks passed before I felt able to contact Steve about the hand-delivered letter asking me to go out with him. Although he was a regular member of the same church I had always attended, we hadn’t spoken before; probably because we hung out with different groups. He appeared self-assured and confident when I called him nervously and apologised for the delay in replying. We arranged to meet up in London and get some food a few days later. I wondered whether Mum would let me go, so what happened next was remarkable. That night she heard from God; she said she had been getting ready for bed when she heard God speak to her. He simply told her to welcome Steve into her home. This meant I would be allowed to see Steve without any fuss or arguments; it was like a mini miracle and a joy to be granted such freedom.
Steve swept me off my feet with his witty intellect, his interesting lifestyle and beautiful guitar playing. I liked him a lot and barely stopped thinking about him during the coming weeks. He became a best friend to Mark, who was now recuperating at home, having begun the long, hard road of recovery.
One day Steve turned to me and told me that he loved me. I repeated the words back to him, ‘I love you,’ because I thought that was what I was meant to say.
Within eighteen months, we were married, shortly before my twentieth birthday, and I moved in with Steve and his parents. It had been a wonderful year of dating Steve and attending LCDS. I couldn’t have been happier. Things were about to change, when I wasn’t offered a scholarship for my second year. However, on the day of my wedding I learned I had been offered a place at Middlesex University to complete a Performing Arts degree, specialising in dance. By coincidence, Steve worked in north London, a fifteen-minute drive away from what was to be my university campus.
The degree wasn’t comparable to LCDS, with fewer hours of dance classes, yet the Christian Union (CU) was great and because Steve worked so close, he became a part of the group. I saw the CU worshipping God with a freedom I had never known, where they lifted their arms up in praise. They worshipped with tears and laughter; their love for Jesus was infectious. For the first time ever, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit upon me and a passion for Jesus began to consume me. This stirred my heart to read my Bible all the way through, eagerly turning the pages, excited to learn more about this man. I had also settled into life with Steve’s parents. They were kind and loved each other and loved me. I had never experienced such a peaceful home, where I was welcomed and given liberty to come and go with no questions asked.
Degree finished, and with no job offers, I did not know what to do. Despite technically my dance being OK, comments throughout my degree said I lacked something. I had tried auditioning for a Christian dance company but was turned down. I briefly considered a job on a cruise ship but realised I would have to leave Steve for months on end! I didn’t want to teach or to choreograph. Instead, I began my first full-time work at a care home for young adults with profound and multiple learning disabilities. Life settled down for a couple of years as we continued to live with my in-laws.
The CU had sown seeds in Steve’s life that he had a gift for teaching, and we were excited when he was accepted to train for ordained ministry. It felt like God’s hand was on our lives as Steve and I moved to an Anglican theological college. I wanted to serve God alongside Steve and was excited that, although it wasn’t the missionary work I had thought as a little girl I would do, I would have a role helping others and telling them about Jesus.
During Steve’s last year at college, I learned with joy that a baby was on its way. We would be moving with a tiny baby to his curacy in Norfolk. After a traumatic birth I was finally allowed home nearly a week later, and within five short weeks we moved to Mile Cross, Norwich. Holding such a fragile life in our hands, we knew it was a miracle that our daughter had been born safely. We named her Shona, which means ‘God is gracious’. Twenty months later, her sister, Tamsin, arrived. Her birth was simple and straightforward, where I managed on just gas and air. The pleasure was tangible as this little one was placed on me and immediately began to suckle. Such a natural and perfect connection, which contrasted vividly with my painful experience of teaching Shona to feed.
The next few years of our lives rushed by like a black-and-white film. Shona and Tamsin grew into beautiful little girls; I loved being a mum and supporting the church where I could, and Steve flourished under the leadership of his boss. Such heady days.
All too soon it was time to move on, this time to Hampshire where Steve became a vicar. Shona’s shy, artistic temperament complemented Tamsin’s confident, feisty personality, and this strengthened their bond as they adjusted to their new school and pre-school. I wondered what role I would have here, now the children were older.
It was with amusement that I attended a local Christian youth event where God challenged me to work with the young people in our area. The thought of working with teenagers was terrifying. Could I really do this? I decided to trust God and stepped out in faith. After months of praying with some church members on a Friday night where we sought God’s vision and will, ACE youth club opened and my decision paid off. More than sixty teenagers turned up that first night, and the club at its peak had seventy members, even winning a Respect award from the government. We had lots of activities for the youth, but my favourite moment of the evening had to be the Twilight Zones. Each week one of the team prepared a Christian message using PowerPoint slides and music. The teenagers never complained when the lights turned low and it often led to some interesting conversations. I was delighted when a few years later other team members started Alpha Youth before the main club.[3]
My walk with God had slowly been changed and transformed from the CU days, not only by reading wonderful testimonies where God moved in miraculous ways but also by taking our church to the New Wine summer festivals.[4] This was a week of camping come rain or shine, spending hours in the huge tents which seated thousands, listening to Bible teachers and taking part in the worship, where we saw many people prayed for and healed. At home I developed a love for spending time with God in the evenings when the girls were tucked up in bed and Steve was out at various meetings. These times normally included loud worship songs where I danced and prayed for God to come in power in our community. On one occasion, I had been listening to the song ‘How Deep the Father’s Love For Us’,[5] when I found myself on my knees, weeping as God showed me what Jesus had done for me on the cross because of His deep love for me. What I knew in my head about God’s love had transferred to my heart.
The following few years continued with the busyness of bringing up the girls, running the youth club and helping with the youth group on a Sunday, as well as lots of other activities. I had a passion for Jesus and a need to keep pushing myself harder to achieve all I could for the sake of the gospel. If I had continued along this path I think I would have eventually burned out.
3
Opaque skies and glial cells
It was 12th May 2008, Shona’s ninth birthday: a beautifully hot day, the sky a deep blue, reminiscent of holidays by the sea. It was perfect for celebrating. Mayhem ensued as one shiny parcel after another was ripped open before it was time to pack an excited Shona off to school. I returned home to concentrate on Tamsin, who was poorly.
As I arrived home, my sense of unease increased. I had noticed that morning an inequality in Tamsin’s eyes, one pupil being larger than the other. I had tried to work out what was wrong with my little girl, and did some detective work. Now, the internet is both a blessing and a curse. Should I have used it to look for a possible diagnosis? How could a mother not look up the symptoms her child is suffering from? I did. There in black and white were the two words ‘brain tumour’. My heart sank and nausea took hold, but today was my eldest daughter’s birthday and, surely, I was mistaken – an ear infection is what the GP had said…
Tamsin held on to me as we walked from the car to the surgery. Her wobbliness had not improved. Dressed in a cute outfit, Tamsin was certainly taller than most seven-year-olds and, in my eyes, one of the prettiest children I knew. I smiled as we wandered past people – a habit I had learned years ago. Today, we were seeing a locum doctor. Her image is imprinted on my mind: medium-length black hair, dark eyes, middle aged and dressed in smart clothing. She was a pleasant, professional woman. She looked Tamsin over and then looked gravely at me. ‘Tamsin needs to go to the hospital for more tests,’ she said. ‘I will phone the A&E department and tell them you are on your way.’ I fought back the tears as I realised my detective work may well have been right.
The walk from the surgery to the car seemed to take forever. I knew in my heart that life was about to change, and there was nothing I could do about it.
After a chat with the A&E doctor, a CT scan was organised, followed shortly by an MRI, my brave girl crying during the scans but keeping as still as a statue while I held on to her foot during the thirty- and then forty-minute ordeals. How bad could it get? I knew the result of the first CT scan wasn’t good, otherwise they wouldn’t have ordered the second. Steve had met me and Tamsin in A&E to offer some much-needed love and support. Our eyes had barely met as Steve and I embraced, choosing to ignore how we felt, trying to remain strong for our dear baby.
We were then moved to the children’s ward where the doctors would talk to us. Kind friends had taken Shona home at the end of the school day where she had fun playing in their paddling pool. Guilt and stress had taken hold, yet I clung to God, telling myself that He was bigger than the results, that He was bigger than what the doctors could do.
Steve and I left Tamsin playing with a nurse as we were guided into a room with two doctors and another nurse. The room felt enormous and Steve and I so small. One of the doctors began speaking and each word echoed and reverberated around the room, changing into a language that seemed foreign to my ears – incomprehensible: ‘Did Tamsin have a normal birth?’ ‘Was she born full term?’ ‘Tamsin has a brain tumour.’ Numbness began eating into me as the joy of the morning was replaced by heavy opaque skies.
We took Tamsin home to await the call from the specialist hospital, picking up Shona on the way, a smile planted firmly on my face. I didn’t tell Shona the details of what had happened.
Before I organised Shona’s birthday tea, I needed to see my closest friend who lived only a couple of minutes away on the same road. Jane realised immediately that something was wrong. She took me into her kitchen, away from her children, where we could speak more privately. I told her the bad news and after an initial hug, Jane tried to reassure me: ‘It’s amazing the medicine they now have for childhood tumours.’ I wasn’t comforted as I knew it was very bad news. We spoke for a few more minutes, then Jane called out as I was leaving, ‘Just call if you need me to do anything.’ Within an hour I had called Jane and asked her to come and stay the night at my place. St George’s Hospital in Tooting had phoned and asked us to bring Tamsin in that evening.
I was grateful that Steve was driving, as I wasn’t in any fit state to be in control of a car. The doctor’s words continued to reverberate around my head during that drive, and I wished I could make some sense of what had been said, or change the echoes into cohesive sentences. I shut my eyes tight, hoping to block out everything, but the mumbled words continued to torment me.
After what seemed like ages, we arrived and went to reception, where we were told we would have to wait in A&E before going to the ward.
We were presented with a cold, dimly lit corridor with hard plastic chairs, no refreshments, and not a toy in sight. Tamsin was worn out so, thankfully, snuggled up on my lap as best as she could. Another hour passed before a doctor appeared who, apologetically, said he had to run another series of tests before allowing Tamsin onto the ward. It was very frustrating!
Tamsin was finally admitted to Ocean Ward about 9pm. It had been a long day, yet at our lowest point we saw God’s hand at work in our lives, as we found ourselves on the same ward as one of Tamsin’s friends who attended the same school, and whose parents were also Christians. It was a solace to both Tamsin and me to have someone to talk to, and for Tamsin to play with. After Tamsin had settled down, Steve departed, planning to return in the morning when we would meet with the consultant.
None of the adults slept well that night. Hospitals are noisy places with beeping machines and staff bustling around in the half-light. I tossed and turned, frightened of what the following day would bring, thankful that Tamsin slept peacefully next to me, exhausted from the day’s events.
I was relieved when finally the new day started. I stretched out my stiff muscles, my body feeling heavy from this alien environment and the uncomfortable Z-bed. Tamsin was beginning to stir and smiled cheerfully at me, then asked if she could go and play with her school friend. I urged her to wait a little while until the other children had woken and she’d eaten her breakfast. I found her latest princess book in her rucksack among her girly stuff.
The nurse doing the ward rounds arrived at Tamsin’s bed and asked to take her temperature and her blood pressure, which didn’t faze Tamsin at all. She asked if Tamsin was in any pain as she could have some pain relief. Apart from difficulty walking in a straight line, she wasn’t in pain; the only other symptom she had was nausea and occasional sickness. The nurse then reiterated that Steve and I would have a meeting with the consultants from both St George’s and The Royal Marsden Hospital later that morning.
The morning passed by in a whirl of activity, with Steve and Shona arriving in good time. Tamsin was delighted to introduce Shona to the ward playroom which was filled with toys and games, and a splendid rocking horse, reminiscent of the one back at home named proudly by Tamsin as Gallopina. Having been introduced to the play therapist, Tamsin, usually confident with both children and adults alike, looked to Shona for support while we left for our meeting.
We were welcomed into the consultant’s room which offered fantastic views over the City of London; that day, though, our minds were elsewhere. We were introduced to the two consultants, one a paediatric oncology expert and the other a neurosurgeon, who explained what their roles were and how they would look after us and Tamsin. They gently explained that Tamsin had a diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma (DIPG), a tumour found in the brain stem where the pons controls many of the body’s most vital functions and the glial cells help protect and support the brain’s neurons or nerve cells. This tumour was inoperable because of where it was situated, and all they could offer us was palliative care. They reiterated that there was no cure, and this tumour would take our daughter’s life.
I found myself saying to them that they may not have hope, but I had hope in a God who could do anything. My mind was beginning to feel crushed, and I wanted to run out of the room. I was thankful for Steve’s calming presence, devastated, yet still comprehending some of the information.
They offered Tamsin steroids to reduce her current symptoms and others that would soon occur, telling us that they would observe Tamsin on the ward for the next few days. She would then be handed into the care of the consultant from The Royal Marsden where they hoped to offer Tamsin radiotherapy.
We thanked them for their time and were relieved when we were able to leave the confines of the room. We were in utter shock, numb to the core and barely able to say a word to one another. We wandered down the corridor slowly, not ready to face our children, deciding to find a place to sit and be.
In a time of silence, we simply held hands before one of us spoke. Emotionlessly, we agreed to tell Tamsin and Shona that Tamsin had a growth in her head and would be given pills to help but wouldn’t need an operation. That felt enough for the time being. We decided too that we would tell close family, and tomorrow we would email our church family and friends. Immediately we both agreed to ask our church family to pray for a miracle, knowing that God who raised Jesus from the dead is not powerless! Deep inside of me a tiny flame of hope burned.
Hospital life on a children’s ward comes with its own routine, and the other mums soon showed me the ropes. The parents shared a mutual respect and an immediate compassion for each of the children and what they were facing. Our children’s illnesses tore through all social, economic, spiritual and racial barriers. Despite everyone’s high stress levels, we were able to chat and support one another in whatever way we could. Apart from having another in-depth MRI scan, Tamsin had a lot of time to play, and we were grateful that she could attend the hospital school if she felt up to it. Tamsin’s illness had already affected her levels of confidence, and she had begun to insist that we go everywhere together. We attended the hospital classroom and enjoyed doing some simple maths and English, as well as playing games and making crafts.
The main reason for Tamsin being kept at the hospital was to sort out antiemetics for her sickness and to make sure she was on the right dose of steroids, which was incredibly challenging. The introduction of ‘our friend steroid’ to our lives would prove to be a harsh relationship. Steroids are amazing drugs that have the ability to reduce the swelling around tumours, which helps relieve some of the ailments. But our friend steroid was also an enemy, causing Tamsin to experience ‘roid rage’, changing her from a sweet, chilled seven-year-old to an aggressive, angry and very hungry child. Not all the time, but enough to make life difficult.
We had a number of visitors during our stay, which broke up the routine of the day. Jeremiah, a friend from Norwich, was the same age as Tamsin and his birthday fell exactly two months after hers, which made it easy to remember. The two of them sat giggling away for ages, while Steve and I chatted with his parents. Tamsin was keen to show Jeremiah and his parents a lovely little garden space situated within the hospital. We thought this was a great idea so, en masse, we left the ward. Our little girl, slower than the rest of us, was using the wall to steady herself, when Jeremiah sensitively took hold of her hand to help her. The garden was incredibly peaceful, and as we watched the children playing, the situation felt far fetched and surreal. We and our friends simply couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
The next day, Steve and I were due to meet with the
two consultants again, as they had examined the detailed MRI scan and now had more information about the proposed radiotherapy treatment. Waiting to be called in to see them was like sitting outside the headmaster’s office, except infinitely worse. Our daughter’s life was in their hands and, despite them saying at the previous meeting that there was no hope, we still clung to the idea of some medical miracle that would cure Tamsin’s illness.
Eventually, Steve and I were called in, and the grim looks on their faces dashed any tiny sliver of hope that I had been building up in my head. The paediatric consultant explained that having examined the MRI scan, he believed radiotherapy would alleviate some of the symptoms Tamsin was suffering. They explained the process of the radiotherapy treatment: how a beam of radiation would be pinpointed on either side of Tamsin’s head to destroy cancer cells, thus reducing the size of the tumour. The consultants made it clear that it was impossible to predict how long the treatment would remain effective, but they hoped a few months. The process of preparing for the radiotherapy would begin the following Wednesday, less than a week away. I don’t know why I was shocked at the speed of the process. Maybe I was used to things taking a long time with the NHS, or maybe this was more evidence that Tamsin was incredibly ill. As our grave conversation drew to a close, once again desperate for hope and, with none forthcoming, I prayed to my God of hope.
The next day we were allowed to go home – with a bag full of drugs, a plan to visit The Royal Marsden for the radiotherapy treatment and a whole load of sick bowls. I was sat in the back of the car with Tamsin making sure she was OK while I cried out to God to have mercy on our little girl. It was during this prayer that the story of Jairus’ daughter in the Bible, Mark 5, sprang to mind. Here we learn that Jairus, who is a synagogue leader, has a daughter who is about to die. Jairus travels to find Jesus because he knows of His miracles and wants Him to heal his daughter, but even before they have gone very far, some men arrive from Jairus’ house to tell him his daughter has died. Jesus, totally unfazed by this, speaks confidently to Jairus: ‘Don’t be afraid; just believe’ (Mark 5:36). Jesus does indeed heal the girl, bringing her back to life. I’m not sure why but I felt confident that this was the path God wanted us to take, should He not heal Tamsin before that. It was like God had planted a seed within me to believe in His incredible power to even bring those who had died back to life. A sense of peace filled me and I thanked God for the faith He had given me. If Jairus could believe, so could I. Sleeping next to Tamsin for the remainder of that drive home, I knew God was equipping me for the most difficult journey of my life.
[1] Revelation 3:20: ‘Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.’
[2] Ephesians 1:13: ‘And you also were included in Christ when you heard the message of truth, the gospel of your salvation. When you believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit.’
[3] www.alpha.org/youth (accessed 30th January 2026). Alpha Youth is specifically for young people to explore life, faith and purpose.
[4] www.new-wine.org (accessed 30th January 2026).
[5] Stuart Townend, ‘How Deep the Father’s Love for Us’, Album: The New Hymn Makers (Kingsway Music, 2003).
