The story began in early spring. A mother of three noticed a bump on her youngest son's back. She saw doctors, made tons of phone calls, begging for help. Everyone, including me, said that it was probably nothing, maybe just an enlarged muscle and his crying could just be colic, nothing to worry about. But she didn't give up, she knew something was wrong. When everyone tried to convince her of not to worry, a feeling inside her developed. A couple of months her own father, my grandfather, had passed away in cancer and she got convinced that her newborn too, had some type of cancer. Us near and dear ones became worried, not for the baby, but for her. Her anxiety paralysed us, while it encouraged her to get the help she needed.
One day, the baby's legs went limp. He was constantly crying, couldn't get any rest. At last a doctor sent us to the hospital, where more doctors examined him. Yes, the bump was still there and his legs did in fact not work as should be normal. They said that it could just be an enlarged muscle, something harmless, but they couldn't rule out other reasons. Off we went to Queen Silvia's Children's Hospital in Göteborg, where an MRI was performed. The waiting for the results was painful, to say the least, but it was nothing compared to when the results finally came. Yes, it's a tumour. The baby has Neuroblastoma, cancer.
The following months consisted of cytostatic drugs that put down the baby's immune system and a lot of the family's strength and happiness. Still, no one gave up, because seeing his smile even when he was at his lowest, gave all of us the courage to continue, to do what needed to be done both for him and for his mother and brothers. As sick as he was, he was the source of our will, the one that lead all of us back and forth to hospitals, to take turns in handling the daily tasks, to keep life going even when it was at its darkest.
One autumn day, we were waiting for an answer from the latest MRI; either there would be more cytostatics or there would be a surgery. Either of the options would mean more hard work, more difficult feelings to handle, more struggeling. Then the doctor finally called. The baby didn't need any more treatment - and non surgery either! My first thought was that "shit, so there's nothing more they can do for him? This is it?". But no, what it meant was that he was done. The tumour was no longer a threat to him and the tiny bit that was still tucked in in his back would do him no harm. Eventually it would turn into harmless nerve tissue.
One more thing needed to be taken care of; the CVC, a tube in his chest where he had gotten his treatments through. It was there as an evil memory of a nasty disease that could have resulted in something unimaginable. Then two days ago, we finally got an appointment for the simple surgery that would remove the CVC. All that remains now is a tiny, healing wound in his chest and a plaster. Maybe he will get a small scar, but who cares? The cancer is gone, it will be no more and he will get to live a completely normal childhood, loved by so so many. This baby, and his mother, gave me hope. They proved to me that even when things seems hopeless, everything can still be alright in the end. Sure, the road there can truly suck, it can make you suffer, be in horrible pain and anxiety, but you can get through it.
Jamie, you are my hero; a tiny tiny hero that have accomplished much more than most adults I know of. You will have no memory of what you've (and all of us) have been through, but I hope you will always know how very special you are!