We were totally blessed when both of Steve’s daughters had twins within three months of each other. Four babies – just like that (well, not for the mums, obviously). And you know how you don’t care what sex they are (a boy and a girl, and two girls, since you ask), as long as they are happy and healthy? Well, one of them was not as healthy he first appeared. Little Kit (Rosie and Laurence’s boy) was only three months old when he started having fits and was very quickly hospitalised.
Naturally, his parents were worried sick. Naturally, they both wanted to be in the ICU ward together when the doctors came round. A rota of friends and relatives took it in turns to look after his sister, Sky, and I bagsied a chance, too.
As did our youngest son, their Uncle Sam. He’d never looked after a baby (or even a small child) before, but he dropped everything and went up to London for his turn to be exhausted in a way he didn’t know was humanly possible. Did a fantastic job, too.
Kit was diagnosed with Epilepsy and given medication that did the job, one the right type and dosage was found. Phew. Crisis – not exactly over – but manageable.
In the months that followed, Kit had regular check ups. Although the dosage frequently needed changing in line with his increasing body weight, things were stable (-ish) for the family. There was even some suggestion that he might outgrow the condition as he reached the age of two.
And then, the last time we were in England, something new came out of one of those check ups.
They found a brain tumour.
Yup.
There it is: every parents’ worst nightmare.
I remember getting the news whilst waiting in the car for Steve. He was organising getting the windows sorted on Georgie, and I stumbled up to him, told him the cold, bare facts, and burst into tears. Horrible, awful, scary.
Rosie and Laurence coped extraordinarily well considering the circumstances; there were no news reports that night of screaming maniacs disturbing the peace in Bromley. But they had to wait weeks for an appointment to see a specialist who could give them the info they needed and answer their questions.
The day before we left for our second journey, the meeting happened. We looked after Sky, and tried not to be anxious. But the news was good: the tumour was benign, it was in an easily accessible place, they could be pretty certain they’d cause no damage when they removed it, and it was highly likely that it was the reason for the seizures.
We offered to stay until after the op, but they said it could be several months away. We could always fly back when the time came.
So off we went. To France, then Belgium, Holland, and Germany, into Eastern Europe, did two Anglovilles, had Dory to stay, moved on down into Slovakia, and then we got a phone call.
It was Monday 7th August, and they had just been told that Kit could be operated on that Thursday morning. It was too expensive for both of us to go home, and someone needed to stay with the van anyway. As I can’t drive Georgie, the logical person to stay was Steve.
So the next day, I flew Wizz Air to Luton. Which was certainly whizzy, if a bit crap in the comfort department. The aircrew girls were incredibly nice and stunningly beautiful – I felt I’d gone back in time to the days of ‘Catch me if you can’.
And hadn’t Sky grown!
I had a wonderful week with her – which went much more smoothly once I figured out that she didn’t actually sleep in her own bed. You can’t imagine the indignation from her when I first tried that (for indignation, read ‘screaming’). But once that was sorted, we settled into a nice routine and I got to be a very spoilt nana.
And little Kit – who is incredible brave and a total sweetie – had his operation and it all went perfectly. Thank all the Gods.
They didn’t remove the whole thing (which is best practice, apparently), so he may have to have a further op, sometime in the distant future. They have hinged a tiny piece of his skull so they can go back in again if they need to, with much less stress and trauma. How brilliant is that?
After the op, he was groggy, and in pain, and off his food, not surprisingly. He developed an impressive black eye, and his throat was sore from the anaesthetic. He is the most active child I have ever encountered, so his parents did an amazing job keeping him occupied whilst in bed and wired up to stuff.
He was discharged on Sunday 13th August. And look at him now.
Awwww. Bless.
We don’t know what the future holds, because nobody does. But for now, we are enjoying all the news of his continued recovery into impending horrible toddlerhood.
Like this post