9 Months

I’m so excited to tell my news to my sister. I’m only 9 weeks gone and I know you are meant to wait until 12 but if I don’t tell someone soon I will burst! She’s going to be so happy. She has wanted me to have a baby for the longest time , she’s got 4. Mad woman! She’s always said she will help me with everything - advice etc. I laughed when she said that. ‘You’ve been doing that all my life anyway’. She’s 10 years older than me you see.

I call her and tell her, but swear her to secrecy and I feel a bit deflated by her response. Don’t get me wrong, she is happy, but I was expecting more. She seems distracted and a bit down. So I ask her if everything is ok and she says she’s worried about Andrew. That’s her husband. He’s had ‘man flu’ for over a month, which just won’t seem to shift and she confides in hushed tones ‘Sarah, I think maybe he’s had a stroke!’. ‘Well that’s just ridiculous’ I tell her. ‘He is only 43. Nah, it surely won’t be a stroke! ..God I hope not.’

I’m thinking she’s over exaggerating. She can be a bit of a hypochondriac. I don’t tell her that.

The next week my sister rings me. Andrew has been to the doctor. ‘They want to send him for a brain scan! They think he might have a tumour’. Surely it’s just a precaution? She says not. Apparently the doctor was very concerned. ‘Oh my God’ I say - ‘hopefully it’s not, and if it is I’m sure they can get rid of it and he will be fine’ I’m thinking ‘s**t, how will they cope?’ I don’t tell her that.

I have my 12 week scan and the baby is fine. Everything in it’s perfect place. My sister has asked me to look after her kids. She and Andrew are going to the hospital to find out the nature of his tumour. She’s been researching online and she’s knows the average person has about 7 years to live. ‘7 years! That must be the worst case scenario?’ I ask. She seems to think it’s accurate. It all feels a bit melodramatic to me. I don’t tell her that.

After the appointment they come to my house. They seem quite upbeat so I’m hopeful. We can’t really discuss it in front of the kids so I’m trying to glean any bit of info from their facial expressions and demeanour. My sister holds up 9 fingers. I look at her, puzzled. It can’t be. I do a quick calculation. In 9 years their kids will all be teenagers. What the hell? This seems so bloody unfair, but I don’t want to jump the gun. ‘9 years?’ I mouth and she mouths back ‘months’ I’m so shocked - the Internet said years. We move to my garden, leaving the kids in front of the tv. The kids! I feel my eyes well up with tears so I turn my face away. I don’t want my sister and her husband to see me upset. What right do I have to cry when they are holding it together so well? My sister notices anyway and tells me it’s ok to cry. That it shows how much I care. I tell them I will be there for them, anything they need. I’m thinking this can’t be happening, like he is actually going to die, and soon! Their kids are going to suffer more than any kid ever should. I don’t tell them that.

I have my 20 week scan. We find out the baby is going to be a boy! So exciting. Now we can really start planning. After the scan we go down the corridor to the oncology department. Andrew is in having scans of his own. I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks and he is in a wheelchair. ‘It’s only temporary’ my sister assures me. I show them the scan picture. We ask Andrew if he will be the baby’s godfather. I wasn’t sure if that would be insensitive but he beams and says he would be honoured. Phew! It’s our way of telling him we haven’t given up. He will be here for our baby. Doctors don’t always get it right.

Deep down I know this is wishful thinking and unlikely but I don’t tell them that.

A few weeks later my sister has come over with the kids. Andrew is in hospital again. She stopped off to get a Burger King for all of us. She is very on edge. The strain of the past few months is really starting to show. Our dad has upset her by being insensitive and she’s dishing out the food, angrily. I tell her to ignore him. That he doesn’t understand. She has put ketchup on all the meals. I didn’t want ketchup. I don’t tell her that.

I can’t find anything to wear that doesn’t make me look like a watermelon! This baby is growing at a tremendous rate. My sister and Andrew are renewing their wedding vows. They have been married for 10 years. It’s a happy day. Both sides of the family coming together. There’s lots of fun and laughter. Hundreds of photos of their little family. The kids look so smart, so grown up in their suits and dresses. There is a tinge of sadness in the air as well though. This might be our last family occasion with Andrew. I can’t help thinking that it almost feels like a rehearsal for his funeral. I don’t tell them that.

I’m starting to feel like a beached whale with this pregnancy. I will be glad in a couple of months when the baby shows his face. I feel a bit guilty even thinking that. Wishing my life away as my mum always says. That phrase means so much more now, in light of Andrew’s condition. My sister’s house has those rails everywhere so Andrew can get around. He is sleeping downstairs in the conservatory and has a commode in his room. The tumour is right in the core of his brain. The part that controls his mobility. Every week now you can see the difference. It’s like watching him slowly fade away. My sister is determined to keep him at home. I’m thinking she won’t be able to for much longer. I don’t tell her that.

My sister calls me. She’s so happy, really excited. She tells me to look out of the window at the sun. It’s shining so brightly, even though it’s November. She thinks it’s a sign from God. Theirs will be a miracle story. Andrew will be cured. ‘ I thought it was terminal?’ I venture. She tells me she doesn’t care. God can do anything. She’s utterly convinced now. This was all just one big test. Everything is going to be ok. My heart sinks. I’m devastated for her. I know this is her only way of coping with the enormity of what’s happening. I’m so worried about her. I don’t know what she is going to do when she doesn’t get her miracle. I don’t tell her that.

A week later and Andrew is going to hospital. This time for good. My sister just can’t cope with his increasing medical needs. He hasn’t been sleeping because he is pumped full of steroids and he has been disoriented and hallucinating. She’s trying to keep normal life running for the kids and she’s absolutely shattered. In more ways than one. She tells me she feels so guilty. The one thing he wanted was to stay at home. I reassure her that she has done all she can. She’s got to think of the kids also. She says she feels like she’s torn in half. She looks at me in such a child like manner, hope in her eyes. ‘Maybe it will just be temporary, to help him get some strength back?’ She says. ‘Maybe then he can come back home?’ I know he won’t be coming home. I don’t tell her that.

It’s Christmas Day and I feel like the stuffed turkey. I’m nearly ready to pop with this baby! My brother is at my sister’s house doing a ‘normal’ Christmas for her and the kids. We get a phone call. The hospital want her to come in. They think Andrew is going. My dad and brother go with her. I stay with my mum and the kids. All I can think is ‘not on Christmas Day, not on Christmas Day, not on Christmas Day.’

They come back. Andrew is still alive. My dad looks shell shocked. I’ve never seen him cry before. I realise Christmas will never be normal again. I don’t tell them that.

3 days later my phone is ringing. I wake, disorientated. It’s 6am! Who is ringing me? Then I realise. S**t! I grab the phone. My sister’s voice is hollow as she tells me that Andrew passed away a couple of hours ago. I tell her I’m so sorry. She sounds remarkably calm. I don’t know what to say. She tells me she’s glad he is out of pain and confides that she had stopped praying for a miracle and started praying for relief. She feels terrible about this. The doctors said it would be 9 months but in the end it was only 6. I feel my baby kick. So strong and powerful now. So alive. It feels unfair. My life is just getting interesting and my sister’s has been torn apart. She’s the bravest, most amazing person I know and I’m going to be there for her. Even though nothing I can say will help her at the moment, I tell her that.

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