Sunny bank holidays were especially hard – knowing people were enjoying clear blue skies when we couldn’t even feel fresh air
In January, just after our eldest son turned four, he was diagnosed with high-risk stage 4 neuroblastoma. It’s incredibly rare; only 100 children in the UK get it each year; our Olly was one of the unlucky ones. It was a shock. He was a fit and healthy boy who loved PE and riding his bike. He began a raft of tests, procedures and chemotherapy at Leeds General Infirmary, a 40-minute drive from our home in Ackworth. My wife Laura and I stopped working to focus on Olly.
As coronavirus spread across the UK, we pulled our two-year-old, Alfie, out of nursery, and the four of us began shielding at home. It was an oddly peaceful time, but then came the next stage of Olly’s treatment: inpatient stem cell treatment and high-dose chemotherapy. Doctors told us that one of us would have to isolate fully with Olly in his hospital room for as long as the treatment lasted; the worst-case scenario was that it could be months. Laura and I had never been apart from each other except for a few weekends away with friends. Now we had to split our family in two.
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