My Name Is Patricia, I’m 49 Years Old, and I’ve Been a Night Shift Nurse at the General Hospital for 20 Years—I’ve Seen Everything

My names Janet, Im 49, and I work the night shift as a nurse at St. Marys General in Manchester. Ive been here two decades seen enough drama to last several lifetimes, from the bizarre to the downright tragic.

Ive been divorced for eight years now. Ive got one son, Harry. Brilliant lad, he just turned sixteen and lives with me. Solid boy. Responsible. Head in his books. Never gave me a spot of bother.

Well, thats not entirely true. He did give me one problem the biggest Ive ever faced. Mind you, its not his fault.

Six months ago Harry started complaining about headaches. At first, I blamed his eyes. Off we went to the optician in the Arndale, but his vision was absolutely fine.

The headaches carried on, and then the nausea showed up. I assumed it was something dodgy he was scoffing at school, so I started packing homemade lunches cheese and pickle sandwiches, you know but it made no difference.

Then one morning, I found him in the bathroom, throwing up. He looked positively ghostly. Said he was dizzy, like the whole world was spinning.

Straight to A&E we went. Blood tests, the lot. All came back normal. The doctor, very reassuring, said it was probably stress Teens these days, pressure of exams and all that.” But Im a nurse. Ive seen too much; my gut told me something else was up.

I pushed for more tests. The GP eyed me like I was being dramatic, but at last, he booked a CT scan.

I remember it vividly. Tuesday. I was halfway through my shift when the receptionist rang from Stepping Hill. Urgent. Needed to speak to me, come as soon as possible.

I legged it out of work, drove like a woman possessed. Got there, and was ushered straight into a tiny consultation room. There was a neurologist Id never met before, about 50, with a grave expression.

Mrs. Parker, weve found something in your sons scan, he began. Its a brain tumour. We need more tests to see what type, and how far its gone.”

The world dropped clean out from beneath my feet. Me whos delivered bad news to hundreds of families; me, who’s watched too many people slip away. I thought I was unflappable. Until it was my Harry.

Then came hell: MRIs, biopsies, meetings with oncologists, medical terms I knew inside out suddenly sounding like death knells.

Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade IV. Aggressive. Inoperable where it is. The plan: chemo and radiation to buy some time, but honestly, the outlooks grim.

When the consultant explained it all, Harry sat next to me, calm as you like. My boy, my baby hearing he has cancer chewing away at his brain.

Am I going to die? he asked, quietly. Sliced me to bits.

The doctor gave him That Look the one I know well. We’re going to do what we can to give you more time, Harry.

More time. Not Youll be fine. Not Theres hope. Just a bit more time.

That night, Harry hugged me and said, Mum, dont cry. Were going to fight this.

And so we did. Chemo every fortnight. He lost all his hair, lost weight, was sick more often than not. But did he complain? Not once. Never a Why me? He kept joking, kept smiling.

His mates from school came round at first, bringing energy drinks and endless pranks. Then their visits dwindled its hard for kids to deal with one of their own fading away.

But his best mate, Ben, never stopped coming. Been thick as thieves since primary. Ben came every day after classes, gave Harry all the gossip, brought homework, and played FIFA with him, even when Harry could barely hold the controller.

One afternoon, I was making a brew when I overheard them in Harrys room the door was ajar.

Are you scared? Ben asked.

All the bloody time, Harry said, but I dont tell Mum. Shes got enough on her plate.

What are you most scared of?

That Mumll be on her own. That shell be sad. That I wont say goodbye properly. That shell blame herself for something thats not her fault.

I had to hide in my bedroom so they wouldnt hear me blubbing.

The treatment isnt working. The tumours not shrinking its still growing. The doctors have mentioned palliative care now. Making him comfortable for however long weve got left.

How longs that? No one knows. Maybe three months. Maybe six. Maybe less.

This morning, Harry asked if he could go back to school. Not been in weeks plain exhausted but he said he wanted to see everyone. Wanted to feel normal for just a few hours.

I took him. Helped him out of the car; hes so thin now, so fragile. His friends hugged him, his favourite teacher came over, and Harry grinned just a sixteen-year-old for a while, not the one with cancer.

When I picked him up, he was shattered but happy.

Thanks, Mum,” he said in the car. “Thanks for bringing me. Thanks for everything. You’re the best mum ever.

You’re the best son, I told him.

He was quiet for a bit. Mum, when Im gone, I want you to be happy. I want you to live. Promise me you wont spend the rest of your life crying for me.

Harry, dont

We have to talk about it, Mum. We both know whats going to happen. I need you to promise youll be all right. That youll remember me with smiles, not just sadness.

I promised. Not sure its one I can keep, but I promised.

Hes asleep now, tucked up in his room. I peeked in just now; he looks so peaceful, so young. Still my little boy.

Tomorrow, the palliative nurse is round for her weekly visit. Day after that, its back to the oncologist though we all know what the scans will say.

I sat in the living room tonight, hands wrapped around a cold cup of tea. Watched the wall of photos: Harry as a baby. Harry in his school uniform, first day. Harry at his tenth birthday party. Harry, six months ago, grinning, with no idea what was coming.

God knows how Ill survive this. I cant imagine burying a child, just sixteen, losing all their tomorrows.

But for him, Ill try. Ill be strong while he needs me. Ill smile when he looks at me. Ill make his last days the best I can.

And after? Not a clue. Thatll be a problem for another day. For now, all I can do is be here. For him.

How do you tell your child you love them when you know the clocks running down? How do you fit a whole lifetime of love into the days you have left?