My Name Is Patricia, I’m 49 Years Old, and I’ve Spent 20 Years as a Night-Shift Nurse at the General Hospital—I’ve Seen It All

My name is Catherine and Im 49 years old. I work the night shift as a nurse at the Royal County General Hospital. Ive been here for twenty years and Ive seen nearly everything.

Ive been divorced for eight years. My son, Oliver, just turned sixteen. He lives with me. Hes a good ladresponsible, studious, never a lick of trouble.

Well, thats not the entire truth. He did give me one problemthe biggest of my lifebut its not his fault.

Six months ago, Oliver began complaining of headaches. I thought at first that perhaps his eyesight was to blame, that he might need glasses. I took him to the optician. His vision was perfect.

Still, the headaches persisted. Then came morning nausea. I figured perhaps there was something disagreeable in his school lunch, so I started preparing homemade ones for him. The nausea remained.

One morning, I found him in the bathroom, being sick. He was pale as a sheet. I feel dizzy, he told me. Everythings spinning.

I drove him straight to A&E. Blood tests, examinationsthe lot. All perfectly normal. The doctor supposed it might be stress, that teenagers sometimes manifest academic pressure physically.

But Im a nurse; after two decades with patients, I trust my instincts, and mine told me that this wasnt just stress.

I pressed for further tests. The doctor looked at me as though I were being dramatic, but at last, he ordered a CT scan.

Ill never forget that day. It was a Tuesday, and I was midway through my shift when the hospital rangthey needed to speak with me, urgently. I left my shift half-finished and drove like a madwoman to the hospital.

They showed me into a consultation room with a neurologist Id never metman in his fifties, serious. Mrs. Barker, we found something on your sons scan, he said. Its a brain tumour. Well need further tests to determine its exact type and severity.

The world collapsed around me. I have delivered such news to countless families, watched patients slip away. I thought I was prepared for anything. Nothing prepared me for hearing those words about my own child.

The next days were a truly living hellMRIs, biopsies, endless oncologist meetings. Medical terms I knew so well suddenly felt like death sentences.

Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade IV. Aggressive. Impossible to operate due to location. The course: chemotherapy and radiotherapy to try and slow it down. But the prognosis was grim.

When the oncologist explained all this, Oliver sat beside memy precious boy, listening quietly to the news that he had terminal cancer.

Am I going to die? he asked in the calmest voice, and it broke my heart.

The doctor looked at him with that measured compassion Ive so often managed for others. Well do everything we can to give you more time, he said.

More time. Not youre going to get well, just more time.

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

And so we didfortnightly chemotherapy. Oliver lost his hair, the weight fell away, he was sick constantly. But never once did he complain or ask Why me? He kept smiling, even then.

At first, his friends from school came round often. Gradually, visits became fewerhard for sixteen-year-olds to confront mortality in one of their own.

But Daniel, his best mate since year three, never stopped coming. Every day after school, Daniel would pop in. Hed bring homework, fill Oliver in on all the gossip, and theyd play video gameseven when Oliver was barely able to hold the controller for long.

One afternoon, as I was fixing supper, I overheard them talking, the door partially open.

Are you scared? Daniel asked.

All the time, Oliver replied. But I dont tell Mum. Shes got enough to worry about.

What are you most afraid of?

That Mum will end up alone. That shell suffer. That I wont get to say goodbye properly or that shell feel guilty, even though theres nothing she could have done.

I quietly slipped away to my bedroom, wanting to protect their privacy and hide my tears.

Nothing is working. The tumour isnt shrinking. Its still growing. The doctors talk about palliative care nowfocusing on the quality of life with whatever time is left.

How long? No one knows. Perhaps three months, maybe six, maybe less.

This morning, Oliver asked if he could go to school. He hasnt been in weeks because he gets so tired, but he wanted to see his friends, just for a sense of normality.

I took him, helped him out of the car. Hes so thin now, so fragile. His mates greeted him with hugs. His favourite teacher stopped by to say hello. For a while, he was just Oliver againnot the boy with cancer.

When I collected him after three hours, he was exhausted but happy.

Thank you, Mum, he said. Thanks for taking me. For everything you do. For being the best mother in the world.

Youre the best son there is, I told him.

Mum, he whispered after a while, when Im gone, I want you to be happy. I want you to really live. Please dont spend your life weeping over me.

Oh Ollie, dont say that…

We need to talk about it, Mum. We know whats coming. Can you promise me youll be all right? That youll keep going, remember me with a smile, not just tears?

I promised him. Though I dont know if I can keep that promise.

Now, hes asleep in his room. I just checked on himhe looked so peaceful, still so small. My little boy.

Tomorrow morning, the hospice nurse will come for the weekly visit. The day after, an appointment with the oncologist, even though I know what theyll say.

Im sitting with a mug of tea gone cold in my hands, scanning the family photos on the wall: Oliver as a baby, Oliver starting reception, Olivers 10th birthday party, Oliver six months agohealthy, grinning, blissfully unaware.

I have no idea how Ill survive this. How does anyone survive burying their child at sixteen, with their whole life ahead?

But I owe it to him to try. Ill be strong while he needs me. Ill smile when he looks at me. Ill make his last days the very best I can.

And when hes gone, I dont know what Ill do. Thats for another day. For now, all that matters is being here. For him.

How do you tell your child you love them enough when you know time is short? How do you pack a lifetimes love into the days you have left?