Leo the Lionheart
Thursday 23rd April 2009
As beginnings go, it wasn't great. In fact, it was disastrous. As the surgeon lifted my baby out of my stomach, the tumour couldn't have been more visible if it'd had a flashing sign on it. My little boy's back had an enormous lump sticking out of it. 'He's 8lb 15oz,' said the nurse. He was a healthy weight at least. 'But five pounds of that is the tumour,' she added. The growth on my son's back is bigger than he is. Eleven weeks earlier, I'd had my final scan. It'd been fine, but I hadn't been able to shake the feeling something was wrong. 'Please do another,' I'd begged my local hospital. Finally, they'd agreed. I'd spotted the lump at the base of the baby's back immediately. 'Your baby has a cancerous tumour growing on his spine,' the doctor had explained. 'Will he survive?' I'd gasped. 'If we can stem the blood flow to it and stop it growing, there's a 50:50 chance,' he'd nodded. 'What if he doesn't make it?' I'd sobbed to my husband Gareth, 28. 'He's a fighter,' Gareth had said firmly.
Seven weeks later, I'd gone to King's College Hospital, London, for laser treatment to shrink the tumour. But two days on, I'd gone into labour at 31 weeks and now, here I was. 'Your son needs to go straight to intensive care,' said the surgeon. There was only one thing I could do to get control over the situation. 'I want to call him Leo Griffin,' I told Gareth. 'Leo the courageous lion, and Griffin, which means fighter.' And boy, did little Leo put up a battle. He was hooked straight up to a ventilator for a day before being taken to Great Ormond Street Hospital, London. Before he went, a nurse helped me into a wheelchair and took me to see him. 'Keep fighting, little one,' I sobbed. The tumour looked like a balloon, with Leo's pale skin stretched over it. It had crushed his kidneys, and his fragile body hadn't been able to get rid of any fluids so he was horribly bloated. He was too ill to travel the 150 miles from Cardiff to the hospital by ambulance so he was going to be taken by helicopter. I imagined my frail little boy, just hours old, being flown over the roof tops of London.
Two days on, I was by his side. 'Mummy's here,' I wept. True to his name, Leo refused to give up. A month later, he was strong enough to have the tumour operated on. It took a team of surgeons six hours to remove it. 'We've got rid of it, but won't be able to give Leo the all-clear until his 3rd birthday,' a doctor told me. The words didn't even register. All I wanted was my first cuddle. A month after my son was born, I finally scooped up his little body and breathed in his sweet smell. 'I've waited so long for this day,' I sighed. Leo's back was still sore from the operation. There were two lines of stitches, which looked like a hot cross bun, on his soft skin where the tumour had been, so I held him as if he was made of china.
Bringing him home for good, 11 months later, felt like a miracle, and before I knew it, we were celebrating his 1st birthday. I choked back tears as he smeared chocolate cake over his face. Who'd have thought this was the same child who'd battled cancer, had a helicopter dash and major surgery before he was 2 weeks old? Gareth and I split up a year later, but I have a new partner. Leo is saddled with a colostomy bag for life and he needs a new kidney. But seeing his face light up when Bob The Builder is on the telly or when he pats the floor asking to play 'Row, row, row the boat', I can't believe my luck. I've been blessed with a remarkable little boy.