Stable for Now. Sleeping. Still Fighting.

— A Heartfelt Reflection on Gratitude, Kindness & Resilience

When Maya’s body was being ravaged by what the doctors call “cytokine showers,” I heard her whisper, “Mum, please help me,” while her heart and lungs drowned in fluids. I watched her chest struggle for each breath, and I pulled the crash button as the monitor shrieked and her heart rate shot to 172 bpm. The pure terror in her eyes… that look is carved into my memory. I don’t think any parent can ever forget the moment they truly believed their child might slip away right in front of them.

It was traumatic for her.

And for us.

I’ve never really seen myself as an emotional person. Yes, I choke up sometimes, but I’ve never been someone who sinks into depression. My feelings—especially the intense ones—tend to push me into action. That’s always been my way of coping.

But there are moments from these last few weeks that will follow me for the rest of my life.

People say I handle crisis well, and maybe I do. Nearly nine years on this journey has taught me how to survive by distraction—through work I genuinely love, through learning, through connecting with people, through anything that keeps my mind from drowning in fear. I just wish all these “positive” things weren’t born from watching my daughter fight for her life.

We share Maya’s story to raise awareness—not for sympathy, not for attention, but because childhood cancer is a cruel, silent nightmare. If caught at Stage 1, many children survive. But Stage IV… it’s a lucky dip. No child should ever be diagnosed that late.

There are no words strong enough to explain what it’s like to watch your child’s mind drift, her body fail, or her spirit dim under pain she shouldn’t even know exists. Terry and I spend nights half-awake just checking if she’s breathing, if she’s bleeding, if she’s okay. We’ve watched her in respiratory distress while our only power was to hold her hand and stroke her hair.

Imagine that.

Can you imagine that?

My subconscious lives in constant fear—not just for Maya, but for my husband, for my other children, for our parents, for all of us who have had front-row seats to her suffering. You can’t process something like this in a way that doesn’t scar you. Some pains are too deep to ever fully heal.

People often offer counselling, therapy, someone to talk to. But the truth is, I “talk” every day—at Parents Kitchen, with friends, with online communities, at work, with people who message me at any hour. It’s not that I don’t value those professional services; I just feel like others may need them more urgently than I do right now. This—sharing, writing, speaking—is my therapy.

For those asking:

Maya is stable.

When we left her at 9pm last night in the ICU, she was sleeping and looked relaxed.

Parents aren’t allowed to sleep beside their child in ICU. You can sit awake in the chair, but not sleep. So I’m staying at the family accommodation with Enzo and Katelyn. Ironic as it sounds, whilst Maya is being looked after by the ICU Team is what allows me to rest.

On the oncology ward, Terry (or I) often spend(s) the night taking Maya to the toilet every half-hour, untangling ECG leads, oxygen probes, and dragging the IV stand behind us. And those constant bleeping IV machines! Sleep becomes a luxury you forget you’re entitled to.

These last few weeks, both Terry and I have been drifting around like ghosts—no REM sleep, dizzy, half-present. Sleeping tablets aren’t an option. We never believe in those. We need to be alert the moment the phone rings or Maya calls for us. That’s just the reality.

In ICU this week, I’ve seen families fall apart as life support is withdrawn, as children don’t make it, as entire worlds collapse in a single moment. There is no pain like the pain of losing a child.

So why am I sharing this?

Because this is a reminder—a gentle but honest reminder—to be grateful, to be kind, and to be resilient.

Life will never make sense in a straight line. Someone will always be better off than you, and someone will always be facing something unimaginably worse. But you get to choose your response. You get to choose the kind of human you will be in the middle of it all.

And when I say “good things out of a bad situation,” I don’t mean that Maya’s suffering has any silver lining—because it doesn’t. What I mean is this: even in the darkest moments, people have shown us extraordinary kindness. There are those who have stood by our side since Maya was three years old and never once walked away. And there are complete strangers—people who only discovered Maya’s story online—who have opened their hearts to us with generosity, compassion, and love.

This community, both old and new, has carried us more than they’ll ever realise. Their kindness is one of the few lights in a very long tunnel.

ICU has taught me that resilience isn’t loud or heroic.

Sometimes resilience is just a parent holding a hand in the dark.

Sometimes it’s whispering, “I’m here,” singing to Maya her favourite karaoke tunes “Country Roads, Take Me Home”, “Daydream Believer”, “Lean On Me When You’re Not Strong”, even when your heart is breaking.

Sometimes it’s simply refusing to give up.

So be grateful for the ordinary days.

Be kind—to yourself and to others.

Be resilient in the quiet, gentle ways that don’t require applause.

And if you’re going through something heavy…

please know you’re not alone either.

To those who wish to send help, 

PayPal to dellanie_nash@yahoo.co.uk (as a gift) 

Or Santander bank

Mrs D C Nash

sort code 09-01-36

Account number 49579984

Reference : Maya’s Journey

One again, thank you so much indeed.