Strength, Song & the Hardest Goodbyes

Thursday 11th December brought warmth into an otherwise heavy place. Tiffany from The Kent Review came to visit us, arm full of goodies and kindness. We talked about the little tribe that forms here — mums instinctively finding one another, lifting each other when the weight becomes unbearable. I often come across strong and confident, and maybe that’s because survival demands it. But beneath that surface, I carry the same fear as every other parent here. We’re fighting a third relapse of neuroblastoma, and staying hopeful feels harder with each passing day.

Walking Tiffany through the children’s ward is enough to make anyone pause. It forces perspective in a way few environments can. My life here couldn’t be more different from the one outside these walls — no frantic juggling of work, school runs, and family logistics. Instead, my days are spent advocating constantly for Maya (see email below). Staffing shortages are a familiar shadow, and too often it feels like parents are expected to quietly fill the gaps, even when we’re already running on empty.

What truly lifted our spirits was a beautiful surprise from Lyminge Primary School. The headteacher and students recorded a video of them all singing Maya’s favourite Christmas song, “Last Christmas.” It lit up the room. I have since have replayed it over and over for Maya, as I try to sing along, and Maya’s groan as she listened feels priceless right now. That school is something special — love in its purest form.

Later, when Maya needed her nappy changed, I escorted Tiffany to the lift. She’d arrived from another building, so this time I became the guide — pointing out the way out. As we reached the double doors, a “crash call” rang out. My heart stopped. My mind raced. Had something happened to Maya? I’d just left her with her nurse and HCA.

It wasn’t Maya.

It was the baby in the neighbouring cubicle.

Only nights before, the neighbour Mum and I had been talking — celebrating her good news that a bone marrow donor for her baby had been found. I knew that the baby had been given 5–7 days from the 4th of December, but instead of hope unfolding, everything deteriorated. He passed away on this date, 11th December.

When Tiffany left and I returned to Maya’s cubicle, the sound that followed will stay with me forever — the most haunting, raw screams of a mother who had just lost her child. I gently put earplugs into Maya’s ears. I wanted to wrap that mother in the tightest hug imaginable, but she was surrounded by her family, all of them breaking in unison. There was nothing to say. Only grief. Lion Ward stood still that day.

Hope doesn’t disappear all at once — it erodes quietly when you’re surrounded by mortality. And some days, that proximity seeps into your bones, leaving you dangerously close to despair. But even here, in the darkest corridors, love still shows up — in songs, in visits, in quiet acts of humanity.

“Hope is not pretending everything is fine. It’s choosing to keep going, even when the evidence hurts.”

And so we keep going. Just one breath. One song. One day at a time.

Thank you to every single person who has stood by us, cheered Maya on, and supported us — whether through PayPal, a standing order, or simply holding us in your hearts. We keep going because of you. Your kindness and generosity mean more than words can ever express, and we are sincerely so grateful.

To those that have asked:

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

Santander

D C Nash

Sort code 09-01-36

Account 4957 9984

Reference: Maya’s Journey

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