The T Word is our story of childhood cancer, recovery, additional needs and family life when the rule book gets thrown out of the window. The hard bits, the hopeful bits and the downright ridiculous bits in between.
I’m a mum, partner, co-parent, storyteller, overthinker and collector of far too many notebooks.
When my son Tate was diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumour, writing became somewhere to put the fear, frustration, humour and hope. The T Word grew from there.
This is my little corner of the internet for sharing what life really looks like when the road takes a turn you never expected.
Honest stories, family life, things I’ve learned along the way and probably a fair amount of rambling too.
Christmas 2018 began exactly as it should. But by Boxing Day, our family of four had crossed an invisible line. The life we’d known that morning no longer existed. A different story had begun.
Christmas 2018 began exactly as it should. Excited children, torn wrapping paper, new toys and the usual family chaos.
But something about Tate didn’t feel quite right.
By Boxing Day, a trip to A&E would divide our family’s life into before and after. A different story had begun. One we never imagined we would have to tell.
Every superhero story needs its superheroes, and at the heart of ours are two pretty special ones.
There’s Tate, aka Boo, Spud and T Bird. He’s the reason The T Word exists and, in my entirely unbiased opinion, a much older and wiser soul than many of us. His story began with a brain tumour, but his story is so much more than cancer.
And then there’s Nell, aka Poppet, Pickle and Pocket Rocket. Tate’s little sister, but don’t let the word ‘little’ fool you. She has her own place at the heart of this story and her own journey through everything that happened to our family.
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It was amazing how quickly I found myself falling into the hospital bubble. Encased in an orb of film that aided in blocking everything else
Tate woke up the morning after we arrived at the hospital. He was probably thinking ordinary things. About getting home again. What he might have
In my naivety and combined sarcasm, when I first walked into Ronald McDonald House, I expected to be handed a Big Mac, told to wait