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 until my number was called, and see lots of unnecessary McDonald’s advertising everywhere.
This was far from it.
In fact, I entered a very different kind of place. A place that has made me now know where that money goes that you put in the clear boxes at the tills of a McDonald’s.
It had only been about five hours since we had discovered that Tate had a mass on his brain.
“Accommodation has already been arranged for you near the hospital,” the nurses said.
What did they know that we didn’t?
Other than the fact that only one parent could stay on the ward with Tate.
And, to be fair, given my own sensory needs, it was probably best that I stayed off the ward that first night. Ward overnight stays are not for the hypersensitive. They take some adjustment to manage.
I found my way out of the hospital to discover that the walk to the house was about five minutes. The route involved lifts, very plain corridors and smells of hospital food trapped in the basement floor. Not odours that ignited my hungry thoughts. And not ones that could find even the tiniest of gaps to escape from, given the lack of windows and doors to the outside world.
They lingered like those above a swamp, staying and tickling your nostrils even when you were outside and away from them.
Little did I realise that this walk was going to become a well-trodden path over the next few weeks.
I was confronted by what looked like a good Premier Inn. A modern, hotel-type building that looked like it had been built from giant Lego pieces. In fact, it was always referred to in directions to family and friends as the “green Lego building”.
I was greeted at reception with warmth at the late/early morning hour that it was by then. Checking in like you would at a hotel.
But this was no hotel.
I never even knew these places existed, but we, as a family, were soon to discover that RM House was a lifesaver in the early days of Tate’s diagnosis, and would continue to be so.
I was handed two swipe keys and shown to our room.
Warbler room.
A room that now holds our initial turmoil of emotions and pain within its walls. Much like the hospital corridors trapping their smells, although we did have the ability to open a window about two inches.
A room that could sleep up to four people, so most importantly, we could have Nell with us when we were ready and the initial situation had calmed ever so slightly.
I was also shown around our floor.
There were family rooms that housed toys and books, TVs and spaces where they said family and friends could come and visit us during the day. Large dining areas and fully equipped kitchens where we could cook fresh meals, as well as washing machines and utility areas.
It could have all looked very “institutional”, but it didn’t.
In fact, it looked very homely and comfortable. Everywhere had a forgiving aura about it. An atmosphere that allowed you to be and feel whatever you needed to within the situation that you had found yourself in.
It felt safe.
It felt like we were going to be carried through this in some way by being able to live some kind of “new normal”.
And this was a place where we began to test that “new normal” out.
As we progressed through the first week of Tate’s diagnosis, it became very apparent how amazing RM House was.
We had friends and family coming to see us, and it was easy for them to base themselves at RM House, bring us resources, cook for us, just be with us, while we spent time with Tate on the ward.
It allowed us to escape from the intensity of PICU — paediatric intensive care unit — or just the hospital, but not be too far away.
The wards could call us directly at the house and we could be back with Tate within five minutes. Not that we were away from him very often.
We were sent away many times by staff, only to bungee-cord back within the hour.
It felt very wrong to be away from him.
But the staff used to insist we took the break.
Breathe in fresh air. Eat. Drink.
Basics we had forgotten how to do, or needed prompting to do.
When Nell joined us, we had spaces to play with her and cook for her. So, as much as the world had turned on its head for her as well, we could try to give her some normality in those initial weeks.
We built strong bonds with the staff, who would do washing for us and take in the numerous parcels that friends and family were sending us. Tate and Nell gifts, food parcels and so many other things that helped us through.
RM House had become home from home.
It had become part of our new routines.
During that first week, it was also very apparent what its real purpose was.
There wasn’t the drunken guest three rooms down making too much noise at 3am.
Instead, there were many other family members, mainly parents and siblings, wandering quietly and calmly down corridors, acknowledging each other’s situations.
Not the exact same situation, but all with the same emotions.
Their child was in hospital due to life-threatening conditions, needing surgeries which could lead to long-term hospital stays.
Just the “Hi, how’s your day been?” kind of conversations, with the responses of:
“Today was a good day.”
Or:
“Not such a good one today.”
The responses of those driving down a road that they didn’t choose and having to learn to live their days hour by hour, day by day.
RM House gives those people the opportunity to rest, to eat, to try and care for themselves, when I am sure most don’t or don’t feel like they can.
They put on activities for siblings and families. They provide toiletries and food basics for those that arrive unprepared, which many do because of the sudden urgency of their situations.
Strangers became friends via a connection none of us anticipated.
We were all now parenting through uncertainty.
The fear, like no other fear, of not knowing what the next few hours, days or weeks would bring.
It was then, standing in the middle of the fully fitted kitchen with yet more unsavoury microwave meal smells lingering in the air — like they were following me — that I realised I was not here for an overnight.
This would become home.
That’s why it’s called “House” and not “Hotel”.
Ronald McDonald House.
It was the place where we were going to carry out ordinary daily things such as washing and cooking, while the world around us was anything but ordinary.
I suddenly felt hugely overwhelmed at the enormity of what might be ahead of us.
There wasn’t much sleeping going on in the few hours I was in Warbler room that first night.
So many emotions raging through me.
Not knowing which one to grab hold of and sit with on the edge of the bed.
There would be many times that we would sit alone, or together, and feel the race of feelings within us. Each one competing for the chequered flag.
Sadness.
Fear.
Confusion.
Anger.
But there was already a feeling of relief that we had somewhere we could come to and shut the door.
And most importantly, somewhere to bring Nell back to us.
I headed back to the hospital in the early hours, back through the basement corridors and the stench of the next meal’s offerings.
Back to see my boy.
Being close to him is not a luxury.
It is a necessity.
And having somewhere close by where we could sleep, eat, wash, breathe and try to function as a family was something I didn’t even know we were going to need when we first heard the words:
“Accommodation has already been arranged for you.”
Ronald McDonald House UK is an independent charity and relies on donations and fundraising to keep providing accommodation and support to families when they need it most.
So now you know where your small change goes from those charity boxes at McDonald’s.
Next time, give a little more.
Because it goes to so much more than just giving out Big Macs.
It gives families somewhere to go when they have no idea where they are going.
Somewhere to sleep.
Somewhere to eat.
Somewhere for siblings to play.
Somewhere to wash your clothes.
Somewhere to close the door.
Somewhere to breathe.
And sometimes, somewhere that strangers become friends.