Daniel John Hall

Let us dissemble no further. In those olden days I had no adult experience of bereavement. Both my granddads died before I was ten, but from thenceforth I was, as it happened, quite untouched by the immediate vicinity of death. True there were great aunts and uncles, but no passing that gave me too much pause for thought.

In October 2004 my nephew Daniel was diagnosed with cancer, just days after his tenth birthday. I almost wrote ‘my only nephew’, as if him having cancer would have been any less a human tragedy if there were another to take his place – I hate that sort of crass logic people adopt when attempting to understand something that has no bearing on them. If a beloved pet dies, it is still feasible to replace it. If a parent or child dies – not so easy.

Daniel’s initial prognosis was favourable, until the discovery that the cancer had already metastisised and spread to his lung. It was then advised that his survival rate was 60%. Whether this was a 60% chance of all-clear, or simply a 60% of continuing a meaningful life for a while yet, I do not know. I do know that once a cancer spreads, it is often an irreversible process, but initially, with Daniel enduring first chemotherapy and then also radiotherapy, we had to accept that he was in good hands, and that all was being done. At any rate that is the sort of assurance my GP gave me when I spoke to him about it. I could have corrected him by pointing out that Daniel’s symptoms had been misdiagnosed by his own GP for three months, and that therefore our faith in health professionals was not the strongest. For indeed Daniel’s GP initially surmised (I was tempted to write ‘guessed’) that the swelling under his left eye was conjunctivitis (despite Daniel’s comments that his cheek felt numb). When the swelling became more pronounced, it was suggested that it could be an abscess in his cheek. He was admitted for tests, and then some bright spark realised that an abscess in the cheek would hurt like hell. Suddenly they began to move fast: a biopsy was performed, and (I think it was actually the same day) a diagnosis given: rhabdomyosarcoma. I can tell you it is a very rare cancer, and, as I later read, “a vicious killer of children.” As with many cancers, early detection is key. I do not know how long it had festered inside him before the external symptoms developed. I do remember that in Daniel’s school photograph from the previous year, it had been commented by several that he looked rather thin and slightly gaunt: this was ascribed to a growth spurt. Tragically it was not the sort of growth any child should know.

Daniel took a turn for the worse about a month ago, and had to go back and forth to hospital for antibiotics and blood transfusions and all manner of things. At first they couldn't say whether he was going through a bad patch, was reacting badly to the last lot of chemo (which they claimed should have no side effects), or whether the cancer was advancing. I went to see him on the Wednesday (27^th July); it was only afterwards that my brother told me that they had confirmed that it was definitely the final stages of the cancer and that we were probably looking at days. Obviously I had seen Daniel regularly since he was first diagnosed (three months too late) last October, so I've noticed the decline and the effects the cancer and the treatment have had on him as time went on. My brother John had warned us that Daniel had deteriorated gravely over the past few days, but I suppose until you see someone so young in the terminal stages of cancer, you can't really prepare yourself. Daniel was just a bag of skin and bone. It is beyond belief to imagine what he has been through in the last year. He was just lying there, barely moving, not speaking, looking like something out of a concentration camp. The bitterest irony is that his hair had started to grow back. The bizarre thing is that Claire (his mum) seemed quite chirpy, but she was obviously putting on the brave face. My brother on the other hand... the look of despair in his eyes broke my heart as he said to me, "He hasn't got long now." It's funny how, although we have known for months now that this moment was coming, we somehow manage to blank it from our minds until it comes crashing down on top of us.

Daniel made it through that weekend, defying the expectations of the nurses who visit him at home. I knew by Tuesday of the next week that I would not be able to endure work for much longer. There is much to be said for the belief that keeping oneself busy and keeping to a routine takes one’s mind off things; but there are also times when being surrounded by apathetic muppets does not exactly enhance one’s mood (if another person asked me if I had a nice weekend, I fear I would have ended up telling them exactly what sort of a f*cking weekend I had). On the Tuesday morning while I was gazing listlessly into my PC, John sent out a 'global' text, after which I did not much feel like concentrating:

Daniel's stable but v frail, still battling away, very brave, intelligent, beautiful son, I am so proud to be his dad. Sophie is very upset about Daniel and can't understand why. Mandy's aunt had a stroke today to top a shit year. Daniel, my baby Sophie, the shit that's happening to them, my nan dying, my brother-in-law's brother dying, my cousin also battling cancer, the middle of a divorce, no money, and some people glorifying in my grief, and being blanked by others - but I suppose that's life. But I want to thank everyone for their support, I can't say how grateful and privileged to have some good friends - and the others will have to live with themselves.

I know well that anger is a vital coping mechanism, and he was protecting himself from his grief by focusing on all the fair-weather friends and hypocritical god-botherers who offered their prayers and sanctimonious support, and are nowhere to be seen as soon as they are needed. A few days before, John had seen a woman who was one of our neighbours while we were growing up. She is a good Irish Catholic. As soon as she caught sight of him she ducked into the nearest shop to avoid having to speak to him (her son used to be one of John's best friends, but over the last year has conveniently fallen out of touch). Suffice to say that those of us who did not already hate Christians would now heartily welcome another holocaust to take care of them.

Later on Tuesday John phoned me to say he was on his way over to see Daniel, as his breathing was deteriorating. Basically he said we should prepare ourselves for the worst. Daniel had already said that he did not want any more visitors - I suppose it is natural not to feel very sociable on one's deathbed (although no one ever actually told him he was dying, he wasn't stupid). I went round my mum and dad's for the evening, as I did not want to be on my own should the phone call come. Two of my parents' friends from way back (they've known each other since the 1960s) had popped round to keep them company, and we all had a few drinks to take our mind off things. My mum felt guilty afterwards, as though we were disrespecting Daniel by appearing to enjoy ourselves while he lay dying, but we can't always just sit there in silence staring into space.

I stayed at my parents' on Tuesday night. The next morning John let us know that Daniel was still battling on, although he now needed oxygen and was very weak. Suffice to say I had no intention of going in to work. The day went by, and at just after 10pm John texted to say Daniel was still the same. He died just after 10.30pm. I don't think it matters whether you have been preparing yourself for the event for five minutes of five years: when it actually happens you're still knocked senseless. I looked over at all the photos of Daniel on the wall, and could not believe it was for real. I couldn't even cry at first, but it hit me when I went to bed, and has been pretty much constant since.

John came round on the Thursday morning with Mandy (his partner). He said that Daniel stopped breathing at about 10.30. He held him in his arms and carried him to his bed, and his mum Claire gave him a wash and put him in a clean pair of pyjamas, and made sure he had his teddy and his blanket with him. I don't think I had ever seen my dad cry before, but when he hugged my brother they were both sobbing their hearts out. That morning Claire had to tell Sophie that her big brother had died, and that it's okay to be upset and to cry. Claire had by all accounts kept herself going by maintaining the belief that he would get better, right up to the end; she did not want her boy to go to some cold morgue, so they kept him at home until the funeral.

It’s hard to believe it’s now two and a half weeks since he died. Suffice to say the funeral was more than a little harrowing. It's hard to believe anything will ever be okay again, and indeed in many ways it won’t be.