Hannah’s Choice: A daughter's love for life. The mother who let her make the hardest decision of all.

The previous day Hannah had looked into a tiny pink Barbie mirror before turning to face me.

‘I look like Bert,’ she’d said. ‘Can I be like the others, please?’

Bert was one of her favourite Sesame Street characters, and I knew what Hannah meant. Many of the children on the oncology unit had completely lost their hair and she had obviously had enough of being only halfway through the process. I was glad she was telling me what she wanted again because it meant the little girl I knew was coming back to me.

‘Of course we can give you a haircut, my darling,’ I said. ‘Shall we ask a nurse to do it?’

‘Yes, please.’

I knew I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Hannah’s pale gold hair had always framed her beautiful blue eyes and I didn’t feel able to rid her of it when only weeks before I’d tied it back into bunches and plaits ready for school. It had felt like such a milestone when she started, as if she was moving a step in front of me to venture out into the wide world – the beginning of the rest of her life.

‘This won’t take a minute,’ the nurse said with a smile as she stepped towards the bed.

Hannah had seemed excited as we’d planned her hair ‘cut’ but now didn’t look so sure as the clippers’ harsh metallic buzz filled the room. She was silent as the nurse started cutting and I stood motionless as the last of Hannah’s hair started to fall to the floor and tears ran down her face.

‘I want my hair,’ she said with a sob.

I longed to comfort her, to tell the nurse to stop even as I made myself smile brightly to try and calm her.

‘Nearly there, Han,’ I whispered. ‘Soon you can try on one of your pretty hats.’

I’d bought a couple that I hoped she might like – a straw boater covered with flowers, a red chequered baseball cap and a pink beanie made of soft sweatshirt material.

Hannah was quiet again until the clippers finally fell silent and I looked at my child transformed. Her head was completely bald and her eyes looked even bigger in her gaunt face as she lifted her hand to touch her naked skull – an almost questioning gesture, like a toddler reaching out a tentative foot as they try to climb a step for the first time.

‘Which hat would you like?’ I asked.

Hannah pointed at the boater and I slipped it onto her head.

‘It’s too itchy,’ she said.

‘Silly Mummy,’ I said as I took off the boater. I hadn’t thought of how straw would feel on newly bare skin. There were so many things to learn.

‘Can I try on the pink one?’ she asked.

‘Of course you can.’

I slipped the beanie onto her head.

‘That’s better,’ Hannah said, and smiled. ‘My head’s not cold any more.’

Oli’s third birthday was in late January, and after almost six weeks in hospital with Hannah I was desperate to try and get home for it. I thought of him and Lucy all the time: as I woke in the morning and wondered if they were still sleeping; as I ate my lunch from a hospital tray and hoped Andrew had persuaded them to eat their vegetables; when I heard the sounds of a TV programme Oli liked and imagined him watching it; or when a baby brother or sister came onto the ward and I thought of Lucy’s smiles.

We saw them every other weekend and they’d also come to stay with us for a night. But it wasn’t a great success because Lucy had been in Hannah’s bed and Oli was beside me on the pull-out so no one was comfortable. But I couldn’t bring myself to use the family suite because it meant leaving Hannah on the ward overnight and we both felt anxious if we were apart too long, as if the million invisible strands joining us were strained by distance.

But I was nevertheless aware that children’s lives move fast because things had already changed. I had been sitting by Hannah’s bed one day when I looked up to see Lucy toddling towards me. She’d been on the cusp of walking for a while but my heart missed a beat as I realised I had not been there for her first steps. It was a moment that could never be recaptured, which was why I wanted to be at home so much for Oli’s birthday. Hannah was also going to make the journey with me because, although very weak, the doctors thought she could manage the short trip and I’d been on and off the phone all week organising Oli’s party. He’d asked for a pirate theme and I’d arranged for a bouncy castle to be put up in the garden. I’d also managed to slip out of the hospital for a couple of hours to buy pirate hats and party bags. Now Hannah seemed as excited as I was that we were going home.

‘What presents will Oli have?’ she kept asking as we waited for Andrew to pick us up.

‘Pirate ones!’ I exclaimed with a smile.

We were all a little quiet on the ninety-minute journey home and after pulling onto the drive, Andrew lifted Hannah out of the car to take her inside. I followed behind and stepped over the threshold to smell a different home. Everything was spotless – even the black-and-white checked kitchen floor that was usually covered in paint splashes and crumbs. I knew Andrew and his parents had gone to a lot of trouble, but I felt strange – like an animal that’s gone back to its lair to find the scent of a stranger there. My home felt different now that I was not in it.

‘Mummeeeeeee,’ Oli shouted as he ran towards me. ‘Look at the food. Have you got my present? When does the party start?’

I felt a rush of pleasure to see him so excited as he took my hand to lead me into the garden and look at the bouncy castle. But as we walked outside I suddenly felt anxious. Was Hannah OK? I took a deep breath as I told myself she would be fine. Andrew was looking after her now. This was my time with Oli. He deserved that.

As the party got under way the house filled with children and parents and I went to get Hannah from the lounge to carry her into the kitchen. I wanted her to feel part of the day, not separated from it, and I sat her on the work surface so she could look out of the window at the children playing in the back garden – a gaggle of three-year-olds oblivious to the chill as they flung themselves on and off the bouncy castle. Their cheeks were pink and their laughter echoed through the frozen air as their mothers chatted to each other.

Hannah sat on the kitchen worktop beside me and I looked at her sitting quietly. Tiny veins covered her bald head, a transparent feeding tube snaked across her pale cheek up her nose, an oxygen tube ran under it and two drip stands stood like sentinels at a gate beside her. There were moments when she looked almost old and wizened, as if the weight of the treatment was too much for her to bear. Soon she would need another dose of heart medication.

‘It’s too cold for me in the garden, isn’t it, Mummy?’ Hannah said as she stared outside.

I looked at her, not sure what to say. I knew how much she wanted to play, to be a little girl again.

‘Yes, my darling,’ I said softly. ‘But you can stay in here with me and I’ll watch with you.’

Hannah sat still and quiet as she gazed at her brother playing with his friends. But just before we set off back to the hospital, Andrew cleared the bouncy castle and I carried her outside. It was freezing cold as I stepped gingerly across the garden with Hannah in my arms. She felt so fragile, like a baby wrapped up against the elements. Lifting her gently, I sat her on the edge of the bouncy castle and kneeled down to look at her. She didn’t have the strength to make herself bounce and I knew she wouldn’t want to. But Hannah was smiling as she sat quietly – staring at the grass, feeling the wind on her face and breathing in the world.

It wasn’t just the doctors and nurses on the oncology ward who were filled with energy, kindness and patience. Many others worked with them to make life on the ward more bearable and perhaps the most inventive were the play leaders who found something to make even the sickest children smile. If a boy or girl was lying in bed and crying, a play leader would slide wax paper under their cheeks to catch their tears and show them the pattern they had made on the paper – a spidery trail of drops and wiggling lines to make them smile – or if a child was too weak to move, they would make a shape out of play dough and put it into their hand so their fingers could curl around it. They seemed to possess a never-ending treasure chest of ideas to help children smile and Hannah always looked forward to their visits.

There was one in particular though who could always make her laugh and Hannah’s favourite game with Sarah involved dipping sponges into water before lying in wait for a doctor to pass the bed.

‘Go on!’ Sarah would shriek and Hannah would toss the wet sponge at the unsuspecting passer-by.

‘You got me again!’ the doctor would exclaim with a smile as the missile hit him or her and Hannah started to giggle.

But the one thing she didn’t want to do even with Sarah was talk about her treatment. Although the play leaders had dolls with miniature drains and drips to help the children understand their treatment, the only person Hannah spoke to about it was me and as she remained in remission, her inquisitive nature began to show itself once more.

‘Why are they cleaning my wiggly again, Mummy?’ she’d ask as the nurses flushed out her central line which had to be done every day to ensure the site was kept completely sterile.

‘To make sure there are no bugs, Han.’

‘Like the bugs in my blood?’

‘Different ones, but we don’t want any kind of bugs to hurt you.’

She was also becoming increasingly impatient when blood was taken from her thumb on every visit to the weekly clinic where in-patients and children who were being treated for leukaemia at home were seen. Unlike the routine blood tests which were done each morning using a syringe in her central line, this one involved making a knick on the pad of her thumb with a small blade before a nurse squeezed long and hard enough to collect a few millilitres of blood. For a long time, Hannah didn’t say anything about it until one day we were sitting on her bed.

‘Mummy?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Han.’

‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve got my wiggly in my chest and I know they can take blood out of that, so why do they need to use my thumb too?’

‘I think it’s because they need special blood from the edges of your body and not blood that’s from near your heart,’ I replied.

Hannah didn’t say anymore but firmly refused to have a thumb test done when we next went for one.