Jade POV
Where is Little Mix?
High-selling pop sensation Little Mix have been out of the limelight for some time now. Earlier in the year they embarked on their first headlining tour in America, which they later had to cancel due to Jade Thirlwall's increasing health issues. As a result the European leg of the tour would take place in a stripped down, acoustic version. Thirlwall cut this tour short early to return home to London and has not been seen or heard of since. The band finished the tour in May as a trio before heading off for a well-deserved holiday break. Fans were provided with plenty of holiday pictures from Leigh-Anne Pinnock and Jesy Nelson, but silence prevailed from Thrilwall and girlfriend Perrie Edwards. The band announced that they would return to the studio after their separate holidays to work on the next album, but the pop singers have not been seen or heard from for months now. It seems the band has disappeared, raising questions among fans. Is Little Mix taking a longer break or can we already speak of an unannounced hiatus? And how is Thirlwall doing?
I must have read the article twenty times since it was published. It makes me wistful and sad, it makes me feel guilty. Because it's all true. We have completely disappeared from the limelight and it's all because of me. Contrary to our hopes and expectations, the media found no boredom in learning all about me and my health after the tour. The hordes of paparazzi are still lined up outside my apartment building, making it almost impossible for me to leave the house.
Leigh-Anne and Jesy took advantage of the time off after the last show and enjoyed their holidays. Leigh was in Jamaica for three weeks and Jesy was enjoying herself in Ibiza. Perrie and I meanwhile tried to manage the new daily routine with the new treatment method. So, while the other two provided the fans with plenty of holiday pictures, Perrie and I remained silent. There was no information from us to the outside world. We're not sharing anything, we're completely withdrawing, shielding ourselves away and I'm really finally focusing mainly on getting better.
My mum is back in South Shields. She still stayed with me during the last shows in London and also the first few days when Perrie was glued to my hip again. But she quickly realised that Perrie has it all under control and she does, after all, have a life of her own that isn't here in London. It took a lot of convincing, but in the end she listened to me and went home.
Perrie hasn't been to her house once; she literally doesn't leave my side. One day I was surprised by moving packers who brought small amounts of her belongings to my flat. Not missing, of course, were her clothes, which took up almost an entire guest room, and all her awards. She took it upon herself to distribute our awards and prizes so that no matter where you go, you have no chance but to be reminded of our success. She settled in a bit more with me, made it more homey and homely for herself, which pleased me. It also gave her something to do other than just worry about me, which was good and important for both of us.
Timed to coincide with my next treatment break, however, we then started working on the next album. Normally I liked to take the opportunity to fly to L.A. for a writing camp, but not this time, of course. I wasn't allowed to travel or fly and so we all found ourselves in the old familiar studio, together with Kamille, to get creative for the next album. Of the four of us, Leigh and I are always most absorbed in songwriting and under normal circumstances I'm bubbling over with ideas and can't wait to get into the studio to show the others everything I've been working on. But this time it's nothing like that. This time I'm so drained from my fight against the cancer that I have little to no energy left to think about anything, let alone do some good writing.
The first three weeks went slowly, but much better than I would have expected. We made some progress, gathered ideas, wrote beautiful lines and things were actually going well until my next cycle started. I assumed that I could carry on as before because studio work, at least the songwriting process, is not particularly exhausting and doesn't require too much energy, but I was wrong. Even though the intravenous treatment method has the advantage of making me feel less nauseous and I do not constantly feel like I'm going to throw up, but it was harder on my body in a different way. I was more tired and weaker than before. I could have slept all day during the treatment phase and even when I tried to fight it, I lost quickly. It started with short power naps in the studio, which quickly led to long naps until we all realised that it couldn't work like that and that I was better off at home. Perrie, however, refused to leave me alone in the flat and was justifiably afraid that I would then be completely helpless in an emergency. That left Leigh-Anne and Jesy and they alone in the studio realised that the two of them, with constant thoughts of me as they said themselves, were quite unproductive.
So, the plan to have the album finished by the time I got through treatment, started to crumble. We were only able to work productively on the album in the break phases, which took up a lot of time.
There were no public appearances or interviews, for my sake. Although Aaron immediately followed my wishes and organised a beautiful and deceptive wig that completely covered my hairlessness, I didn't feel comfortable. At least not comfortable enough to step in front of a camera.
The label, of course, didn't like our slow progress on the album and our absence from the public eye, and the management had their hands full arguing with them. Albeit grumpily, they took it and we worked quietly on the album, until that one day.
"She'll have good news," Perrie keeps saying as I remain silent, staring out the window. She's been saying it all day, probably just to ease my anxiety about this appointment. At one point I ask, "How do you know?"
"I can feel it," is her answer, which does little to satisfy me. For I feel quite differently. Maybe it's because she is always the optimist of the group, while I see everything much more realistically. Maybe all this stress also made me more of a pessimist. But I have a different feeling, a bad one. I can't feel that the doctor will have good news. And she senses my doubts.
"Remember what we read. Six months," she speaks well to me and I have to try hard not to roll my eyes. In our cancer research she has read a few times that normally treatment for AML takes half a year. I don't believe that, but Perrie was obsessed with that thought and clung to it so tightly that she wouldn't even allow any other option.
We sit in the oncologist's office to discuss the results of the latest tests. At my last session I was supposed to stay longer for blood work and more tests to see how far the treatment has taken effect and if I may be even cancer free yet. Perrie assured me all night, during which of course I didn't sleep a wink, that she had a good feeling and that she knew everything would be fine now. I didn't share her opinion, but I didn't disagree either. I just remained silent, absorbed in my own world of thoughts. At my request, no one knew about this doctor's appointment and depending on the outcome, I wanted it to stay that way.
The doctor took a long time until she finally came into the office, thus exacerbating our tense silence. Perrie, who was pacing before, takes a seat and immediately grabs my hand to place it on her lap. She is at least as tense, nervous and anxious as I am, but she suppresses that, for me. And at that moment I am very grateful for her feigned strength, because I am a mess.
Dr. Larkin sits down in front of us, opens the papers and remains silent. I don't want to look at her, but her silence makes me so freaked out that I have to raise my head and what I see immediately gives me an idea of what's going on.
"No good news then," I conclude and she shakes her head sadly.
Even if I had already guessed it, nothing could have prepared me for hearing it. I can already feel the tears welling up and I just look sadly down at my lap, avoiding her probing gaze.
"It's not good news, no. But it could also be worse," she says, but I've heard enough and I'm so emotionally drained I'd like to flee home and crawl under the bed.
"The blood draw showed that there are still plenty of immature blood cells. But the good thing is that no other organs are affected and no metastatic fibres were found," she explains.
"That sounds exactly like the first diagnosis," Perrie notes, stunned. So much for six months.
"Unfortunately, yes," agrees Dr. Larkin. "We haven't made real progress, unfortunately, but the disease hasn't spread any further either. That means the treatment is keeping the disease at bay, but it's not beating it."
"So theoretically speaking she could keep living like this, the disease isn't killing her?" Perrie asks, making my eyes wide.
"Even if it is like this, sooner or later I'd lose the will to live," I tell her with complete honesty, more honest than I've ever been, which in turn startles her.
"It's true, isn't it?" I persist stubbornly. "No one wants to live like that."
"No one should have to live like that either," Dr. Larkin agrees with me. "I also doubt that your heart would put up with that in the long run. So, we should adopt a different strategy."
"Which is?" asks Perrie for me, because she can tell I'm frozen with fear about what this new strategy might be.
"First we'll up the dosage of the chemotherapy medication and you'll get the infusion more often. Then we'll see what happens. Step by step."
Looking back, that was the beginning of the end. At least that's how it feels. The treatment became harder and more difficult to bear. I still tried to do my job, as agreed, and that's how Perrie and I found ourselves in the studio. We hadn't been able to write much by then, but a few songs were ready enough to be recorded.
Already in the morning I notice that I am not in good shape. On the way to the studio I close my eyes and lean my head against the cold window pane to cool it down at least a little.
"Are you okay?", Perrie asks me her standard question and this time I'm honest and shake my head.
"What's wrong?"
"Headache," I barely manage to say. A stabbing headache has been plaguing me since morning, spreading from my forehead all over my head. I try to ignore the pain, to swallow it down, but once at the studio that seems impossible. We arrive later than the others anyway, to spare me so to say, so Leigh is already in the recording booth. Normally I love her voice, I always tell her that she sounds like an angel to me. But today every sound is pure agony. I sit down carefully on the couch, which is already causing my forehead to sting again, so I rub my temples frantically.
"You don't look so good," Jesy quickly states as she sits down next to me. This sound also is hardly bearable and so I just close my eyes tensely.
"She has a bad headache," Perrie explains in a whisper and they both nod at each other, probably agreeing to refrain from spoken words from now on. I really try to fight the pain, but I can't hold out for more than a few minutes.
"I think I need to close my eyes for a bit," I say and the other two know what to do. Perrie places me on the couch, watches me lie down and signals to Leigh as she joins us to stay still.
"Is there anything we can do?" she asks me quietly and I just give a thumbs down, not knowing how to help myself.
"Preferably no noise and no light," Jesy explains and it actually sounds like a good plan, wouldn't we be in a studio recording music.
"We'll just take a little break," Leigh then says and quickly everyone, except Perrie of course, disappears from the studio and we all hope that with some peace, quiet and darkness I can combat this headache. But a veritable migraine develops that won't leave me alone.
When the door opens after an hour and the others come back chatting after their break, I could scream out. I am nauseous, I have been on the verge of vomiting several times and tears run uncontrollably down my cheeks. I cling to Perrie's arm and whimper for her ears only, "Please, make it stop." And she looks at me so compassionately and sadly that she can't hold back the tears either.
"That's enough, I'm taking her home," she then announces and just the thought of a car ride, triggers anxiety in me.
"No, stay here until she's feeling better. We're leaving," Leigh says and I actually want to disagree or at least apologise to all of them for wasting their, but it just hurts too much to speak.
By evening I'm at least well enough to start the drive home and we all hope it was just a one-time thing, but we're wrong. The migraine becomes a constant companion. It comes when I wake up in the morning and keeps me from going to sleep at night. For weeks it hangs over us like a shadow. At times I can't leave the bed, can't leave the house. I can, once again, hardly eat anything, hardly drink, hardly talk or even sleep. I am in pure agony all the time and don't know what to do about it.
Perrie describes the problem vividly to the doctor on the phone. Dr. Larkin says it is rare, but some patients would react to the treatment with migraine attacks. But there would be no need to worry, the migraine would go away. But it doesn't.
The label is pissed off. After all, we have a deal, at least I was supposed to come into the studio during breaks from treatment and do the job I'm paid to do and make sure the band can continue.
One day I hear Perrie angrily on the phone.
"Sam, she can't even get out of bed, how is she supposed to get into a studio?!" she whisper-shouts, "I don't give a shit what we discussed."
"No, I'm definitely not coming either, I'm not leaving her alone and we're not recording any songs as a threesome!" she clarifies and the guilt grows and grows.
"End of discussion, take it or leave it. We're not going anywhere as long as she's feeling this shitty!" And I'm glad for her, because the thought of having to get out of bed causes pure panic.
At one point, though, Perrie's worry grows. She already fears that the cause of the scar above my eyebrow might be related to all this, as my head was never x-rayed at the time. I dismiss this assumption, I trust the doctor who looked at my head back then, but even I can't help but wonder what's going on now.
And when it still doesn't get better after weeks, Perrie pulls the plug. Against all protests on my part, she somehow manages to drag me to the doctor and there she explains to everyone who wants to hear it or not that I'm miserable, that the migraines are slowly killing me rather than the cancer itself and that we won't leave until we have answers. And I sit silently by and let her yell at all the people around us, secretly smiling to myself. The roles used to be reversed and I used to look out for her. How bittersweet things change.
My medical team finally takes notice of my constant migraines and promptly follows Perrie's request. They x-rayed my head and for the first time another thought occurred. What if it really isn't the aftermath of the injury? What if it's not the side effects of the treatment? What if there is more to it, what if they really find something?
I've never been as scared at a CT as I am this time and even though she's pulling herself together badly and trying her hardest to be strong for me, Perrie is no different as we take our seats for the appointment afterwards.
"They've found something," I quietly voice my fear.
"No, don't say that," she contradicts, but she doesn't even look at me as she does so, letting me know that she has the same suspicion, the same bad feeling. And it breaks my heart. My sunshine, my optimist is only a shadow of her former self and I am the reason why. If even she no longer sees only the good, how can I?
When the doctor arrives, looking just as grumpy and serious as we are, we know immediately. Without even looking at each other, our hands meet.
"I'm sorry, but..." she already starts, but I'm quick to interrupt her, "You've found something."
And she exhales deeply before nodding slowly.
"It's hard to tell from the pictures, but it could be a very small brain tumour," she explains carefully and that alone makes me go into shock, but I am not the only one in the room who takes this information badly. Perrie's grip becomes so tight I think she'll break my hand a second time and she breaths too fast. Way too fast. Disturbingly fast.
"Perrie, hey, look at me," I say automatically, but she doesn't follow my prompting.
"Pez," I say more forcefully now, which makes her look at me, but only for a split second. But what I see is enough for me. Her face is already tear-stained, even though she seems to be trying everything to keep her composure.
This time my grip hardens and I become more forceful, which surprised myself. "It's going to be all right, like you always say. It's just a small bump on the road, no big deal. We'll figure it out, okay?", I try to coax her.
"Jade, they're talking about a brain tumour," she whispers as if the doctor isn't sitting in front of us.
"I know, but only a small one. Small is better than big, right?", I reply with tears in my eyes. "Let's hear what we can do about it before we panic."
She nods, but still doesn't look my way, which makes me more impatient.
"Hey," I say still trying to get her attention and she at least turns to me, surprised by my harsh tone.
"I love you," I say. "And we'll get through this. But you need to calm down. I need you here with me," and those words are enough for her to slow her breathing, wipe away her tears and turn her attention back to the doctor.
"As you say, Miss Thirlwall, the situation is not ideal, but there is no need to worry yet and the chances are not that bad," and admittedly, my doctor doesn't sound quite optimistic about it either, but not bad is better than bad or even hopeless.
"The tumour, if it is one, is so small that we cannot or do not have to remove it surgically. The first step here is radiotherapy of the central nervous system. But since you still have lots of immature blood cells and are in the middle of chemotherapy, we advise radiochemotherapy. A double treatment so to speak."
"How would that work?", I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"You'll still get the chemotherapy three times a week and on top of that you'll have radiotherapy appointments," she explains and I can already guess where this is going. "We strongly recommend that you stay in the hospital full-time for the duration of the radiochemotherapy."
This of course sends me straight into panic, knowing full well that my biggest nightmare is now coming true.
"How...how long?", I stammer.
"That depends on how you respond to the treatment, I'm afraid," she says sincerely, for which I'm grateful, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear and the next shock comes right on top.
"We should start as soon as possible, so you should be at the hospital tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?!", Perrie and I make our shock known at the same time.
"I'm afraid so. 8 am, tomorrow morning," she confirms and like two heaps of misery we make our way back to the flat.
We don't speak a word, both just stare out the window of the car and somehow try to deal with the situation, which seems so much worse and more hopeless than it did a few weeks ago.
At my request, she invites Leigh-Anne and Jesy to join us that evening, which happens rarely enough. The fact that we usually see each other for several hours a day at work means that it is usually never necessary to visit each other at home as well. But, like everything else, contact is extremely limited at the moment because of me. Without asking any questions, they agree and when they come in the evening, I can already see from their looks that they fear the worst. So, I don't want to wait too long and quickly come clean.
Out of respect for my non-existent appetite, Perrie only serves tea and biscuits while we sit down on the big couch in the living room.
"How are you?", Leigh asks me with a thin smile, which I half-heartedly reply.
"Been better," I understate intemperately, but they already know that. "We have some bad news," and they both hold their breaths already, even though they obviously suspected something like this.
"We found out the trigger for the migraines today," I say in a heavy voice and I can't bear their fear-filled faces for long, so I continue quickly: "I might have a small brain tumour, but there's no reason to worry yet."
"No reason to worry yet? A BRAIN TUMOUR?!", Jesy pauses incredulously.
"No," I clarify calmly. "We're changing the therapy and starting radiation and the doctors are optimistic that it might make the tumour go away."
I can tell by the look on both of their faces how hard this bad news is hitting them too and how hard they are trying to pull themselves together for me, but there is no need.
"It's okay to cry, you know. I wouldn't feel any better if the roles were reversed." And with that reassurance, any dams are broken and we are quickly in each other's arms.
After a while, though, I have more to get off my chest, "I have to go to the hospital for treatment...inpatient."
"Shit," Leigh speaks right from my heart.
"You say it," I admit. "And I think that makes it time to take a next step..."
All three of them look at me now, confused and questioning, to which I exhale deeply and suggest quietly, "We need to make a decision. Either I temporarily quit the band or we announce an official break."
"Option one is absolutely out of the question," Leigh screams at me.
"No, never," Jesy is also quick to say.
"A lot of people have suspected a break for some time, we just need to sort of say it out loud," Perrie interjects.
"And talk to the label...", I remind, and this is already causing us all concern.
"Should we invite Sam? She should be in the picture from the start this time," Perrie then suggests and I smile fondly at her.
"That's a good idea."
As Perrie disappears from the room to call Sam, I take advantage of the moment to talk to Leigh and Jesy about my own concerns.
"You guys need to take care of Perrie, please. She's going to be a wreck for the next few weeks. You need to get her out of the hospital and distract her as much as you can, I beg you."
"Don't worry, we'll be there for you both," Jesy assures me.
"Sisterhood and all that, we're not going anywhere," Leigh says and that again ended in a group hug, which Perrie promptly joins in, not knowing why and not asking any questions either.
Sam quickly arrives, hugs me and, seemingly through Perrie, knew immediately what it was all about. We use the time to develop a battle plan, but I couldn't attend the evening for long. The news from today took too much out of me, the appointment itself stressed me too much, and the headache was still too strong.
But before I retire to bed for the night, I have one more important thing to say: "Perrie needs to have a letter of authorisation so that she can officially and legally speak and act for me when I am int the hospital."
Perrie's jaw drops in shock as Sam agrees with me and that's enough for me. I hug everyone, in a way saying goodbye like this and thus basically saying goodbye to any band commitments. And with that, I go to bed in the most depressed mood I've ever experienced and yet I'm too tired and exhausted to dwell on it for long.
8 am comes sooner than I had hoped. Thankfully, Perrie took on the task of packing most of my things the night before, so I only have to add bits and pieces in the morning. As we move out, our suitcases, two of them mind you, do not go unnoticed by the few paparazzi still waiting there.
"Where are you going on holiday?" one asks and it stabs me in the heart. I wish it were so.
Arriving at the hospital, the place of horror, I am taken to the room designated for me after my registration. It's the celebrity suite, so to speak, which seems a bit ridiculous to me. The room is very large and also very bright due to large windows and I was alone in here, which is certainly not standard. But considering the fact that a few brave paparazzi have already gathered outside the hospital with my appearance here, I accept being treated differently with thanks for once. The more privacy and isolation, the better. The doctors don't take long either and the treatment is to begin promptly, only one thing catches my attention beforehand, a message on my phone, a post from our official account.
We regret to say you that we will be taking a break from the band's commitments for the time being. We all hoped that Jade would be well enough by this point to participate normally in the band's daily life again, but unfortunately she's not quite there yet. We don't want to go on without her, so we will put our plans on hold until she is able to participate again and we ask you all to respect that. It is important for us to say that we will not split up in any way and that we will be back, we promise you that. Little Mix is forever and all plans are only postponed. It's just a little break that we hope will be as short as possible. However, health is always the most important thing and so this decision was made with everyone's consent. We love you and can't wait to see you all again soon.
Lots of love
Leigh-Anne, Jesy, Perrie and Jade.
And with that, my biggest fear comes true and the horror really begins.
To be honest, at one point I was even glad to be in the hospital. Because I had never felt so bad before and on some days and moments I had an honest fear of not waking up again. It gave me security to know that I would be in the right hands in case of an emergency. And as macabre as it sounds, it was also reassuring to know, should I indeed not wake up again, that Perrie wouldn't be at home dealing with the mess.
Perrie was the true angel that she is. She was with me every day and night and wouldn't let me be alone for even a moment because she knew how much I loathed that place and how scared I was. I was visited by friends sometimes, Leigh and Jesy often popped in, as did Sam and the team, but at a certain point visits like that became too exhausting for me.
And admittedly, I didn't feel comfortable in my skin either, I didn't feel like myself anymore. My hair had completely fallen out and due to the radiation, not only on my hair, but my eyebrows and eyelashes were also missing now. I had so many infusions in me, a bladder catheter because I was often too weak to leave the bed, a gastric tube because I was so apetite-less and so sensitive to food and smells that it was decided after only one day that I would never absorb the necessary nutrients by eating. A condition I feared at the time, but which now became true. I had an oxygen tube permanently around my nose because apparently that is standard. Perrie didn't look at me any differently than she had before, she didn't seem to notice it at all or hid it extremely well, but I noticed. I felt disgusting, ugly. I felt like a stranger when I looked in the mirror, so eventually I stopped doing that.
The radiation combined with the chemo took everything out of me and my body. Some days I felt so close to death that it scared me. Mentally, I rarely felt so bad, and that's saying something. There were days when I physically couldn't get out of bed, but sometimes I was just too depressed and not even Perrie's uplifting words could help me. I didn't want to watch films, do Sudokus, read books or newspapers, have visitors, talk to anyone on the phone, see anyone. I just wanted to get this horrible phase in my life over with.
It kills Perrie seeing me like this. Every day she tried to get me to do something and not just lie motionless in bed and let the agony wash over me. But it all didn't help, so she resorted to the last resort that calmed both me and her. She sang. She sang our songs, Disney songs, musical songs, just anything that came into mind, day in and day out. And not in the powerful voice you're used to from her. Quietly, softly and tenderly, sometimes she just hummed. Hearing her wonderful voice gave me strength, gave me peace. On good days I even managed to sing along with some lines.
But then, after weeks that felt like years, it was over. The radiation was over. And after a few days of bitterly needed rest, I gained strength. Pathetic that I already see it as a win, but the removal of the bladder catheter and feeding tube is the best feeling I've had in a long time. A feeling of freedom and independence.
"We have good news," announces the doctor who has mainly looked after me during my time in the hospital. "The CT scan has shown that the radiation has worked and the supposed tumour in your brain has disappeared completely. So there is no need for surgery." I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding and Perrie next to me lets out a short but mighty hysterical squeal of delight, which brings a smile to the doctor's lips.
"That's always the fun part of this job," he says cheerfully. "It means we can stop the combination treatment and focus fully on the chemotherapy again." I'm glad. Sad as it is, I often longed for the easy chemo back when I didn't feel so awful every day. But Perrie's face falls.
"So that means there are still immature blood cells?" And this question also makes the doctor's smile disappear and I look sadly at my hands in my lap. I hadn't even considered this aspect any more.
"You seem to have some particularly stubborn blood cells there that don't want to be fought so easily. But I am confident, at least there aren't more of them. We should celebrate the successes we have." That's true, of course, and I wish it were that easy, but the depressed, sad look on Perrie's face doesn't leave, which affects my mood too.
"Still, for now you have a break so your body can recover from all the exertion. Actually, I would like to keep you here a little longer, but I also know that in a few days it will be Christmas and you will surely want to spend it at home, where you can relax better. So I'm going to discharge you."
That's enough to restore any joie de vivre I may have been lacking up to this point. I grin broadly at Perrie, who returns a thin smile. She's having trouble keeping her emotions in check, which she doesn't even have to do, but seems to want to. A thin tear is already running down her cheek and she quickly hugs me to her and gives me a kiss on the top of my head, then buries her face in my shoulder for a moment. Even though I'm such a wreck visually and physically, I still seem to give her strength at times like this.
"But I must say, your body really needs rest and relaxation. It's really important," the doctor warns strongly.
"So rather no family visit to Newcastle over Christmas?", I nevertheless more or less hopefully enquire and his face says it all.
"I can only highly recommend against it," he says quickly and forcefully. "The journey there alone would be far too exhausting."
Even though I had almost thought so too, it was still a sad shock to hear it said out loud. I try to go home as often as I can under normal circumstances, especially to visit my nieces and nephew. With the schedule and stressful life I have, that's rare enough. But for a few days I usually manage to squeeze it in once every few weeks. But by now I can't even remember the last time I saw them. We facetimed here and there, but live and in person must have been before the tour. And that makes both me and them sad.
Leoni, the oldest, understands. She is old and mature enough to know what it means to have cancer and has never questioned it. The little ones have no idea. Amara often asks me when I'm finally coming home and it breaks my heart every time. In the beginning I still said that I would come very soon, but when she also realised that it was a lie, I just said that I would try. I had hoped that over Christmas I would be fit enough to go to South Shields for a few days and finally spend some time with them again, but in this case I have to agree with the doctor. It might have been possible before my hospital stay, but the radiochemotherapy has left me so drained and at the end of my tether that anything other than lying on the couch or in bed sounds extremely difficult to do right now. Taking a train trip sounds downright impossible. So I accept it with a heavy heart.
The day of my discharge is finally approaching. Even though I still loathe hospitals, being here has given me some comfort and security, knowing that I am in the right hands if something should happen. Leaving it now gives me the good feeling that I am healthy enough to be home alone again, but it also honestly scares me a bit, which I try to hide. But even if she doesn't say it out loud, I know that Perrie feels the same way. After all, she is the one who would make it her own business to help me should anything happen to me.
The paparazzi and tabloids seem to be finally tired of Perrie and me. After all, there hasn't been any news or updates from us for quite a while now, we are still silent on various social media channels and either staying in the hospital or at home. When things got particularly bad with them and they were particularly persistent, we started to be picked up in the private underground garage of our building by a driver who also brought us in front of a private cordoned off entrance of the hospital and waited for us there. The driver was provided by the label, but I wondered, given our abstinence and refusal to work, how much longer we would be allowed to enjoy such a luxury. But so far I was very grateful to the driver. Without knowing it, he made sure that no more unflattering pictures could get out to the public. There were still a few paparazzi in front of the hospital and later also in front of the flat, but this could not be compared to their obsession with us only a few weeks ago.
Despite the unspectacular drive home, I am exhausted when we arrive at the flat. Perrie promptly puts me on the couch, where I have to rest for a while. She brings me a cup of tea, which I sip slowly and which steadily calms me down, before she sits down next to me with a too serious expression on her face.
"What's wrong?", I ask her confused.
"I have something to tell you and I don't know how you're going to react." This only made my obvious confusion grow. I look at her with a furrowed brow, expecting an explanation, but it doesn't come.
"Well then, out with it," I prompt her.
"Well...you know it's Christmas in two days," she then says.
"Yes?", I look at her still quite demanding.
"I had called your family to explain that we couldn't come, you know, for obvious reasons," I smirk at the use of the word we but let her explain further. "They didn't like that and insisted on seeing you anyway."
"Meaning?", I enquire, already suspecting what's coming.
"They're coming here," she is then brief and to the point. "Tomorrow sometime. Your mum, your brother, Shireen and the kids. But they're sleeping at the hotel because we don't have enough room and your mum and I agreed that you need at least a little rest."
"Okay...", I say slowly, having to process the information first. On the one hand, of course, I'm beside myself with joy that I'm finally going to see my family again, but especially the children, and that over Christmas. On the other hand, I already know how stressful the time will be and I'm not really looking forward to facing them the way I look now.
"They insist on staying for your birthday," Perrie continues to explain and I smile thinly.
"Then we'll have a party."
"We don't have to..."
"I think I want to, actually," I surprise myself, but as I think about it, it becomes clearer. The way things are currently with me and my health, it might be the last birthday to be celebrated. Although I no longer have the alleged small brain tumour in my head, the leukaemia has not yet been beaten, rather it looks like we have made little progress on that front. And I myself have read a lot on the subject and also know that this is not good, that this is even rather very bad and that sooner or later my body will have to give up the fight, cured or not. So I should try to experience and enjoy every day, every important event, as if it were the last time. That counts for Christmas and my birthday too, of course.
Perrie looks at me sceptically, but I remain serious: "No, honestly. It's pretty last-minute, but to be fair, we didn't know if I would even be out of the hospital for my birthday yet. Let's invite everyone. Our friends, our team, the dancers, Leigh, Jesy, everyone. I'm sure most of them won't be here because of the holidays, but...' something in her face makes me stop. Like there's something on the tip of her tongue but she doesn't know how to say it. "What?", I prompt her to speak.
"Everyone's here," she explains, avoiding my gaze.
"What? Why is that?", I ask in honest surprise, because normally everyone is really spread out everywhere at this time of the year. All the dancers and crew members are back home and Leigh, for example, is usually in Jamaica. What is everyone doing here?
"They wanted to be here in case you were able to celebrate your birthday..." still she doesn't look at me and I can hardly believe what I'm hearing.
"Why?" But then it hits me and Perrie's silence confirms the suspicion. "They think it might be the last one," I say out loud what I'm thinking myself. I see how hard it is for Perrie to talk about it or even allow such a thought.
"Hey, it's okay to think like that, you know," I assure her then. "I think like that too, don't I? I'm sick and the disease is fatal in some if not many cases. It would be stupid not to think about it here and there. And so we see to it that I at least enjoy everything, you know, just in case. But that doesn't mean I stop fighting it, you hear me?"
"Yeah, I know..." she says then and I can hear her fighting tears. "It's just..." but she is lost for words.
"Hard. It's hard," I then say for her and as our eyes meet I know that this time it's my turn to be there for her, to give her comfort, to console her. And I do. I take her in my arms and hold her as she cries softly into my shoulder, over a condition we both hate but unfortunately can't change.
"My mum and Ellie want to come too," she mumbles still with her face pressed against my neck.
"The more the merrier," I say, meaning it in this case. I'm glad Perrie will have her family around too and won't give up seeing them at Christmas because of me.
"And I'm supposed to cook."
"I can't wait," I say, actually meaning it this time. She breaks away from me and when she sees my genuine grin, she beams all over her face. For whatever reason, though, seeing me eat gives her such a sense of confidence and hope that I firmly resolve not to take that away from her.
"Speaking of, I'm starving. Seriously, this hospital food is inedible even for me. Please don't go back there anytime soon," she blurts out as she jumps up to find her phone.
"Not planning on it," I say with a laugh.