How had this happened? Kate and I were always the lucky ones, the golden couple who traveled around the planet together, lapping up one adventure while already planning the next. You make your own luck; that’s what I always said when friends told us they envied our exciting lifestyle. When Reef came along he was everything we’d dreamed of and more. I know every parent says it of their child, but Reef really was the most perfect, beautiful baby you could imagine. He was stunning-looking, with a bright, sunny personality to match his shock of blond hair, and we doted on him.
When Reef started to get ill I had every faith that our blue-eyed boy would shrug it off and come up smiling. I prayed that by the time Kate gave birth to our second child we’d be the perfect family of four, sailing through life on the crest of a wave together, never looking back, and saying: “Thank God that’s all over. How lucky are we to have two awesome little boys?” In our darkest days, as we traveled between the two hospitals visiting both our fragile sons, all I wanted was to see my wife happy again. To see her cuddling our two gorgeous little boys in the sunshine was a dream I willed would come true. I couldn’t ask for more than that.
I got that wish, eventually, after Reef survived more than two years of relentless cancer treatment, which included major surgery to remove the tumor, countless blood and platelet transfusions, scores of scans and X-rays to check things like his kidneys and heart, plus intensive courses of antibiotics to compensate for his battered immune system, which left his little body wide open to a host of nasty infections that made him vomit and writhe in pain. All that, of course, was on top of his mega-doses of chemotherapy and radiation, which also made him sick and dangerously weak—so poorly, in fact, that the treatment almost killed him on more than one occasion.
* * *
The newspaper cutting in my hand reminded me of how incredibly well Reef had done to survive. He was indeed our “little miracle,” and, of course, Finn had pulled through too, even if it was four long weeks before he finally emerged from his incubator and Kate could actually hold him and kiss him. Kate, healthy Kate, cuddled both of our little boys every single day after that, longing for normality but feeling grateful for what she had. She had to wait those two long years before she started to believe that Reef really was a medical marvel, and he was going to survive just like “Diddy.”
Reef’s fourth birthday was such a precious milestone, and of course reaching his fifth in July 2009 was an even greater landmark. Kate was almost a year into her own cancer treatment by then, but it didn’t stop her celebrating with him and hoping for her own precious recovery.
Now, if Kate were watching, she would want to see me cuddling our two little boys in the sunshine just like she did, seizing the moment and living with hope in my heart.
“Make scrapbook of your adventures,” she wrote on her list.
“I will,” I said quietly as I packed the newspaper cutting away.
When I kissed the boys good night, I told them the local paper was coming to take our photograph on The Matthew during Reef’s sixth birthday party.
“It’ll be a great adventure, and we can keep a record of it forever,” I told them cheerfully.
I was confident the party would be a rip-roaring success. By this time I’d already taken out several classes of older children from Reef’s school on The Matthew for an activity day as I’d planned, which the kids had loved.
The headmaster, Mr. Webber, joined us for the school trip, as did the Lord Mayor of Bristol, who dressed up as a Tudor merchant. The highlight that day was when we sailed past a local pub in Pill, where lots of parents had gathered to wave at their children on board. The adults were sitting out in the sun drinking pints and glasses of wine when we came into view, and didn’t have a clue what we had planned. All the children were in on the secret, though, and were fired up with excitement.
“Remember what I said?” I asked them. There were about fifty children, all nodding and giggling in anticipation.
“When we fire the cannons don’t put your hands in your ears as it will make them pop. You need to all shout ‘have a care’ just like the proper pirates did in the olden days. Are we ready, shipmates?”
The kids all cheered and made blood-curdling pirate roars as we fired two cannons in quick succession, letting the parents have an ear-splitting broadside. They hadn’t suspected a thing, and it was hilarious to see them jump out of their skin as the wall of sound hit them. Several parents who had been sitting on the pub wall actually fell off, and I could see them spilling drinks and laughing and gasping in shock. It was as funny as you like, and I wanted Reef’s birthday to be just as memorable.
I spent weeks and weeks before his party buying pirate-themed goodies as well as perfecting our pirate outfits. We invited Reef’s entire class plus other friends, and all their parents came down to watch as I set sail with about fifty swashbuckling kids. I allowed parents who’d dressed up to come on board, but there were so many of us we also had two boats alongside The Matthew, stuffed to the gunwales with mums and dads wearing eye patches, fake scars and spotted headscarves.
We floated around Bristol Harbour with the Jolly Roger flag flying while the kids had loads of fun, climbing the rigging, exploring the ship from stem to stern and playing pirate games. They thoroughly enjoyed bashing the parrot piñatas, and the deck was awash with sweets shaped like skull and crossbones, gold chocolate coins and silver pirate rings, which the kids fell upon. We stopped off to collect chips to eat with the party food, and the adults tucked into a cream tea. The adventure culminated with a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” from the whole crew as well as the guests, and Reef blew out the six candles on his chocolate skull-and-crossbones cake. His little face was a picture of happiness. He loved every moment and didn’t want to get off the boat at the end of the day.
“Thank you, Daddy,” he beamed. “I love you, Daddy.”
I hugged him close. “Happy birthday,” I said. “I love you too.” I was thrilled to bits.
“All I can say is ‘wow!’” said one of the mums from school. Another jokingly told me off for setting the bar so high. “What on earth are the rest of us meant to do for kids’ parties after this? How can you top this?” she laughed.
“D’you think Kate would have loved it?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“You know she would!” came the emphatic reply. “Well done!”
At bedtime that night Reef asked me if I would measure him on their bedroom door frame, like Mummy used to do on birthdays.
“Can we do Mummy properly too?” he asked, looking at me with puppy dog eyes that meant I couldn’t possibly refuse, even though both he and Finn were absolutely exhausted and ready for their beds.
I recalled how, last year, Kate and the boys had messed about balancing books on each other’s heads. There was a faint scribble Reef had made with a pencil, which I remembered was meant to mark Kate’s height. It wasn’t accurate at all, as he couldn’t reach high enough up the frame, but she humored him and left it there anyway.
“Need to measure me on door frame—Mummy was 5ft 1in” was on the list, so we would do it properly now.
“Go and get a book and a pencil, and I’ll find a tape measure,” I agreed.
Reef gave me a cheeky, victorious smile, which told me this was as much about putting off bedtime as it was about recording heights. Needless to say, Finn got in on the act too, and the pair of them milked the exercise for all it was worth as I measured them, then added a notch at five foot one, for Mummy. I’d have to watch that tactic, I thought. Finn was a bit young, but Reef was old enough to play my heart strings like a fiddle.
A couple of days later the Bristol Evening Post printed a story under the headline: “Brave Reef enjoys a pirate’s birthday in memory of mum.”
There was a fantastic picture of me and the boys dressed up to the nines in our pirate outfits on board Th
e Matthew, and I was quoted as saying: “We always celebrate birthdays big time . . . it is something Kate said she would have liked to have done with the boys.”
It was very satisfying to clip out the article and carry it up to the memory boxes, before placing it neatly in a scrapbook. I’d ticked off another item on Kate’s list, one I vowed to tick off again and again.
I remembered what another mum had said to me on the day of the party: “Not many people could do what you’re doing so soon . . .” she said sweetly, giving me a slightly pitiful smile as she trailed off from what I knew she was about to say: “after losing Kate.” I just smiled at the time and shrugged.
“I love it,” I said, meaning it. “I’m a big kid at heart, you know!”
Now I felt a pang of longing for Kate as I remembered that conversation. “What choice do I have but to carry on and make my kids happy?” I thought. “The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Looking at the partied-out boys that night, I immediately gave myself a mental telling-off. I wasn’t putting on a show or going through the motions here by any stretch. It was really tough bringing the boys up alone, but on the whole we were having fun, and lots of it. As long as we keep doing that, we’re winning, I told myself.
I did, however, let another, less positive, thought into my head. It had been festering since the other mum’s remark at the party about “setting the bar so high” with such an extravagant celebration. I faced it now, asking myself frankly: “Singe, are you spoiling the boys?” It felt the right time to answer, and I indulged in a candid conversation with myself, playing out both sides in my head. “Yes, I do spoil the boys,” my soft, paternal side admitted without hesitation. “But why not?” it argued. “Reef and Finn have gone through an awful lot of crap, and I’m making up for them not having a mum. Where’s the harm in that?” My harsher, more macho side wasn’t entirely convinced. “You don’t want to bring up a couple of spoiled brats,” it accused. “Kate would hate them to become a pair of namby-pambys.” Happily, those reproachful words didn’t cut any ice. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hear them, it was because they didn’t ring true at all. “I might spoil the boys, but they are not spoiled brats,” I replied with confidence. “They have to do lots of chores that other kids their age have their mums there to do for them. Reef and Finn help me make the beds and sort the laundry and load the dishwasher, because I can’t do everything on my own. They’ve been forced to grow up fast in many ways, and as a result I think they earn their treats.” I was on a roll now, and I argued my case with ease. “Besides, because of my line of business they were always going to experience lots of exciting activities,” I asserted. “If Kate were still alive, they’d be having loads of amazing fun out on the water in any case, and they’d always have great birthday parties, because that’s how we always lived our lives.”
* * *
I had a version of that conversation with Ruth a few days later, to thoroughly test out my argument. “I don’t want to change the way I do things, but am I right?” I asked her bluntly.
“Singe,” she replied. “You tell everyone to live for each minute, and to make the most of each moment. And you know what? You’re absolutely right,” she said. “I’m glad you practice what you preach, you are showing the boys how to live.”
I told her I’d really enjoyed planning Reef’s birthday party, and it had been great to have something so exciting to look forward to. I also said that now that it was over, and the souvenir newspaper clipping was filed for posterity, I felt the urge to get the next adventure booked.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she smiled.
“Thanks, Ruth,” I grinned. “It’s what I wanted to hear, but I know you would be the first to tell me if I was making a pig’s ear of things.”
I thought about Egypt and I was very pleased I’d decided to make it a priority to take the boys there. After our previous trips, both as a couple and when the boys were very small, Kate was absolutely desperate to see Reef and Finn snorkeling in the Red Sea. It was one of her favorite places on the planet, and I will never forget one dive I did there with her.
We were forty feet down, feeding a kaleidoscope of fish, when a shoal of hammerhead sharks appeared from nowhere. I looked across at Kate, who looked tiny compared to these sixteen-foot beasts. Some were bigger than mini-buses. Her arms were flapping, and for a split second I thought she might be panicking, but then I realized what she was doing. Kate was in fact pulling out her video camera, and moments later she started swimming right up to the sharks, completely fearlessly. A silvertip shark appeared behind the hammerheads, and Kate captured him on film too.
Most other divers fled, but not Kate. For the size of her she was incredibly brave and had so much courage it was unreal. She got some cracking footage, then laughed off the close encounter when we were back on dry land.
“What was I supposed to do?” Kate giggled. “The sharks were in my reef—I wasn’t shifting!”
She was exhilarated by the experience, and it was a pleasure to see. I know nobody deserves to get cancer, but why did it have to happen to such a brave and brilliant woman?
“You’re a nightmare!” I said.
“Well, you’re the one who taught me not to be afraid of sharks,” she giggled.
I knew exactly what she meant by that, and I enjoyed the next memory all over again, laughing out loud to myself. It happened during our honeymoon in the Maldives, and it’s a story I will never tire of telling.
It was a beautiful, moonlit night, and we were all ready to go on an evening dive on a pretty house reef, attached to the island we were staying on.
“This is going to be absolutely mind-blowing,” I said to Kate. It was her first night dive, and I was very excited for her. “Night diving is so much more exciting,” I said. “We’ll hopefully see angelfish, barracudas, clownfish, parrot fish, eagle rays . . . it’ll be totally stunning down there.”
Kate peered cautiously over the edge of the jetty, which to be fair looked dark and mysterious, and pretty daunting.
“Will there be any sharks?” she asked nervously.
“Sharks?” I scoffed gently. “No, the sharks are all sleeping at this time of night.”
“Are you sure, Singe?”
“Don’t worry!” I said, seeing Kate’s eyes flickering with worry. “I’ll be right beside you. Listen, some of the nocturnal fish change color at night, and we might be lucky enough to see squid or octopus, as they’re more active at night. It’ll be amazing. You’ll never forget your first night dive.”
Kate took a deep breath and agreed to go for it, pulling on her mask and then bracing herself to take a giant stride into the watery unknown. I had entered the water moments before and was floating five meters away from the end of the jetty. I signaled to Kate I was clear and that she could enter the water, but as I checked below I saw a small white-tip reef shark cruising toward us. What happened next was absolutely unbelievable. Kate strode off the pontoon, and I watched in amazement as she managed to land completely astride the shark. The timing was incredible, and very funny indeed.
The startled shark fled like a scalded cat, and Kate surfaced in a flurry of bubbles and curses. I surfaced too and was absolutely killing myself laughing, but Kate was clearly not impressed, and it took me several minutes to stop her hitting me and demanding we abandon the dive.
“I thought you said sharks go to sleep at night,” she said. “Did you plan that?”
“Like I could!” I laughed. “He wasn’t clockwork, you know!”
Nevertheless, I was forced to confess that lots of sharks are actually nocturnal and come out hunting for food at night.
“I hate you, Singe,” Kate said, narrowing her eyes.
“Do you really?” I asked.
“No!” she laughed. “I suppose now you’re my husband I have to love you for bet
ter or worse, and I’ll have to write that moment off as one of the worst. My heart nearly jumped out of my wet suit, and I dread to think what the poor shark thought!”
“Life’s not about the number of breaths you take,” I said, borrowing a line I’d heard in a film to try to sweet-talk my way out of trouble. “It’s about the moments that take your breath away.”
Kate continued to huff and puff for a while before agreeing to try again, and the dive proved to be every bit as stunning as I predicted. At one point we turned off our flashlights and played with the phosphorescent plankton in the water, watching it spark and glow like a million electric blue halogen bulbs. We only called it a night after I was stung by some fire coral, giving Kate the last laugh.
The boys would love Egypt now that they were old enough to snorkel, and I decided to get it booked up that week and arrange for them to have their holiday vaccinations, so we could start looking forward to it. The issue of the shots was a bit of a tricky one. When Reef was diagnosed with cancer we inevitably looked for a cause, desperate to know what could have possibly gone so wrong to have triggered such a rare and aggressive form of the disease.
When Kate was diagnosed too, we thought there had to be some sort of a genetic link, despite the fact there is no significant history of cancer on either side of the family. The doctors, however, concluded there was no link whatsoever between Reef’s cancer and Kate’s. We were told it was just another one of those alarming Lottery statistics, with the odds of both mother and son being struck down with two entirely unrelated, aggressive cancers being completely off the scale.
“It must have been the shots,” Kate said, desperately fishing for answers, maternal guilt making her blame herself when Reef was diagnosed. “I’ve had every inoculation under the sun because of all our foreign holidays. One of them must have affected me when I was pregnant, or even before I got pregnant. Or maybe it was a mixture of shots that didn’t agree with me?”
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