24 The Night That Almost Wasn't

Some stories take a while to settle. This is one of them.

Last November, we were invited to the Children with Cancer UK annual fundraising gala, held at the beautiful Peninsula Hotel, just beside Hyde Park in London. It was a huge honour, completely out of the blue, and we were genuinely touched and excited (if a little overwhelmed) to be included.

The evening promised to be something special. Gaby Roslin was hosting, former England rugby player Martin Bayfield was overseeing the charity auction, and Olly Murs would be performing. With a fantastic venue, celebrity support, and a cause so close to our hearts, it felt like a real celebration of the work this brilliant charity does.

We set off from home for the three-hour drive into the city, buzzing with anticipation. Halfway there, we stopped at the services for a coffee and a break.

That’s when the phone rang. Emma picked up. The call came from the Rainbow Ward in Cardiff, completely unexpected.

They explained that Mason’s medical file had been picked up during a routine peer review. A third-party consultant had spotted something concerning on a scan, a damaged area, potentially a second growth on his spleen. When they looked back, they realised it had been there on scans from four and even eight months earlier. As of now, it would be referred to it as a lesion, discovered not too far from his original site. Somehow missed until now.

It felt like the ground had dropped beneath us. In that moment, everything changed. So suddenly, we were pulled right back, as though we were on the ward again in 2021, among the days of Mason’s treatment. Back to square one, with the same knot in our stomachs, the same sense of helplessness and fear.

Sitting there in the middle of a motorway café, the world just stopped. Our heads were spinning. All we could think about was getting back home to the children. Our instinct was to turn around, cancel everything, and be together.

But we sat quietly for a while, talked it through, and remembered what we’d learned through those long, hard months in hospital, that not every bit of bad news needs an immediate reaction. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is pause, think, and let the dust settle before you decide what to do next. So many questions, yet no answer in sight. The truth was, there was nothing we could do.

We reminded ourselves why we were heading to London in the first place. Why it mattered. It wasn’t just about us, it was for all the children and families walking the same road. And deep down, we knew Mason would have wanted us to go.

So we carried on.

But everything from that point on felt different. On the surface, we smiled, we engaged, and we tried to be present, but underneath, we were barely holding it together. Every laugh, every moment of applause, every kind word, it was all taking place against a backdrop of fear we couldn’t shake.

When we arrived, the welcome was warm and full of heart. The venue was stunning, the St. George ballroom full of beautifully dressed tables, waiters standing to attention, and an air of something truly meaningful. As we stood in the foyer, waiting to go in, the nerves and emotion started to rise, not just from the night ahead, but from the weight of what we were carrying.

Then the ballroom doors opened.

The atmosphere inside was unlike anything we’d experienced before. It was grand, moving, and full of purpose. A giant screen flickered to life, showing images of children, survivors, warriors, families. One of them was a photo of Mason and me. It caught us completely off guard. And in that moment, our brave faces almost gave way.

But it wasn’t just the visuals. It was the stories. Told throughout the night, they brought home the full weight of what this charity is really about, and who it’s for.

Stories of young people who had fought with everything they had. Some had survived. Some hadn’t. There were brothers and sisters there that night representing those who couldn’t be. The kind of stories that stop you in your tracks, raw, real, and painfully moving.

The room swayed between laughter and tears, celebration and reflection. One moment full of energy, the next completely still. At times, you could hear nothing but quiet breathing, feel that collective lump in the throat, and see people silently battling back tears.

It was incredibly emotional. But it was also full of strength, solidarity, and hope. And though we were surrounded by beauty and generosity, our hearts were still somewhere else, locked in that unanswered question about Mason.

Gaby Roslin guided the evening with warmth and empathy. Martin Bayfield brought charm and humour to the auction. And Olly Murs reminded everyone how important joy still is, how music and togetherness can lift even the heaviest of hearts.

We were so grateful to be there. To bear witness to it all. To be reminded that while this journey is impossibly hard at times, it’s one that’s shared by many, and supported by people who care deeply. This one night ended up raising £725,000 to help fund life-saving childhood cancer research.

That day reminded us to hold on to one important truth: not every setback needs to throw us off course. When the unexpected happens, and it will, we need to take a breath, give ourselves time, and not let fear control what comes next. We have to stay the course.

We’re so glad we did.

The drive home the next day was filled with emotion, lots of conversations, questions, and what-ifs. The weight of everything that had happened lingered, and looking back, it took nearly a month before we felt ourselves settling back into normal life, able to focus properly and get on with everyday tasks. A few people close to us recognised the shift straight away, but to most, you’d never have known. Perhaps it’s one of the quiet skills you learn as parents, how to carry the weight while staying steady for your child during the toughest times.

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The prognosis of the lesion identified in Mason’s spleen will be shared in a separate blog post to follow. Now that several months have passed since the initial discovery, we’re relieved to share that it has been described to us as nothing to worry about for the time being. That said, it took over four months to reach this conclusion, which explains the delay in finding the right way, and the right time, to begin writing about these experiences again.

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