When she didn’t get better, we took her to our local hospital for blood tests. After a few anxious hours, the doctor finally came in and said, “There is no easy way to say this… Milly has leukaemia.”
I’ll never forget that moment. Milly screamed, asking if she was going to die. How does an 11-year-old even understand what that means? How unfair that she had to ask if she would live. I tried to keep her calm while my own world felt like it was shattering.
That night, we were left in a small room with little information, trying to process the devastating news and figure out how to tell her sister and the rest of the family.
The next morning was a whirlwind. We were told we would go to Ward 84 at Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital to find out which type of leukaemia Milly had and receive a treatment plan.
An ambulance arrived, and we were rushed to Manchester with blue lights flashing, wearing only the clothes on our backs, feeling more scared than ever. The emotions we experienced—and Milly felt—are the same that every family goes through when a child is diagnosed with cancer. It feels unreal, like stepping into someone else’s life.
The ambulance crew tried to prepare us for Ward 84, where we would face childhood cancer head-on, praying it wasn’t real. When we arrived, a nurse showed us Milly’s bed. The doctor explained she would stay in the hospital for at least a few weeks. The next morning, Milly would go into theatre for a Hickman line insertion and receive chemotherapy directly into her spine. This was just the beginning.
The next 10 months were a rollercoaster. At first, Milly didn’t respond to the initial chemo. The second cycle was much stronger and made her very ill. As a parent, watching your child suffer is heartbreaking—seeing her vomit constantly, wracked with pain, needing morphine every hour, feeling utterly helpless.
Yet amidst the hardship, there were moments of joy. The nurses became like family, brightening life on the ward. We made friends with other families, sharing laughter despite the challenges. Watching children face cancer is humbling. I will always admire Milly’s dignity and courage throughout her illness.
During her time in hospital, we often talked about how we could help other children and families going through the same journey. That’s how Milly’s Smiles was born.
Our Milly Bags don’t change the diagnosis and they don’t perform miracles—but in those dark, confusing moments, they make a small difference. And that’s all Milly and I ever wanted: to bring a little comfort and joy to these amazing, brave children and their families.