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Leanne the hero

I'd always been in awe of my big sis, then she took on her greatest fight...


Published by: Jean Jollands
Published on: 21 June 2012

A hero, that's what my big sister Leanne meant to me. She was two years older than me and now, even though I was a mum to Hayley, two, and Kyle, seven months, with another on the way, I still idolised her.
Watching her bounce around the room with my daughter on her shoulders, I felt so lucky to have her.
Suddenly, Leanne gave me a mischievous grin. ‘Reckon Hayley will make her little brother or sister get their belly buttons pierced?' I rolled my eyes. ‘I hope not!'
Leanne had been 18, me just 16, when she'd pulled up outside our house in her old white Renault Clio, grinning up at me. Honk, honk... ‘Just going out with Leanne...!' I'd called to my mum Sue, 51.
The second I'd got into the car, Leanne had suggested we get our belly buttons pierced. ‘Mum'll kill us!' I'd squealed. ‘Oh, come on!' Leanne had urged. She was always up for adventure. We'd walked into that tattoo parlour hand-in-hand. She hated needles so I'd known that deep down she was terrified. ‘But we did it,' I giggled now. ‘Got our matching studs.' Even back then, I'd admired Leanne for facing her fears head-on. She grinned back, fiddling with the stud in her ear. ‘Actually, I'm a bit worried about my ear now,' she said. ‘Look.' I peered at the Smartie-sized lump behind her left ear lobe. ‘Doesn't look like anything much,' I said. ‘Hmm, I've just got a bad feeling,' she said.
Antibiotics from the doctor didn't clear up the infection. When the lump grew bigger, she had a load of tests done.
All those needles she had to endure! My poor sister must have been absolutely terrified. ‘I've just got to get on with it,' she said, bravely.
Two months later, Leanne sat me down and told me and my partner Michael, 30, she finally had a diagnosis... She had a rare tumour the size of a 2p piece on her salivary gland, called a pleomorphic adenoma. All I heard was ‘tumour', started shaking. ‘It's not cancer, the doctors say it's benign,' Leanne said quickly. Phew! ‘It really hurts but I've got to wait six months before they can remove it.'
Still, she refused to let the pain get her down. A year after she'd first noticed it, Leanne finally had the op to remove the 2in tumour and as much of her salivary gland as possible... ‘There's news,' said Leanne when I visited her.
‘The, umm, the tumour is cancerous after all.' I looked at her, then Mum. Suddenly, I was crying. ‘Tell me this isn't happening,' I begged my sister. ‘Let's just pray they got it in time,' she sobbed.
A few days later, as Leanne recovered from her op, I perched by her hospital bed, holding her hand. She was still weak and there was a huge indent on the side of her face where doctors had scooped out the tumour.
‘It looks like someone's dug a chunk out of me with a spoon,' she cried. ‘It-it hurts so much.' She'd always been so strong, but now she was struggling.
She'd always stood up for me - like when I was seven and one of the dinner ladies had been rude to me. Leanne had marched right up to her. ‘Don't you ever be horrible to my sister again,' she'd fumed.
Now it was my turn to be strong for her. ‘You can do it, Leanne,' I told her quietly. ‘You'll get through this.' And she did, through six weeks of gruelling radiotherapy.
Slowly, but surely, her old fighting spirit returned. That next year she even started a new job as a dental nurse. ‘I'm picking up my life again, sis,' she vowed.
But though she fought, the cancer returned - twice. She had cancerous lumps on her head, back, neck, the side of her face, brain and lungs. Still, she battled on - I was in awe of her strength. One night, she turned up on my doorstep with Mum, and my dad Chris, 55. ‘This is a surprise...'I started. Then I saw their faces. I knew it was bad news. We barely got inside the lounge before the tears started.
‘The radiotherapy can only the slow the tumours down, ' Leanne sobbed. ‘They... they say I've only got six to 12 months to live...' Six months? Leanne was dying? ‘There must be something they can do,' I begged.
True to form, my sis tried her best to keep me going. ‘I'm not just going to wait to die,' she promised, hugging me tight. ‘I'm going to fight this with everything I've got.'
Keen to grab life, she and her boyfriend Greg announced their engagement. Her hazel eyes flashed with joy when she showed me her ring. ‘I just want to get married, have a family,' she said. ‘You will...' I insisted.
By now I had two-year-old Ciaren and baby Livia, too. Leanne was a fantastic aunt, was always babysitting and taking them to the park. But as the year wore on, she became frailer. She spent most of her days on the sofa, and we'd spend hours reminiscing about the past.
‘Remember when you'd freak me out telling me ghost stories,' I teased. ‘You told worse ones than me,' she smiled weakly. It broke my heart to see my beautiful sister fade away in front of my eyes.
Yet I couldn't believe she would leave me. One morning in October last year, Dad phoned.
‘You better get to the hospital, love,' he said. ‘Leanne's doesn't have much time left...'
In a daze, I made my way there. Everyone, including our little brother Jordan, 12, sat around her bedside.
Leanne slipped in and out of consciousness. I held her hand and kissed her on the cheek. Somehow, I knew she was still there. ‘I love you,' I wept.
Finally, she slipped away. She was only 31. I'd lost my best friend. To be honest, it wasn't until her funeral that I truly accepted I'd never see my sis again or speak to her.
A few days later, I went on her Facebook page, just staring at old photographs of her. Suddenly, I noticed something in her ‘Notes' and clicked on it. It was a letter.
My heart raced as I began to read... People always wondered and asked me how something like this has happened, so I thought I'd write a note so people could understand, Leanne had written,
It was as if I was hearing her voice from the grave. Tears slid down my cheeks as she described the moment she was told she had six to 12 months to live. I don't think I can ever explain how horrible that moment was or even the horrified, shocked look on my boyfriend's face as they told us the devastating news that I was going to die. My mother's screams or uncontrollable crying, or my dad's shocked silence. Even the terror I felt or tears I shed writing this... ‘Oh God, Leanne,' I choked. Eight months later I am still alive, but I know my time is running out, she wrote.
Then there was a flash of that old fighting spirit. I don't believe this is my time to go and I have so many people here I love who I cannot bear to leave.
And though I couldn't stop crying, it was so comforting to hear her thoughts one last time. I'm eternally grateful she wrote to me, to everyone.
That reminder of her strength has given me the push I needed to keep going, somehow, without her. She's still my hero.
Natalie Gray, 29, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire