Zac

Zac was still a toddler when everything changed—he’d only just started walking—and although we didn’t realise it at the time, there were small signs looking back. He was sleeping more than usual and had a few bruises, but we just put that down to him being more active and a bit unsteady on his feet because overall he seemed to be doing really well.

Then he had his MMR vaccine, and he just didn’t bounce back. His temperature shot up to 40°C, and we knew something wasn’t right, so we took him to the doctor, who told us to keep an eye on him and head to A&E if things didn’t improve. When they didn’t, we took him in and were told it was tonsillitis, and honestly, we felt relieved because it sounded simple and treatable, and he was given penicillin and sent home.

Not long after that, we noticed a tiny pinprick rash on his wrist, which was so small it would have been easy to ignore, but something about it didn’t sit right with us, so we called NHS 111 and they told us to go back to the hospital. Even then, we still weren’t thinking anything serious, especially as Zac was walking around A&E, smiling and saying hello to people, which made it all feel far less urgent than it actually was.

Then things began to shift, and you could sense the concern growing among the doctors as they ran more tests and noticed his heart rate wasn’t right. By the next day, everything escalated quickly, with more cannulas being put in and more serious conversations happening around us, and it became clear that something wasn’t right. When they told us his platelets were very low and his white blood cell count was high, we knew we were heading somewhere we hadn’t expected.

Within about 30 minutes, everything changed, and the doctors told us they believed Zac had leukaemia. We went from thinking it was a straightforward infection to hearing the word “cancer” in a matter of hours, and although they didn’t yet know what type, in that moment our whole world just flipped upside down.

From that point on, everything happened incredibly fast. One minute he was in his cot, playing with his dinosaurs and throwing them out like toddlers do, and the next we were on a completely different path, trying to process something we had never even considered. When the doctors said it out loud, it felt like time stopped for a second and then immediately sped up again.

Within 24 hours we were in Southampton, and within 48 hours Zac had a central line fitted, a feeding tube in place, and he was starting chemotherapy. It was terrifying, but at the same time there was a strange sense of relief that treatment had begun, because at least something was being done. We didn’t really have time to sit with the diagnosis or process what it meant, as we were suddenly faced with decisions, paperwork, clinical trials, and trying to understand a completely unfamiliar medical world.

Once treatment started, it was relentless, and although Zac went onto a clinical trial that reduced treatment from three years to two, which sounded positive, it meant they hit him very hard at the beginning. Those first few months were brutal, as he stopped talking, stopped walking, and barely played, instead lying there exhausted and withdrawn, which made it feel like we were losing little parts of him bit by bit.

There were moments that really pushed us, particularly when he developed painful sores, infections, and reactions to the chemotherapy that made even simple things like eating or going to the toilet incredibly difficult. At one point, he pulled out his feeding tube, and the chemo reacted with the wound, causing a severe reaction that spread across his face and body, and watching him in that much pain while feeling completely helpless was one of the hardest things we’ve ever been through. Those were the moments where we just wanted it all to stop because it felt like too much for such a small child.

Gradually, Zac started to come back to us, and although it began with very small moments like a smile, a bit of play, or a glimpse of his personality, those moments meant a lot. He would repeat lines from Disney films over and over, almost as if he was escaping into those worlds because ours had become too overwhelming, but even that reassured us because it showed he was still there.

Throughout it all, we focused on taking things one step at a time rather than looking too far ahead, because the full journey felt too overwhelming to process. Eventually, we reached the end of Zac’s treatment, which we had been working towards for so long, but when we got there, it wasn’t as straightforward as we expected.

Letting go of the routine, the constant monitoring, and the safety net of the hospital environment was actually quite daunting, because we had been in survival mode for so long that stepping away from that structure felt like stepping into the unknown. Even now, we talk about having a “cancer hangover,” where although treatment has ended, the emotional impact hasn’t gone away, and there are still moments where anxiety creeps in, especially when Zac has a temperature or a bruise, which can quickly bring back those fears.

Despite that, Zac has been incredible throughout, and once the treatment eased off, he really started to thrive. His speech came back, his personality returned, and now he’s a happy, cheeky little boy who is making friends, learning new things, and getting ready to start school.

One of the most special moments for us came when we took him to Disneyland Paris, which felt like a real milestone and a chance to celebrate everything he had been through. We were understandably nervous about how he would cope, but he completely surprised us by embracing every part of the experience.

While we were there, he chose an Iron Man costume, which might seem like a small thing, but for Zac it was huge, because during treatment he struggled with anything unfamiliar, even different clothes. This time, though, he put it on and didn’t want to take it off, wearing it everywhere—from breakfast to rides to dinner—and clearly feeling proud of himself.

That moment meant so much to us because it symbolised how far he had come, and it was made even more special by the fact that Abby’s Heroes helped fund that trip and the Iron Man suit itself. To us, it wasn’t just a costume, but a representation of his recovery, his confidence, and him being himself again.

I remember him looking at me and saying, “Daddy, I’m Iron Man,” and after everything he’s been through, I genuinely believe he is.

We’re not completely past it, and I don’t think we ever will be, but we are now in a place where we can look ahead and see a future again, and that’s something we will never take for granted.