Charlotte's Brain Tumour Journey Diagnosis to Death: 951 days Age 19 18.2.97 - 24.2016 13 years ago 2.10.2013 Charlotte had been saving for a long time and had sold many of her belongings on eBay to fund her first Louis Vuitton handbag. Her face was very round because of the steroids, something commonly referred to as a “moon face”. The weight gain made her very self-conscious, and I knew how much it affected her confidence. We made the trip to London. I hadn't been to Bond Street for years, so I was excited and looking forward to the day too. The trains were all on time, and we took a taxi from Victoria straight to Louis Vuitton. It was such a joy to see Charlotte so excited as she looked at all the beautiful bags and accessories. The shop was magnificent. Little did we know that we would make some wonderful friends there, some of whom I still keep in contact with to this day. Charlotte chose a Louis Vuitton Speedy, a classic bag, which I believe was designed with Audrey Hepburn, her role model, in mind. She had been longing for this bag for such a long time, and she wasn't disappointed. Seeing her face light up as she finally got it was priceless. Afterwards, we went for a light snack before making our way home. Charlotte tired easily. The tumour seemed to drain everything from her, and the chemotherapy was taking its toll too. But for those few hours in London, she was simply Charlotte, a young woman enjoying something she had dreamed about for a long time. Charlotte would be starting radiotherapy in a few days. charlottesbag.org/

Charlotte's Brain Tumour Journey Diagnosis to Death: 951 days Age 19 18.2.97 - 24.2016 The moment you hear the words, “Your child has a brain tumour,” your whole world changes. One minute, you're thinking about ordinary things. School. College. Friends. Birthdays. Holidays. The future. And then, suddenly, none of those things seem certain anymore. Your mind goes into overdrive. Is my child going to die? How serious is it? Can they treat it? Will they be in pain? Will they lose their hair? Will they be able to walk? Will they still be able to go to school? Will they still be the same person? You want someone to tell you that everything is going to be alright. But nobody can promise you that. You listen to doctors talking, trying desperately to understand words that you never imagined you would need to know. Tumour. MRI. Radiotherapy. Chemotherapy. Steroids. Surgery. You nod because you don't know what else to do. But inside, you are screaming. You look at your child and see the same child you've loved since the moment they were born. You don't see a diagnosis. You see your baby. You see the toddler who used to hold your hand. You see the little girl who ran into your arms. You see every birthday, every Christmas, every school photograph and every precious memory. And suddenly you're terrified that you might lose all the things you still thought you had ahead of you. You start thinking about the future in a completely different way. Will I see them grow up? Will I see them leave home? Will they fall in love? Will they get married? Will I ever become a grandmother? Thoughts that once seemed so far away suddenly become frighteningly uncertain. And then there is the guilt. The endless questioning. Could I have noticed something sooner? Did I miss something? Should I have pushed the doctor harder? Why didn't I know? A mother can know, logically, that she didn't cause her child's illness. But that doesn't always stop the questions. You become your child's protector in a world where you suddenly realise you cannot protect them from everything. You want to take the tumour away. You would take every treatment, every scan, every side effect, every moment of pain yourself if you could. You would give anything to swap places. And perhaps the hardest part is that your child is frightened too. So you have to be strong for them, even when you are falling apart inside. You smile. You say, “We'll get through this.” You say, “Everything will be okay.” And sometimes, when they aren't looking, you go somewhere quiet and cry. Because you are a mother. And when your child is diagnosed with a brain tumour, you don't just worry about the illness. You suddenly become terrified of losing your child. The child you would give your life to protect. Charlotte’s BAG directly funds research in Charlotte’s Lab at King’s College Hospital, London. We self-fund everything. No salaries. No overheads. No advertising costs. No merchandise. So if you're thinking of donating to a brain tumour charity, pop a pound in Charlotte’s BAG. Please RT with thanks charlottesbag.org/