Queuing at the supermarket checkout, I noticed the woman ahead of us turn and stare at my son, Aaron, then five. Her top lip curled into a sneer.
‘Some people shouldn’t be parents,’ she said. ‘Look at the size of your son – he’d be better off in care.’ I was speechless at her cruel, ignorant words, and heartbroken by the dismay on Aaron’s face. I was dedicated to his care and to making his childhood as happy as possible, because the odds were we’d lose him before he reached his teens.
When Aaron was born in November 2009, he brought so much joy and happiness into our home in Alexandria, Loch Lomond. Just 20 months earlier, my husband, Ian, and I had lost our son, Euan, when he was born premature at 21 weeks. Arriving home without our baby, to a doormat piled with condolence cards instead of celebratory ones, had been the worst pain.
Then Aaron was born – the most smiley, lovely boy – and with our daughter, Lauren, then five, our family was a happy one.
By two, Aaron would tear around the park like any other toddler, although he was a picky eater, refusing to finish meals. Then, that winter, his appetite suddenly increased, and he’d clean his plate before asking for more.
I’d studied diet and nutrition, so I knew I was feeding him enough of the right stuff, but Aaron grew increasingly tired, tearful and irritable. Despite being toilet trained, he started struggling to go to the loo as well.
Searching for answers
Worried, we took him to the GP and were referred to a paediatrician. Tests were negative – including scansfor a brain tumour – but my instinct told me something terrible was going on. Soon, Aaron’s balance was fading, his weight was climbing, and his temperature constantly fluctuated between boiling hot and freezing cold.
This story is from the November 04, 2019 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
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This story is from the November 04, 2019 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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