Within hours of an MRI scan which was carried out to establish the cause of deteriorating balance, we were catapulted immediately and directly into the very centre of hell. Ambulance, emergency surgery, waiting, recovery, waiting, more scans, more tests. Question after question after terrifying question.

As if that’s not enough, you reach the stark realisation that chemotherapy hasn’t even begun yet. Edward’s treatment has a 54% cure rate — pretty much a 50/50 chance that putting him through all of this will result in a cure. That hurts my heart beyond comprehension, and yet those odds are pretty good in the grand scheme of things.

Witnessing my child going through chemotherapy is the most devastating experience I have ever encountered. It’s not just the chemo — it’s the all-encompassing horror. Blood tests, vomiting, incontinence, temperature checks, desperately praying the temperature stays below 38 degrees.

If ever there was anything memorable, it was getting hugs from other parents consumed by the same darkness. Thank GOD FOR THE HUGS. You have to HOPE and you have to TRUST and you have to have FAITH — they absolutely have to have far more value than the FEAR which surrounds your every single moment.

Mercifully Edward’s treatment for now (and we pray forever) has worked. He is 20 wonderful months post-treatment and his scans show no evidence of tumour or disease. He is facing the sun.

Holding him down while more vital checks are done, telling him all the time ‘I’m here, you’re safe’ — which became our mantra.

Throughout our journey we have been carried and picked up off the floor more times than I can remember by our amazing NHS and the most wonderful organisations and charities — like the Daniella Logun Foundation — set up to support families experiencing the absolute horror that is childhood cancer.