Daily Mail (KC) 06-May-08

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Molly Biederman had Wilms Tumour: The heartbreaking friendship between two tiny girls with cancer....

By LESLEY GIBSON - More by this author »

Last updated at 09:02am on 6th May 2008

Molly Bierman on the left had Wilms Tumour with her new friend Hannah Forrester

Hannah Forrester had put up with endless testing and prodding while doctors tried to work out what was wrong with her.

Throughout, she'd remained a happy and contented little girl. But when she was told she had cancer and that the medicine would make her long brown hair fall out, she stopped talking and refused to eat or drink.

When her mother Cathy tried to hug her, the distraught child pushed her away.

Then into her room one day walked Molly, a five-year-old on the same ward.

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Hannah Forrester, right, with Molly - the little girl who gave her a reason to fight her cancer

She, too, had cancer - a rare form called Wilms.

"She just walked into Hannah's room and introduced herself," recalls Cathy.

"She explained to Hannah: 'You need to take your medicine to make you better. Your hair will fall out like mine, but it doesn't matter. 'My mummy says it'll grow back as long as Rapunzel's.'

"To my astonishment, Hannah listened. Following Molly's lead, she snapped out of her depression and began co-operating with the doctors and nurses.

"It was the start of an incredible friendship for the girls."

Hannah had become ill in June 2006, at the age of four. The veins on her chest looked prominent, and she was unusually tired.

Her GP in Beckenham, Kent, put these symptoms down to an allergy, but the antihistamines he prescribed didn't work.

Over the next ten days, Hannah seemed increasingly tired.

When, later that week, Cathy took her and her brother Daniel, then eight, swimming, Hannah said she was too tired and climbed out of the pool.

"She loved swimming - this was totally out of character," says Cathy.

She was also still worried about the prominent veins on her daughter's chest.

"I just knew something was wrong," she says.

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Hannah with her parents Kathy and Barry and older brother Daniel

Fortunately, Cathy listened to her instincts and took her daughter to a specialist children's A&E department in Lewisham, South London.

"The staff there were very concerned," she recalls. "They did blood tests and a chest X-ray, and kept her in overnight for more tests."

Cathy's husband Barry, 41, rushed to the hospital. Following a CT scan, the doctor took them to one side.

"She said Hannah needed to be transferred to London's Great Ormond Street Hospital immediately. She asked me to warn Hannah that she'd be in a ward where she would see lots of children with no hair.

"I know it sounds weird, but that's how she explained it.

"I asked: 'Are you saying my child has cancer?'

"She said: 'Yes, I'm afraid so.'"

The scan showed a large tumour was compressing Hannah's main arteries, near her heart. "At that stage, I was too shocked to absorb the information," says Cathy. "I just couldn't believe she was ill."

Cathy told Hannah she was very sick and needed to go to a special hospital where they could make her better.

"I made it sound like an adventure, and promised a party when she felt better. She took it well; she liked the idea of an ambulance ride."

At Great Ormond Street, the illness was diagnosed as T-Cell Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.

Lymphoma is cancer of the lymphocytes - a type of white blood cell in the lymphatic system that helps the body fight disease.

Tumours can grow anywhere in the body. There are more than 10,000 new cases in the UK each year, but only 60 to 70 are in children.

"The doctors said the cancer was so aggressive that if we hadn't caught it when we did, Hannah would have died within two weeks," says Cathy.

"I couldn't understand how she could have this large tumour without us knowing. She had all the symptoms - night sweats, dry cough, lethargy and loss of appetite - but they'd only developed in the past couple of weeks."

Doctors at Great Ormond Street decided to treat the cancer with six months of intensive chemotherapy, followed by less intensive chemotherapy over the next two years.

Hannah was given an 80 per cent chance of survival, but the chemo-therapy would weaken her immune system, exposing her to infections.

Treatment began immediately. Cathy spent the next eight weeks staying in Hannah's room at the hospital, while her husband Barry and son Daniel visited daily.

A device was fitted in Hannah's chest through which drugs could be given intravenously, and blood could be taken for tests.

"I explained to Hannah that she needed special medicine that would make her hair fall out. I tried to reassure her it would soon grow back, but she cried and said: 'I don't want the medicine. I don't want to lose my hair!'

"If a doctor or nurse came in, she'd scream and kick them. She stopped talking to me and refused to eat or drink.

"It was heartbreaking to see my little girl, who was normally so happy and lively, like that."

Hannah also had to have a feeding tube inserted through her nose and down her oesophagus, through which nutritious liquid food could be given when she felt too nauseous to eat.

"Although they managed to get the line down, she screamed about that, too," says Cathy. "Everything was a battle and took twice as long as it should have - it was horrible for us to have to watch. I just wished I could take her place."

Then, a week after Hannah was admitted, Molly Biederman, who'd already lost her hair, skipped into her room and smiled.

She told Hannah she needed her medicine to get better, and not to worry about losing her hair because it would grow back. She looked around the room at the Disney Princess cushions Hannah had been given for her fifth birthday and said: "I love princesses, too."

"Hannah didn't say hello or smile," says Cathy, "but she was listening. Later, when it was time for her chemotherapy, for the first time she didn't fight."

After that, Molly, who was in a room across the corridor, visited Hannah every day.

Molly's mother Emma, who was pregnant with her second child, introduced herself to Cathy.

"Despite coping with her own daughter's cancer, she was so chatty, positive and strong," Cathy says. "I felt in awe of her - just as Hannah was in awe of Molly. She inspired me.

"Emma made me see that life goes on, even when your child has cancer. That you can be upbeat and keep your sense of humour."

Emma, now 31, told Cathy that tumours had been found in Molly's lungs and right kidney while the family were on holiday in Canada in 2005, just before Molly turned four.

She was diagnosed with Wilms' tumours - a kidney cancer found mainly in under-fives.

The cancer was very advanced and had already spread from Molly's right kidney to her lungs.

Like Hannah, Molly was one of around only 70 children a year to be diagnosed with her type of cancer. However, doctors were optimistic and rated her chances of beating it at 70 per cent.

Molly had had her right kidney removed, followed by chemotherapy and radiotherapy to treat the lungs. Happily, she had responded well.

Cathy says: "Molly was full of life and chatted to Hannah as if she hadn't a care in the world. I thought: 'What a lovely little girl.'

"She showed Hannah that she could still enjoy life, and that it was better to accept what was happening rather than fight.

The girls would play with Barbie dolls together, draw girly pictures of hearts and flowers, talk about Disney princesses and giggle over silly things.

"Gradually, I saw glimpses of the old Hannah returning. After four weeks of treatment, she'd chat to Molly about it, asking questions like: 'Does your head feel cold? When will your hair grow back?'

"Then, to my immense relief, she began talking to me, too. Molly helped Hannah to accept her illness in a way that no one else could."

When Hannah's hair began to fall out in clumps, Molly said: "Don't worry, the hair fairy will take it and leave a present. You'll get to decorate a hair box to put it in."

Cathy says: "Hannah got excited about the hair fairy. The specialist play worker who helped all the children on the ward would help the children decorate a shoe box for their hair, and then the 'hair fairy' would take the box and leave them a present, like the tooth fairy."

Hannah and Cathy had to stay at the hospital for several weeks at a time, but Molly was on a different chemotherapy programme.

She would be in for a few days, then go home again. Hannah really missed her whenever she was away, and become quiet and withdrawn.

The girls were soon best friends, and their mothers discovered they lived only a 15-minute drive from each other.

"They'd play together in the hospital playroom, or whizz up and down the corridor throwing footballs around. Sometimes it seemed astonishing that they were ill."

In the six months they knew each other, both girls seemed to go from strength to strength. In September 2006, Molly started school.

Three months later, in December, Hannah had more chemotherapy. Even though she'd had the same drugs before, this time she responded badly.

"It knocked her right back," says Cathy. "Her stomach lining began bleeding (a side- effect of the drugs) and she became very lethargic and down. It was heartbreaking to see her like this."

Knowing how close the girls had become, Molly's father Rob took his daughter to visit Hannah in hospital.

Molly gave her best friend an early Christmas present - a kit to decorate her own door plaque, jewellery box and photo frame.

Little did they know it then, but it was to be the last time the little girls would see each other.

"I remember Molly looked really well," says Cathy. "She ran around, sat on Hannah's bed, chatted to her and cuddled her."

Rob had good news, too: Molly's latest scan had shown that her tumours had all been killed, and they were looking forward to a fresh start in the New Year.

On December 23, Hannah was allowed home - but she didn't seem at all well.

"She didn't have the energy to get excited," Cathy says. "On Christmas Day, her head was burning and she looked very pale. I helped her open her main present - a Barbie house.

"She'd wanted it for months, but she didn't even smile."

Knowing something was very wrong, Cathy immediately took her to Lewisham Hospital.

"Within minutes, four nurses and a doctor began working on her, while another doctor tried frantically to page colleagues. I was terrified."

Doctors believed Hannah was critically ill with blood poisoning. They suspected the infection might have come from the tube that had been fitted into her chest to administer chemotherapy.

Her body was shutting down and they feared her heart was about to stop.

Hannah was rushed to intensive care, where staff struggled to stabilise her.

"I was ushered out of the room as they tried desperately to save her. A nurse ran after me and said: 'Please come back and give your daughter a kiss.'

She was trying to tell me they feared that Hannah was dying.

"I looked at my little girl, attached to a drip and life support machine, with tubes everywhere, and I broke down and sobbed. Barry was distraught, too.

"Daniel stood beside us, pale and shocked, asking if his sister would get better. All we could say was that we had to hope and pray that she would."

After three hours, staff managed to stabilise Hannah, though she remained critically ill.

"The doctors warned me they didn't know if they could save her," says Cathy.

On December 29, after four days in intensive care, she was transferred to Great Ormond Street, where she continued to deteriorate.

A nurse there told them that little Molly, too, was seriously ill.

Moments later, her mother Emma walked in. "For the first time since I'd known her, she wasn't upbeat," recalls Cathy.

"She was crying. I hugged her as she explained a new tumour had grown on Molly's lung in the two weeks since her last scan. It was so aggressive, it could not be treated. 'Molly's dying,' she sobbed. 'She only has 48 hours.'"

But even in the face of death, Molly showed great courage.

Emma says: "She knew she was dying. She asked if we were proud of her, if she'd been brave. We told her what a heroine she was, and how we were bursting with pride."

That night, a nurse explained how dying children often hang on to life longer than they ought to, not wanting to leave their parents to grieve.

So Emma told her brave little girl it was time to stop fighting. "I said there were lots of people waiting to meet her in Heaven. She opened her eyes and looked at me. It was a look of acceptance. Then she went back to sleep."

Just a few paces away, Cathy willed Hannah to cling to life. "I prayed she'd pull through, and pleaded with her to keep fighting.

"My only consolation, if there can be any in that situation, was thinking: 'At least if both girls go, they'll go together.'"

At 2.55am, Hannah woke up screaming. "I hugged her, but she was inconsolable," says Cathy. "She couldn't tell me why she was crying. I cuddled and stroked her, and she went back to sleep."

By the next morning, Hannah was out of danger. But when Cathy saw Emma and Rob, they broke the news that Molly had died.

"We hugged and cried. I asked Emma what time Molly had passed away and she said 2.55am - the exact time Hannah had woken up screaming."

Cathy waited five days until Hannah was stronger before telling her about Molly.

"She was distraught. She sobbed and wailed: 'But she never got to see her hair grow back.' I told her the angels had taken Molly to Heaven - that she was happy and healthy there.

"But it was so hard for her to accept. She asked if she could go and see her there, or if the angels could bring Molly back to visit. It was heart-rending."

In an attempt to help Hannah accept Molly's death, Cathy encouraged Hannah to talk about Molly whenever she wanted.

"At Hannah's sixth birthday party on July 1, 2007, she was so upset that Molly couldn't come. She set off a pink balloon for her, with a secret note attached to the end. As it floated away, she yelled: 'Molly, here's a balloon for you.'"

Hannah is now nearing the end of her treatment for cancer. She's still in remission and doing well at school.

"She's made lots of friends but still talks about Molly a lot. She'll never forget her - none of us will," says Cathy.

Emma is now seven months pregnant with her third child. "I still miss Molly terribly, and no one can ever replace her, but I don't feel bitter," she says.

"For some reason, Molly wasn't meant to live long. Rob and I feel extremely lucky to have had her with us as long as we did."

Cathy says the two families still talk regularly. "When you go through something like this together, you create a bond that cannot be broken."

Emma and Rob have set up a fund to raise money for research in memory of Molly. Emma is also training in childcare so she can work as a play specialist at Great Ormond Street.

She says: "The hospital did so much for our children. This is our way of giving something back, and keeping Molly's memory alive."

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