WE called it The Rollercoaster. Up one minute, down the next, elation as it rose, desperation as it plummeted, twisting and corkscrewing and bending our hopes and fears out of shape as it veered and yawed its way around a ride that no-one knew the shape of.
And whoosh ... it takes us to King’s College Hospital, where a lot of wonderful, very clever people spend seven weeks trying everything to stop The Rollercoaster, to help Roz get off it and be well.
For Roz, much of this time is grim.
We visit her more than once a day.
We punch the air when it seems the CAR-T is working, and look on the bright side when alternative treatments are proposed.
And straight down we dive. Dr Kuhnl is saying that Roz’s bone marrow no longer works so no further or other treatments are viable. I’m holding Roz’s hand and feel the earth pitch beneath my chair.
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We’re going to get you home, is what she says next.
The Rollercoaster now shapeshifts into an ambulance, driven all the way from King’s to Raigmore by Darren and Ash, twelve and a half hours with Roz on oxygen.
And we all go to Rosemarkie beach on Sunday afternoon. Nothing fancy, just a wee stroll from the car to the first bench over the burn. Ice creams all round. Kenny toting Roz’s oxygen supply. Boy, this is the life.
Monday morning, six thirty. Roz has died.
And The Rollercoaster judders to a halt. You lapse into cliché, don’t you?
She gave it her best shot. She went down fighting. It was peaceful at the end. Well, as a matter of fact, she did, she did, and it was. She was the most courageous person I’ve ever known.
And throughout all that time, those long weeks and months of holding on and trying to keep your dinner down as The Rollercoaster lurched and careened every which way, I never saw her ready to give up. Never.
And the fire still burns bright. In our two beautiful, brave children, in her beloved brother, and deep in my own heart.
This is an edited version of Malcolm’s article written for Roz’s blog https:// rozpatersonlife.blogspot.com/
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