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 Barely more than 15 years later, I took the last photo of my
daughter moments after she died, of cancer, on January 3, 2021.
I'm a photojournalist. It was only natural that I documented just
about every moment of the beautiful life of Becs, as my wife,
Marisa, and I called her.
Like the time she was 2 and her face looks lit up from within. The
time she was onstage dancing, only 12 but defying gravity with grace
and poetry. The time she was playing in a field of wildflowers with
our dog Cookie, her smile as big as the sky.
Harder, much harder, was documenting her illness and death from a
rare and extremely aggressive form of bone cancer.
Like the time she sat in darkness receiving IV fluids after a
chemotherapy session, her long and lovely dark hair a memory.
The time she hugged her teddy bear Snuggles tight as she slept in
her hospital room in the middle of a terrible series of procedures
we hoped could save her.
And the time her mother wept over her body moments after Becs died,
the freckles on her face a cruel symbol of her youth and beauty.
Last autumn, Reuters published a Wider Image photo essay of our
family's struggle with Becs' illness, which had been made even more
impossible by the coronavirus pandemic that had reached Malta, the
island where we live. That essay ended with a moment of hope, after
she had been released from hospital following months of grueling
treatment:
"For Becs' first outing a few days after she got out of hospital, I
took her late at night to the northwest corner of the island, a
relatively dark area, so she could try to catch a glimpse of the
Comet Neowise. Although the comet was hard to view with the naked
eye, Becs managed to see it with the help of my camera and long
lens.
And then we spotted a shooting star. We made a wish – no prizes for
guessing what that was."
Hope was still a thing then, something I still fervently believed
in, always choosing to believe the best-case scenario.
After her discharge from hospital in mid-July, I had really believed
the worst was behind us. How wrong, how deluded I was – maybe always
in denial about things. I didn't realise at the time that the reason
nothing seemed to be happening with a possible treatment option in
England was because the consultants there didn't believe she stood
much of a chance, that the cancer would erupt again as it had
already metastasised by the time she was first diagnosed in late
2019.
No one ever spelled it out to me – the day we found she was in
considerable pain, a full month before she even had the first X-ray
that showed she had a tumour in her shoulder that day in 2019, it
was already too late for her.
See what I mean? Delusional and in denial – that was me to the hilt.
Just two months after she was discharged, we had to take Becs back
to hospital. It was Sunday, the 27th of September.I didn't know it,
but Becs was seeing our dog Cookie and cats Zippy and Zorro for the
very last time, she was seeing her bedroom for the last time, she
was leaving home for the last time – she would never return.
On the 31st of October, Becs posted on Facebook – "1 year.. it's
been 1 whole year since i was diagnosed with a rare type of bone
cancer called Ewings Sarcoma. At that point I didn't think I'd still
be in this battle, but here i am with more chemotherapy and more
radiotherapy ahead.. Honestly i thought I'd have my life back by
now. I thought I'd be able to follow online school from home like
any other normal student who's not going to school. Instead I've
been too unwell to even follow any.. I thought I was done with chemo
and radiotherapy for good. But here i am reliving what I've gone
through throughout this past year. There are days I'm angry and
scared, but there are also days where I feel grateful for all the
love and support everyone's shown me when i needed it most. I could
have never ever managed to fight this battle without my friends,
family and even some people I don't know personally. So, I just
wanted to say.. THANK YOU"
Becs passed away, very peacefully, with no signs of distress at all,
on Sunday morning, January 3, 2021,at 9:20. Mars, as I call my wife,
and I were both with her.
Becs had been heavily sedated over the previous week, so was pain
free and unaware, according to the doctors. Her condition seemed to
have nosedived late at night on Christmas Eve. It was the worst
night ever – we spent the whole night awake. She was in such bad
shape on Christmas Day, I didn't expect her to make it to the end of
the day, on this, her favourite day of the year. Wouldn't there have
been an awful sort of poetry to that?
She woke up for a couple of hours late that night, fervently
disappointed that she'd missed Christmas but believing she'd just
have to celebrate it once she got better and went home. Mars
promised her she would eventually get home, but Becs replied,
"Mummy, don't put my hopes up too high."
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 On the following two evenings,
she again woke briefly, much to the surprise of
her doctors, and we were able to chat, sharing
some more immeasurably precious moments.
After that, she slipped into a deep coma and
never regained consciousness, yet we carried on
talking to her. I read to her lots, finished the
Harry Potter book I'd be reading to her and
started the next in the series, held her hand.
They say that hearing is the last thing to go,
so it was paramount to keep having her listen to
our voices. At the end, her
breathing just got shallower and shallower, till it became very
light gasps, with the gaps in between them growing longer. Then
there were no more.
I kept talking to her, convinced she could now hear me and
understand me better than before, telling her not to be afraid. I
told her I'd keep holding her hand as long as I could, but now she'd
find others to take her hand, and whenever she felt she was ready,
she should go with them. I kept looking up toward the ceiling –
don't people who have died and then been revived in hospital say
they were watching everything from up near the ceiling? So was Becs
watching from there? Was she confused, or did she know exactly what
was happening and was calm and peaceful about it all?
All the nurses had filed into the room and were standing around her
bed in silent respect. I'm not sure if they understood what I was
doing, why I was whispering to her while looking away from her body,
but I didn't care.
 Word of Becs' passing spread
quickly. There was a lot of media coverage. The archbishop of Malta,
Charles Scicluna, was informed during a High Mass at the country's
main cathedral, and announced her passing during the live TV
broadcast. He was very emotional, and people told me he shed tears.
He later got in touch with us and asked if he could lead the funeral
mass.
We were only allowed 180 people at the church because of Covid-19
restrictions. It normally comfortably holds 600; even if these had
been normal times, it would be overflowing. We decided to do a live
stream of the service so that people could participate that way. It
wasn't easy to choose those 180 and contact them individually, but
the distraction was a good thing. It's the quiet, solitary moments,
like when I'm in the shower, that it really all hits me hard.
After the funeral, Becs was taken to England for cremation. Mars and
I had both agreed we couldn't bear the thought, or the sight, of her
in a wooden casket being lowered into the ground. Then I finally
brought her home, as Mars promised her we'd do, though not in the
way Becs understood at the time.
Every day, every moment that I'm thinking of her (and that's a lot
of moments), I'm desperately looking for the signs that people said
we would come across, just like I'm desperate to dream of her, and
yet I don't. Maybe I'm trying too hard, and I need to just let
things happen, and I'll recognise them when they do.
In the months before she died, Becs had been playing a game on her
iPhone – "Sky Children of the Light." She wanted me to join in with
her, so I upgraded my ancient iPhone to a newer model. I loved the
game and loved playing it with her. As our avatars travelled
together, soaring through the clouds and landscapes on a variety of
quests, in different realms – which I eventually found out
symbolised the different stages of life, from early childhood to
death and beyond – she was my guide, my mentor, my teacher. She (her
avatar, rather) would hold my hand and lead me everywhere, and
that's the way I wanted it.
Throughout her life, I tried to guide and teach her, and now she was
doing the same to me. I can't tell if she was seeing this game as a
sort of allegory of her own life – even if just on a subconscious
level.
The only part of the game she didn't show me was the bit where your
character has to die in order to move forward; she said I wasn't
ready for it. Did she know she was going to die soon herself? She
certainly never talked about it, or asked about it. We had earlier
decided we wouldn't tell her unless she specifically asked. How are
you supposed to break that news to your child?
To me, the game developed into a metaphor of what would happen once
I eventually pass myself – she'll be there waiting for me, to take
and hold my hand, act as my guide and guardian, take me where I have
to go.
(Reporting by Darrin Zammit Lupi; editing by Kari Howard)
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