I’m 28, dying, and need £320,500 to spend more time with my son

I am just savouring every moment I have with Teddy (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

‘Good morning world’. 

It’s how my 5-year-old son Teddy and I greet the day, every day. 

Then, on his walk to school, we’ll pick three things we can see – a tree, a car, a postman – and spend the 10-minute journey making up a story about them. 

When I pick him up for the day, he’ll beam as he shows me the pictures he’s drawn; ones of him, his mummy and his daddy. He’ll tell me proudly about winning the head teacher’s award.

And that night, after I’ve read him a book and kissed his forehead, I’ll say to him ‘I love you more than all the stars in the sky, and deeper than the ocean’. He says it back before falling asleep. 

This may sound like an ordinary day but, to me, days like these are exceptional. I am fighting with everything I have to make sure I have more of them. 

I am only 28 but in June 2026 I was diagnosed with incurable brain cancer. I have been given five years. I don’t want to die. 

My partner Mason is the most incredible support (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

There is no cure but there is a glimmer of hope; a clinical trial that could buy me more time to spend with Teddy. However, it comes at enormous cost, one that my family just can’t cover ourselves. 

£320,500.

It started with a headache – the worst I’ve ever had. It felt like a weight sitting on the top of my head and the pain just wouldn’t go away. After a couple of days I started feeling confused; my mum opened the boot of her car, a football fell out and I didn’t even notice.

‘We think you’re dehydrated’, my GP said after I went for an appointment on the fourth day. They then added that they’d initially thought it was a bleed on the brain, but because I had been able to sleep, they’d concluded that I just needed to drink more. 

I phoned my sister Brooke afterwards and she insisted I go to A&E. It must have been around nine hours before I was seen, with my partner Mason and mum by my side. 

I honestly thought about leaving. ‘It’s dehydration’, I thought. ‘I’m just wasting everyone’s time.’ But the pain was so unbearable, I stayed. 

I can’t bear to think about not seeing him grow up (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

You know when you have a scan, and they say ‘we can’t tell you the results, you’ll have to speak to the doctor’? Well, I could tell something was really wrong from the look on the radiographer’s face. 

I was rushed into more tests and after the MRI they told me I had brain cancer.  I was admitted and we were left to wait, terrified, while they sent the results off to specialists. I was out of my mind with worry and the doctors gave me pills so I could get some sleep. My mum and Mason took turns napping so that one of them was always awake next to me. 

On the second night, around 3am, the doctor came in and told us it was aggressive and very serious; that it was likely incurable but they couldn’t be certain until I’d had the biopsy. 

‘What about my son?’ I sobbed. Teddy was the only thing on my mind. 

Doctors told me I could stay in hospital longer but I jumped at the chance to get home to Teddy. 

I was initially told I would only have 12-18 months (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

I refuse to cry in front of my son, so as soon as I saw him, I put on a brave face, scooped him up into a massive hug and covered him in kisses. 

Teddy is my source of strength; he is the reason for my existence and why I am determined not to give up. 

After another MRI I was told I would probably only have 12-18 months and they needed to operate immediately. 

Within seven days I was under the knife, with an amazing surgeon, Dr Hu Low, taking charge. He changed the planned surgery route, meaning that while I would lose half my vision in my right eye, my speech and understanding were left unaffected. 

But while I felt incredibly lucky to have had such a positive outcome from my surgery, mentally I was in a bad, bad way. 

Two weeks after the biopsy came my official diagnosis: IDH1-Mutant, CNS WHO grade 4 astrocytoma. It wasn’t what I’d been told before. It was still aggressive, still incurable, but I was told the median survival rate is about five years. 

It started with a headache – the worst I’ve ever had (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

Five years is still not long enough. Teddy is five years old and it feels like no time at all since he was born. 

It petrifies me to think, if time can go so fast where a memory from half a decade ago feels like yesterday, then that’s my life gone. It’s so scary, I just really don’t want to die. 

I’m four weeks into daily radiotherapy and chemotherapy and Teddy knows that ‘mummy has a poorly head’, but Mason and I are determined to keep things normal. The only difference is that he can watch any Disney film he wants and I sleep by his side every night. 

I am starting to feel very tired and I’ve lost my hair at the back of my head, but I am doing everything I can to stay strong for him. 

My family has been amazing every step of the way. They’ve grabbed my phone out of my hand when I’ve turned to Google, they’ve been with me during my treatment, and my incredible, mad scientist sister Brooke, found a clinical trial for me to join. 

I am so lucky that my sister Brooke fought for answers (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

She is a student at UCL and relentlessly emailed professors and doctors at the university’s hospital to find out what could be done for me. After two weeks of following every lead she eventually made a contact with a trial in the States where I fit all of the criteria. 

Because of my brilliant sister, I have a chance that other people in my position might not. I have a chance to help contribute to brain cancer research. 

It is not a cure but it is hope for a longer life. 

I will have to travel to Ohio every month for two years to receive a drug called Olutasidenib. The initial stay is 10 days, and I will then need monthly tests, regular scans and monitoring. The hospital has estimated this will cost over £170,000. 

On top of that, I will need to find money for return flights and accommodation, travel insurance and unforeseen costs. When we sat down as a family we estimated that the whole thing would probably cost close to £600,000 but if we cut costs – travelling back and forth instead of moving to the US, having chemo and radiotherapy in the UK – we could just about manage at £320,500. 

There is no cure but there is a glimmer of hope (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

I hated the idea of asking people for money, but I had no choice; I have to start the trial at the same time as my next round of chemotherapy in seven weeks and I have to pay upfront within three weeks, or else I lose my spot. 

I can’t believe how much my GoFundMe page has blown up. I have been floored by people’s generosity and the outpouring of love. 

I have been told there have been a few people asking why my father-in-law Paul Gascoigne hasn’t paid for it upfront, and all I have to say to that is: How could anyone possibly even ask one singular person to pay something like that? My family are doing all they can and we are so grateful for the kindness of strangers. 

I can’t thank anyone who has donated enough. We’re over halfway to meeting the target now and I just stay hopeful that we’ll raise the full amount. 

Until then, I am just savouring every moment I have with Teddy. 

I want more Christmases, Mother’s Days, Valentines (Picture: Jaimee Sharp)

I would go as far as to say I am obsessed with Teddy. I love him, I am so glad I had him, he is my everything. 

When he hugs me and tells me he loves me, it is the best feeling in the world. 

He’s cheeky, he’s funny, and he is loved by everyone. He’s kind and caring. He is so much like me, and so much like his dad. He’s just such a happy child, always laughing. He is just perfect. 

I can’t bear to think about not seeing him grow up. I want the big days – seeing him tuck into his favourite dinner at Christmas, handing me a Valentine’s card, embracing me on Mother’s Day – but I also want the ordinary days. 

I want to be the tooth fairy when his first tooth falls out. I want to play in the puddles with him after a rainy day. I want to sit down with him to draw as he starts one of his masterpieces. 

It’s so easy to take these things for granted but when there’s a chance that they could be taken away from you, they become the most precious moments. 

I want more time with my son. 

As told to Jess Austin

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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