My mum drugged me, shaved my head and faked my 'terminal' cancer when I was just seven
Hannah Millbrandt, now 21, was just seven when she was told she had a terminal illness - but all was not as it seemed...
I was seven when I found out I had cancer. I was too young to fully understand what it meant, but watching my dad, Bob, break down in tears was enough to make me scared. My mum, Teresa, had taken me to the doctor with a mild fever and a cough. I felt OK, just a bit under the weather, but I was sent for a scan nevertheless. Later, Mum sat the family down and told us the doctor had found a tumour on the base of my spine. ‘It could be terminal,’ she said, and my father crumpled.
Overnight, life changed drastically. Mum made me wear a surgical mask, telling me it would stop other people’s germs making me sicker. I hated the way people treated me differently, with pity in their eyes.
The community in our small town in Ohio began to rally round. The church, especially, was great, organising fundraisers to help pay for the expensive treatment Mum said I needed. The congregation was distraught and prayers were said for me. I hated the attention, but Mum was so grateful for their fundraising. ‘You’re my million-dollar baby,’ she told me, but I didn’t know what she meant.
Mum was a home-care nurse, so administered my medication herself. But it just seemed to make me feel worse – I started getting awful headaches, and felt exhausted all the time. I hated that I couldn’t ride my bike, or play with my friends. I had to wear my mask to class, and Mum came in to tell my teachers how sick I was, and what to do if I had a seizure.
My biggest fear was being separated from my family. At that age, I hadn’t got to grips with what death was, but I knew it would mean I wouldn’t be with my parents and that terrified me. I began to fear being alone at night and would beg to sleep in my parents’ room, but Mum would say no.
It was odd – Mum became more distant from me at a time when I needed her most. But Dad always knew how to cheer me up, showering me with the affection she failed to show me. His job meant he was away a lot, but he tried to schedule days off to come to hospital appointments with me. Weirdly, these were always cancelled at the last minute. Instead, I’d go to the appointments with my mum and maternal grandmother Mary. They’d take me for ice cream before, and it would make me sleepy.
I’d wake up later and Mum would tell me the doctors had given me a shot of medication. One day I woke up with a bandage on my lower spine. ‘The bandage is covering the port where your cancer nurse, Beth, administered your chemo,’ explained Mum. Beth came regularly after that, although I never saw her. I’d wake up with bandages where Beth had treated me.
I’d always had long blonde hair, my crowning glory. But one day I woke up to find it all gone. I screamed when I looked in the mirror – I was completely bald. Mum explained Beth had shaved it in my sleep, as the chemo was making it fall out. ‘Will it grow back?’ I sobbed. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Mum said matter-of-factly.
At school, my friends cried when they saw me. I was so embarrassed I began to wear a hat. My teachers threw a ‘Hats For Hannah’ day – all the kids wore hats and donated $5 towards my treatment.
After an article in the local newspaper, donations came flooding in. The church donated $7,000 (£5,200) from bake sales and the local firefighters gave me a puppy that I called Socks. People even started donating the ring pulls from soft drink cans, so Mum could cash them in for recycling. One very sick wheelchair-bound teenage girl, who’d spent nine years collecting for her own care, donated the whole lot to my fund.
Then one day I was dealt a devastating blow. ‘You only have weeks left to live, Hannah,’ Mum told me. My world fell apart and I was so upset she sent me to a counsellor to help me come to terms with my death. The counsellor would talk to me about my fears, and get me to draw pictures of heaven.
Everywhere we went, people knew who we were. I hated it, but Mum lapped up the attention. She never left the house without her fashionable clothes, manicured nails and styled hair.
But then, out of the blue, it all ended as suddenly as it had begun when Mum, Dad and Grandma were all arrested. One of my teachers had noticed my hair was growing back fuzzily but evenly, instead of the patchy regrowth chemo patients experience. She became suspicious and reported my mum to the local family services department.
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