B y the time you met my Freddie, in October last year, he'd been poorly for six months.
The days when he was bombing around the park, kicking a ball, already felt like a lifetime ago.
During a family holiday to Scotland in May, Freddie, then 8, was his usual self.
He'd had the sniffles and was on meds for sinusitis, but I wasn't worried.
He rolled down hills with his dad, Andrew, then 50, siblings Orla-Mae, 11, Fionn, 5, and Bodhi, 1.
But back home, it still hadn't cleared.
‘He gasps for breath in his sleep,’ I told Andrew in June, concerned.
Later, my mum, Joyce, 60, a nurse, came over.
‘Let Nanny take a look,’ she said, peering inside Freddie's mouth.
His palate bulged, the roof of his…
