The films I like are Enchanted and High School Musical even though I know it’s not cool for someone as old as me to enjoy films like that. So I don’t tell my friends, who are all into bands like Evanescence and Paramore, in case they think I’m babyish. But I prefer happy stuff and that’s why I like those films and the music in them. On TV I enjoy Lark Rise to Candleford and detective programmes like Poirot because I try and work out the case before the policeman does. I watch EastEnders sometimes too, even though Mum doesn’t really like me to, but not that often because the people in Albert Square are always having massive fights so it can get a bit predictable.
I also like The Apprentice when Sr’Alan tells the contestants where they’re going wrong, and Strictly Come Dancing. I love Anton because he smiles so much, and Brendan, who’s always going off in a major strop. Bruce Forsyth is really old but good and Tess is nice too, although she sometimes wears odd dresses. I prefer Strictly to The X Factor because the people don’t know if they can dance and some of them get really good while others are awful, whereas on The X Factor they know they can sing and just get better. The other thing I watch is Masterchef because it makes me laugh. Like the time when John picked up a piece of black salmon and said, ‘That’s one well-cooked piece of fish.’ What an understatement.
But maybe my favourite thing is a game called Boggle. It’s a box full of letters that you jumble up to make words and I love it because it feels like there are lots of them inside me which I can see in the game. That’s why I also enjoy reading because books are full of words you can lose yourself in. One I really like is Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree. It’s for younger kids really but it’s great because it tells the story of a group of friends who climb an enchanted tree and find a different land at the top of it each time. So they visit places like the Land of Spells, where they accidentally make a child shrink, the Land of Magic Medicines, where they buy a potion for their mum who’s ill in bed, and the Land of Presents (that one’s obvious).
The place I like the sound of best, though, is the Land of Do As You Please where the children get to do whatever they want – like drive a train, ride elephants and swim in the sea. A lot of people think you stop having fun if you get sick, which means you never get to go to the Land of Do As You Please. But I know it’s not like that. Sometimes you have to have fun in a different way, but mostly you have it just like other kids.
It’s really important to have fun and I don’t understand the adults who think their life is really bad. You’ve only got one and if you don’t enjoy it then you’ve blown it, haven’t you? That’s why I always try to get to the Land of Do As You Please as often as possible (although it’s much easier with the help of a Nintendo or High School Musical DVD or something).
You see, if I could have any wish it wouldn’t be a year in Disneyland (although that would be nice) or a walk-on part in High School Musical (although that would be unreal). What I’d like is to live just one day without having to stop and rest when my heart gets tired: I’d go out and just waste my energy – visit Lucy’s horses, ping all over the place doing stuff with friends, dance to Mamma Mia!
But I can’t do that, and I’ve had to learn that feeling unhappy about it is a waste of time. Being happy gives me far more energy – so much so that sometimes I want to do a cartwheel even though I can’t actually manage it. So that’s how I try to feel each and every day, and I think I’ve always been like that. But I can’t really remember that far back, so Mum will have to tell you more about how everything started.
Kirsty
I don’t know how I knew it was the day on which our world would fall apart. Call it a mother’s intuition, my medical training or just luck, but that day in December 1999 I knew I couldn’t listen to another doctor telling me there was nothing wrong with Hannah.
‘I want a second opinion,’ I said to the young A&E doctor standing in front of me at Worcester Hospital.
Hannah was lying on a bed between us. She was pale and listless, so quiet. Not the bubbly, chatty four-year-old I knew so well. It was about 11 p.m. and she’d woken up a couple of hours before, crying and complaining of a tummy ache.
The doctor looked at me as exasperation washed across his face.
‘You just need to give her some Calpol,’ he said.
‘I already have,’ I lied.
I didn’t want to be dismissed with paracetamol. I wasn’t simply another over-protective mother. Someone had to listen to me. Something was terribly wrong. I knew it.
‘I think you should take her home and see how she is in the morning,’ the doctor replied slowly. ‘You can always see the GP if she’s still not feeling well tomorrow.’
I stared at the man, wanting to fly at him and scream.
‘I want a second opinion,’ I said in a low voice, trying to keep my rage under control.
‘Well, I’m afraid there’s no paediatric consultant on duty tonight. You’ll have to take her to Birmingham or Hereford to be seen.’
‘In an ambulance?’
‘No.’
I didn’t have time to argue. Scooping up Hannah in my arms, I ran out of A&E towards the car. Putting her into her seat, I ran around the car, got in and started the engine. Hereford was closer – 45 minutes’ drive away.
‘My tummy hurts, Mummy,’ Hannah moaned.
‘I know, darling, and we’re going to make it better,’ I said softly.
Hannah shut her eyes as I started driving. The minutes slid by as I turned over everything again and again. Why wouldn’t the doctor listen to me? Why hadn’t I done something more before now? Hannah hadn’t been well for a few weeks but the GP had told me it was just a virus and I had listened as I told myself she was tired at the end of her first term at school. When she hadn’t perked up, I’d gone back to the GP again and was told the same thing – she had one of those unspecific childhood bugs that every under-five gets and she’d soon shake it off.
So when Hannah had refused to eat on a visit to see my great aunt Kitty, I’d told her off. When bruises had appeared on the tops of her feet, I’d explained them away by a bang she’d got when she opened a cupboard door. I told myself I was being over-indulgent – the kind of mother who won’t listen to good medical advice when she’s given it. The kind of mother I didn’t want to be. But what kind of mother was I now? I’d known deep down that something was wrong and hadn’t trusted my own judgement. Now I knew I must.
Fear turned inside me as I drove and pressed my accelerator foot closer to the floor. Hedges and trees rushed by in the blackness as we neared Hereford.
‘Nearly there, Han,’ I said in the singsong voice mothers use to calm fear, anger or anything in between.
But Hannah did not reply and I turned to glance at her beside me. She looked as if she was sleeping. Reaching across, I grabbed her leg and shook it.
‘Han?’ I said. ‘Han?’
She didn’t open her eyes. I pushed my foot down harder, trying to stave off a rush of panic. Was she breathing? Should I stop to check? No. I didn’t have time. I had to get her to hospital. They could do more for her there than I could.
Driving into the entrance of Hereford Hospital, I headed for the children’s ward. I’d done some nursing shifts there before so I knew where it was. It was quicker than trying to find A&E. Hannah was limp in my arms as I pulled her out of the car. Quick, quick. Hurry. Let me in.
I hit the doorbell to the unit but nothing happened and I stared around me, ready to start screaming. But suddenly the door opened and I dashed inside. Running along the