Now I watched the priest as he softly traced the sign of the cross on Hannah’s forehead.
‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,’ he said softly.
Hannah did not move or speak but her eyes were open as she watched. The familiar words and phrases of the prayers felt soothing – just as knowing other people were praying for us was. When Hannah had first been admitted to hospital, my great aunt Kitty, who had once been a nun, had contacted all the churches she knew and by now hundreds of people were praying for Hannah. It comforted me to know that we were not alone.
After the priest gave me communion and left, I sat down again, lost in thought as Hannah slept. Ever since becoming an adult, I’d been making plans and being busy – first with my career, then meeting Andrew, next came buying a home and finally starting our family. Now I had three children under five to keep me constantly busy and I hurled myself through the hours each day, waiting for the next child’s cry when they fell over or a frustrated howl as they couldn’t complete a task.
But now for the first time ever there was no shift to start at work, cleaning to do, food shopping to get or another child to calm. All I could do was concentrate on tiny things: the feel of Hannah’s right hand enclosed in my left one as it lay limply on the bed. It felt so small, as fragile as a shell hurled across a windswept beach, and I focused on the feel of it in mine – the one fixed point in a landscape which seemed to change almost by the hour.
It isn’t just emotional certainties you lose when your child falls sick and your world spins off its axis, it is practical ones too – the thousand tiny tasks which make up the physically demanding job of being a mother. Of course you willingly hand over their care to the doctors and nurses trying to save their life. But in doing so, the daily throwaway acts which have made up your life ever since your child came into it are suddenly no longer yours and you realise, for perhaps the first time, that these are the things which make you a mother – loading a dishwasher, wiping a face or turning book pages, each one giving you a purpose and reason which you feel lost without.
I clung to the little things I could still do – checking Hannah’s feeding tubes, smoothing her sheets or wiping her hands clean of the blood spots running off the drips – but knew it wasn’t practical care she needed from me any more. Hannah and I had moved beyond an everyday world of yoghurt pots and finger painting, cut knees and spilt drinks. We’d fallen off the map into the lands where dragons lay.
But as I sat with her, I realised that I must conquer my fears if I was to be what I hoped for Hannah. I had to stop looking back at the past and searching for a reason where there was none. She needed my courage, reassurance and strength to draw on more than ever now – a fixed point in all the uncertainty. I could not dwell on making sense of the past or controlling the uncertain future. I must live in the moment, finding strength in it and living it with Hannah, knowing it was precious minute by minute, hour by hour and day by day.
I had always been so busy focusing on goals and the next plan. Upgrading cars, booking holidays, finding schools – like many people I’d been preoccupied with a future that was just beyond my reach, hardly taking any notice of the moment I was in. But as Hannah’s life hung in the balance I finally saw what I could lose if I wasted the moment. Each one was precious and I wanted her to feel loved in them all.
Hannah herself was helping me to see this. Ever since she’d fallen ill she had quietly accepted what was happening, and her calmness had humbled me. She hadn’t questioned the drugs or railed against the endless tests. She hadn’t complained when she was in pain or screamed at the injustice of it all. She had simply submitted herself to what was happening and in doing so had guided me as much as I had guided her as we took uncertain steps through our new world. I knew that Hannah might die and had to accept the possibility, however much I didn’t want to. But the strength she needed from me would not come from looking back or forward. I must live in the moment with her – cling to each one and treasure it. As I sat with Hannah, I knew this was a lesson she was helping me to learn. But what I did not know then was that it would be just the first of many.
It was Dad’s birthday a few days ago and we went out for a meal at a pub to celebrate last night. Mum and Dad, Oli, Lucy, Phoebe and me went as well as Grandma and Granddad, my Uncle Nigel, Auntie Serena and my cousins Katie, who is ten, and Toby, who’s a bit younger than Phoebe. Becky, our friend who used to live over the road from us, also came with her mum Lindy and sister Abby. We all gave Dad his presents when we got to the pub and I’d made him a card using a craft kit which I’d covered in hearts and flowers. I also got him a tie and some chocolates because he loves those.
I got to dress up especially to go out because earlier this week I went into town with £40 that I’d saved up from my pocket money. I don’t often look around the shops but I was really looking forward to going and seeing what there was. I’m awful at making up my mind, though, so I went from shop to shop before going back to the first place to buy the first thing I saw. I always do that because I have to be sure that what I think I like is what I really want. So when I was finally certain, I bought some gold sandals I’d seen in the first shop. It’s still only April and my feet might get a bit cold when I wear them but they’re really nice. I’d like to have heels but can only wear flat shoes because my balance isn’t good enough for high ones. Lucy has got some platforms but they make me fall over.
Lucy and I were so excited about going out for Dad’s birthday that we started getting ready yesterday afternoon. We’ve both got makeup and so I did hers before painting her nails. Then she did my toes but I did my fingers because she makes them too messy. Mum doesn’t usually like us wearing makeup but we’re allowed to on special occasions. The trouble was that we were ready by 3 p.m. and so Mum sent me to bed to have a rest. She said I’d be too tired if I didn’t sleep and I knew she was right, but it was still boring.
I got out of bed just before we left and had roast chicken, chips, peas and a knickerbocker glory at the pub. Then we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Dad as a waitress brought his pudding with a candle in it. That was when the fun really started because some of our friends were on a big table behind us. They’re called Tina and Marco and they own an equestrian centre near our house where Lucy and Mum go riding sometimes.
Everything was normal until suddenly a rolled-up napkin landed on the table in front of Lucy and me. We looked around and Marco was laughing, so we lobbed one back. That was it. Marco threw another napkin, Mum chucked one back at him and then Marco flicked a pea which flew over my head and landed on the table. Lucy and I were really laughing by now as I threw a piece of bread. Then suddenly Tina, her daughter Emma and another little girl I didn’t know all joined in. Everyone was at it until Dad got cross and told Lucy and me to stop.
‘You should know better, Hannah,’ Dad said, and I knew he was angry because the people who own the pub are his friends.
Mum started clearing up bits of napkin and bread while Dad stomped off back to the car. But instead of feeling bad, I felt annoyed because I was the one getting all the blame even though it wasn’t all my fault. That always happens. Lucy and I can be nutty when we’re together, and once when Dad sent us to our bedrooms we hid in hers and decided that we were going to put Mum’s knickers on our head, bang all the saucepans together and do karaoke so loud that Dad couldn’t hear the TV. We didn’t do any of it in the end but I’m sure I’d have got the blame