surrounded by love
hello little one
Growing up is strange when you see it from a distance.
First, you’re a baby. A little crying thing pressed between your Mummy’s arms and hips, and the occasional steady grip of the man with the beard you’ll later know as Daddy.
Then you’re a child, big enough to run, fast enough to chase after your big brother with an eager smile stretched across your face. As long as you’re wrapped in his embrace, you’re safe. His laughter echoes around you while you tumble to the floor and dust yourself off. It clings to everything. Warm and full and coated in love.
You live every day as though it will last forever.
Adults were born adults. You were born a child. Although sometimes, they ask strange questions about what you want to be when you grow up, and you answer blissfully, “I never want to grow up. I want to play forever.”
And sometimes, wishes come true.
There are school runs and church mornings. Neighbours and cousins who appear during the holidays like they were always there. Cartoons on television and made-up games where someone shouts, “The floor is lava!” and everyone knows exactly what to do.
And then there are hospital visits. At first it’s just the prick of a needle and the promise of ice cream afterwards.
Then the visits become frequent.
The adults start wearing expressions you don’t understand. Daddy asks too many questions, his voice growing louder while his hands shake. Mummy holds you tighter, like she somehow heard your thoughts of zooming across the doctors room before you could act on them.
There are more tests.
More pills.
More needles.
And your brother is the only one who still smiles at you like nothing has changed.
One day, when you’re too weak to crawl and there’s a needle in your hand connected to a hanging bag of fluid, Mummy asks you to do her a favour.
You’ve watched her cry. You’ve watched her pray. So of course you say yes.
She tells you: “Breathe for me, baby. Keep breathing. When you breathe out, breathe back in. Don’t rush it. Just keep breathing. Promise me your next breath.”
It’s a strange request, but you promise.
And you breathe.
When the treatment starts, you breathe.
When they call it cancer, you breathe.
When there are too many big words, too many needles, too many frightened faces, you breathe.
After all, this is a promise you made.
And one afternoon, your brother lies beside you in bed. He says nothing. He just holds your hand and hums a tune you almost recognise, but you haven’t got the strength to ask.
Mummy and Daddy sit nearby, holding each other while holding on to you.
You look at each of them. You meet their eyes and smile.
You press your toes against Daddy’s arm.
You spread your fingers inside Mummy’s palm.
You rest your head against your brother’s shoulder.
And you breathe.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
And then all out,
surrounded by love.
goodbye, little one.