On the 1st day of Christmas, my 7 year old daughter was rushed to intensive care.
She couldn’t breathe.
She was struggling, gasping, fighting.
I watched her close her exhausted eyes as they put her to sleep.
A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind.
I was scared, bewildered, overwhelmed, numb.
Her tiny body in a big bed surrounded by endless wires and monitors.
The machines were breathing for her.
She looked helpless, motionless, vulnerable, peaceful.
Painful needles poked into her fragile body.
Drugs and medications coursing through her veins.
Painkillers, sedatives, muscle relaxants, antibiotics.
We were like walking zombies in the day. Staying awake all night.
Puffy eyed and weary limbed, we paced the corridor outside her room.
Waiting, watching, praying, hoping…
Should we talk to her? Could she hear us? Would we hear her laugh again?
If only we could just give her a cuddle? Tell her how much we loved her.
Longing, yearning, wanting, wishing.
The phones were ringing and pinging non stop.
Messages and texts came pouring in as slowly the news spread.
Family, friends, colleagues, parents, teachers, acquaintances and even strangers.
All praying, consoling, supporting, comforting.
They held special prayers, services and chantings.
In the temple, church, gurudwara, mosque, and at home.
All that faith could not go unanswered. Somebody had to listen.
On the 7th day of Christmas, my daughter opened her eyes.
All her guardian angels must have been very busy.
Watching over her, smiling down on her, protecting her.
Bringing her out of the darkness and into the light.
She is blessed, and so are we to have her back.
A special mention and heartfelt thank you to the amazing unsung heroes in the PICU at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. Thank you for giving our daughter a second chance. Xxx