A MOTHER'S JOURNEY

A ONCE PINK RIBBON

There was once a little girl called Tasha. She is now an angel or a star or whatever beautiful form young lives take when they are snatched from loving arms. Tasha was born with Neurofibromatosis, a genetic disease. Her grandmother carried it, as did her father. Her grandmother still lives, as does her father. Her older brother somehow escaped unaffected.  

Neurofibromatosis causes tumorous growths. Some do go on to become cancerous. Her grandmother and her father show outward signs, small and large bumps and lumps all over their bodies. Tasha however developed bumps and lumps on the inside, shortly after her birth and for the seven years she spent on Earth. Her beautiful face and her body remained unmarked by this dreadful condition, but she suffered impossible pains as tumours developed internally, requiring long bouts in hospital, surgeries and other medical interventions.

She'd outlived her time when I met her. Gritty and strong, she proved the medics wrong and she continued to smile long after they'd pronounced her "untreatable". A large growth had developed at the base of her skull, gradually cutting off both blood supply and oxygen to her brain. This was the terminal one, the untouchable one; this was the proclaimed "end of life" for young Tasha.

 Tasha loved pink. Everything pink.

I think I may have mentioned somewhere else about my boys and their friends holding a fundraiser for her. It was a huge success, the community getting behind their venture and raising a significant amount for the family.

Why am Iwriting this?

The day of her fundraiser, we all tied bright pink ribbons on our wrists in order to be counted for the Australian Record which was part of her celebrations. You know those thin ribbons you wrap around gifts and then curl? Hundreds of people gathered at the Village Green and tied a ribbon to their wrists.

Tasha left us on the night of her special day. She'd hung on despite all odds. I never cut the ribbon from my wrist at the end of that day. February next year, it will be three years since she left us. The once bright pink ribbon still remains on my wrist; all its colour gone now, looking more like a piece of dirty string?

How it has survived two and a half years is a mystery. Sun, surf, sand, soaps, lotions, clothes on, clothes off, everyday living, doing... yet it remains on my wrist. I don't wear jewellery. I feel constricted the few times I have tried but this thin ribbon is a part of me now. On the first anniversary of her passing I thought about visiting her grave and leaving it there? I didn't do it. I couldn't do it, couldn't physically remove it from me.

I know of several people who are struggling with young ones afflicted with cancer and other life threatening diseases. There is no logic, no sense you can apply to this roulette called life. It spins; the tiny silver ball rotates and comes to rest on a number. Sometimes the number is that of a child, a teen, a young adult. Lives affected and sometimes lives taken before yours, mine... before their time.

I sometimes too, find myself absently playing with this ribbon. It soothes me. It also reminds me of the fragility of life and the importance of living each day in a meaningful way. I know the day will come when I will reach for it and it won't be there, life taking it from me because nothing tangible lasts forever. Or perhaps one day I will pass instead, taking Tasha's ribbon and her companionship with me - again - because the roulette ball might have already landed on me? The question of which will come first surfaces unavoidably and it pains me for I feel a rush to do, be, feel, say, touch and live... live like tomorrow might be it; my 'end of life' proclamation. And every time I hear of a young child dying I think of Tasha the angel, the star, the little girl with the big heart who briefly graced my life with her smiles and continues to be a part of me.

They say a parent should never outlive a child. Yet each day, another Tasha - many Tashas - leave behind the tragedy of a loss so profound, so utterly illogical it is unbearable for the rest of us to even contemplate. This thin once bright pink ribbon is a symbol... for every one of those brief lives. It humbles me and fills me with daily gratefulness.