What life takes, life gives

It is a mother's instinct to protect her young, protect them against the harsh truths of this world and other troubles. It is also a mother's joy – a child. I remember when Rosie came into my life, a bundle of cloth and happiness. The first time I saw her my heart swelled with a cacophony of emotions including pride, love and an overwhelming urge to protect her. Tears sprung into my eyes as I held her frail and delicate frame, I was weak with exhaustion and drained by the pain, but happy nevertheless. She was sleeping so peacefully, a look of utter bliss on her face, oblivious to the world around her. I remember her face to this day, her pale skin and rosy cheeks and a tuft of golden hair on her head. As I kissed her forehead I whispered: "I will never let you come into harm's way" and spiralled into unconsciousness.

Since then she has kept me busy; sufficiently busy. Before I returned home, my brother had refurbished the storeroom as to make a nursery, equipped with soft toys that would keep guard, a simple wooden cot and walls painted with a calm shade of blue – a baby blue if you insist. White silken curtains adorned the window, billowing with the gentle breeze that was slithering in through the openings. Both Rosie and I loved it. Although, for the first few weeks she slept – rather peacefully – beside me. Rosie was a surprisingly quiet child, crying if anything inconvenienced her, but keeping to herself at other times, smiling into the void and contemplating what seemed like topics that were beyond her comprehension. And yet her eyes, as deep and colourful as blue lagoons, reflected a kind and joyous spirit. I could find peace in her eyes. The next few years were comparable to that of a blur; feeding, changing and caring for the baby. I have no qualms about that, but at the end of every day when Rosie was sleeping serenely and dreaming of whatever she dreams of, a cup of red wine would appear (magically, I suppose) in my tired hands and a soapy bath was readied. As I slipped into the tepid water, as my muscles relaxed and my mind tried to straighten out the knots that would form over the day, I would think that nothing bad could ever happen as long as she was with me and my spouse looked over her from heaven. I knew she would be proud of Rosie, I could feel it. Of course, my times of relaxation were short-lived as they were nearly always interrupted by Rosie's cries for attention. I would always smile, laugh at myself for thinking that life could ever be so smooth and go to help Rosie.

From then on, new characters and events were introduced in Rosie's plot; it was her time to start nursery. By now Rosie was talkative and would love to be outside in the wild outdoors. This was the polar opposite of my lifestyle, which primarily consisted of staying indoors and relaxing whereas Rosie's agenda seemed to have only one activity – go out. But I was willing to ditch my urges to stay indoors, curl up into a ball and hibernate for the hundred upcoming winters to see her smile. It did not matter to Rosie that it was snowing out or that the heavens were raining down their wrath with such intensity that the roof was in danger of falling. This, however, did not faze Rosie who saw every weather equal and a chance to go out and explore. This trait of Rosie managed to annoy the teachers at her school who repetitively complained that Rosie would simply not stay indoors. And what could I do? I simply sighed and smiled. Everything was fine and smooth sailing until she reached nine years of age where signs of an illness surfaced. I still kick myself, pull my hair and lament – for if I had seen these subtly obvious signs of an illness, Rosie would still be in my arms while I would stroke her blonde and silky hair. But I can do that no more.

It was consistent: a cough that would not go away, breathlessness when Rosie started to exercise and the fact that whatever she ate seemingly disappeared and she would not gain weight. They were subtle at first and unnoticeable...is what I say to myself when my heart aches and all I can do is lie to myself. I should have seen it before. Then two days after the end of school, the start of her summer holidays, she collapsed while we were out shopping for general groceries. I remember it too well – we were browsing cereals and I asked her: "Coco pops or Shreddies?". I remember everything about that day, I was wearing a yellow flower summer dress that Rosie adored, and she was wearing a blue shirt with jeans. I remember calling out a second time, exasperated but amused by the fact that Rosie was playing with me again. But there was no answer to either of my calls. I turned around quickly, my heart was racing for no apparent reason and my heart was screaming for I felt that something was wrong. Then I saw Rosie was on the floor, turning blue, her hands trying but failing to loosen the collar of her shirt. I rushed to her aid and unbuttoned the top of her shirt, trying to figure out what was happening to her. I started yelling and screaming for help while attempting to retrieve my phone from my handbag. People had rushed over by then and someone had called the ambulance. A woman trained in first aid rushed through the crowd and started reviving Rosie, pressing methodically on Rosie's frail chest but to no avail. By then the ambulance along with the medics had arrived and were busy transferring Rosie to a stretcher while another asked me who I was and what had happened. I answered with what I knew but I could not focus. We ran towards the ambulance and clamber in behind Rosie on the stretcher. Throughout the ride to the hospital I was caressing her head in my lap and stroking her hair, chanting "It's going to be alright Rosie" while the paramedics attached an oxygen mask to her face which slowly reversed her face's colour back to its original pale white.