From Where the Moon Got It’s Smile
Eve Malam
The one
person I have to thank for making it financially possible for me to return to university to continue my learning was Laura; the young girl who I worked with as a nanny. But not only making it possible for me to afford to learn academically, Laura also taught me the most important things I will ever learn about life. Laura was 9 years old. She was one of twins, born 5 weeks premature. At four weeks old Laura was left with severe brain injury from a car crash that killed her twin. I began working as Laura’s nanny in November of 2006, and to say I was immersed in her life is an understatement.
Laura had the most amazing blue eyes, which although they could not tell her brain what she was seeing, they were wide and alert, and could draw you in like the most beautiful and intriguing piece of art. You know the kind which each time you look, you spot something different, and it makes you love it more and more. Her smile was more contagious than the biggest yawn. Even when life seemed to be going in all of the wrong directions, this overwhelming feeling of pure hedonism engulfed you when you saw her cheeks pull and stretch out her lips to reveal her crooked teeth and raspberry pink gums. And when her dirty giggle accompanied this smile, something switched on inside you which made you forget your surroundings as you fall into her happiness. Her ability to warm you more than the woolliest, cosiest blanket was incredible. When Laura was happy, she would kick her legs. Especially when she was taken out of her wheelchair and laid on her bed on her return home from school, she would kick so hard she almost bounced herself of her air-filled mattress. Shower time would make even the end of the world seem insignificant to hear those cries of joy. And when she ate, well, to explain the pleasure you would feel when watching Laura enjoying her food is impossible. There are no words to describe the sensations inside your chest, but the fact that people in coffee shops would beg to buy her another muffin just to experience her delight all over again says it all.
Laura had an ability, like that of the moon, to pull in people like the tide, and keep them under her powerful spell, creating waves of emotion inside you that mirrored her own. She wasn’t always happy. When Laura was down she would let you know. Her cry in the night would hurt you like physical pain as she could not tell you why she was so upset. All you could do was cuddle her for as long as it took to make her better. The total selflessness she provoked in me amazed me, I never thought I would care more about someone else than myself. To love someone else’s child to the extent I did- I do- makes me realise how special Laura was. I hate to use the word ‘special’. It does my opinion of her no justice. Wonderful. Amazing. Extraordinary. These are all just words, waves of ink on a page in different formations which attempt to represent the qualities of a person. But these qualities cannot be expressed in words, not to the extent which Laura deserves. Only the feelings inside will truly do her justice. And as there are no words to describe them, and so frustratingly they can never be wholly communicated and shared.
On 8th June 2007, Laura was getting ready for school with one of her other nannies. She became unconscious, something switched out her light, purloined her sparkle, and she was rushed to hospital. It could have been a number of things, her epilepsy, the shunt in her brain, maybe her breakfast went down the wrong way, who knows? Standing in that hospital room, I wanted to run, get out of her life because it hurt too much. I didn’t want to face it anymore. But I stayed. Like the water in the ocean; it can’t choose its direction, it just gets pulled by the tide in the same direction as the other waves.
We couldn’t believe she made it through the weekend, especially past the 10th which was the anniversary of Amy’s death. But she had to. I wasn’t ready to let her go, not yet, not have her stolen away from my life which she reigned over. Laura was a fighter. Seeing her the way she was, not always crying and even managing to crack a smile through those struggled breaths humbled me and gave me strength. She was diagnosed with pneumonia, and within a few days was retrieved to an in intensive care unit miles away in London. None of us thought twice about the tiresome, endless journeys back and forth to see our precious girl. Nights there weren’t easy. The worry through all of the brain surgeries, the endless waiting for her to wake up, the tears on our cheeks, were taking their toll on us all. ‘All’ being her loving father and nannies, the closest non-biological family there is. She was moved on to the normal ward eventually, then back to the local hospital. She was improving, but there were no kicks, her little legs had no energy in them. Her beautiful long brown hair had to be cut, and the speech and language therapist said it was no longer safe to feed her orally as she could not swallow properly. Her smiles temporarily healed our upset. It became our mask. It had a magical ability to unblock the lump in your throat, and sometimes the only way not to be upset was to be with her. Then her little feet began to move a little, and she was improving slightly, but each time we almost got her home, when the shore was in sight, the tide would pull her back, and she would relapse.
She was back in intensive care. At every opportunity we could steal, every precious moment was spent telling her how much we loved her, and how amazing she was. Always feeling though that the words just weren’t enough, no matter how much they were repeated, no matter how many kisses and cuddles accompanied them, it just wasn’t enough. Much like the swells of the ocean, everyone had up and down days. We helped each other keep sailing on, sometimes feeling there was no way we were going to stay afloat. But capsize we could not.
Finally the day came. I heard the dreaded word ‘palliative’. There was nothing more we could do. She was going to die. As her protectors we felt we had let her down. Why when she needed us most were we helpless? Surely doctors should be able to fix her? How can this happen to a child, to Laura? Answers to these questions I will never know. Maybe one day things will become clearer. We decided she needed to be at home, with the people who loved her most and away from all the machinery and uniforms. For the first few days at home people would not believe she was so poorly, she was like her old self. She spoiled us with all of the pleasures we were so used to, all of those four long months ago.
On 7th October Laura Jane passed away. All of the people whose lives felt they could not function without her were there, holding her hands and reassuring her, as she took her final few breaths, and was reunited with her twin sister.
Laura did not ever experience the pleasure of conversation, of walking, running, reading a good book, looking at a beautiful view, choosing her own clothes, making her own food, yet her happiness was overwhelming. The feeling of the wind ruffling in her hair, the sun on her face, the sound of the rain on the conservatory roof, the cupboards slamming in the kitchen, having chocolate buttons on her tongue, or the feeling of being tickled on her neck was enough. The pure emotion displayed by this amazing young girl has taught me to appreciate everything in life and in the world. I drive along a country lane, appreciate the trees, the music on the radio, the ability to sing along, to be able to climb out of the car myself, everything; the small things which we don’t often appreciate being blessed with. When things go wrong, like losing my mobile phone, having no money, putting on a few pounds, struggling with an essay, needing new brakes, tyres and exhaust all in one go… I take a step back and remember how lucky I am. These small hiccups are only a tiny part of the big world in which we live. Remembering to remember the important things is a skill Laura has taught me that I hope I will never lose. I realise the importance of appreciating those who you love, telling them so, and making the most of the time and memories you share. I try to pass on this perspective to others, and teach them some of the amazing lessons that Laura has taught me.
During the difficult times, and even now, I realised that sharing my emotions and upset help take away some of the pain, whereas before I used to bottle it up. Making sense of why Laura couldn’t survive any longer also helped. Someone actually said to me that maybe because she had fought for so long, all her life pretty much, that she’d just had enough. That helped me accept her decision to leave us, as I don’t want her to be struggling or fighting if she doesn’t want to anymore. This then raised lots of questions about what happens after life. I have begun to explore what I believe. I used to be cynical and think that death was just a big sleep, but now I don’t want to believe that, as I want to look forward to possibly seeing Laura again. And she can’t simply be gone. That, I am sure of.
This is the most intense learning experience I have ever been involved in. Never have I been more immersed in any situation. I believe in any situation, you learn if there is some sort of love involved. If you love the subject you are studying, or the area in which you are writing an essay, or even the environment you are learning in, then you will succeed in learning. Saturated, tangled, absorbed, engrossed; you don’t have a choice, the tide takes over you and pulls you in until you are truly immersed.
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