Over the Airwaves in a Land Far Far Away

On my daily commute I listen to two hours of BBC news radio. I listen to reports on everything. The war in Syria. Unrest in Central African Republic. Ongoing Obama-care drama in the States. Bolchy Boris Johnson’s efforts to pull himself out of the hole he dug for himself with his controversial cornflake analogy. The Madiba tributes from back home. I hear it all. And for the most part, I enjoy having a vague idea of what’s potting in a local and global context. It makes me feel connected somehow. Connected to time and place. Also it feeds my curiosity. Being of course the nosiest person I know. If you’ve seen the size of my schnozz, you’ll understand that there’s literal correlation too.

Despite the varied content mix, what I struggle to hear most is any news report that involves children and their suffering. I vacillate between a genuine desire to be informed and utter terror over exactly what I’ll hear. I want to know what it’s about. But I know it’s something that will haunt me. It’s a tenuous balance.

I listened recently to a report by a British journalist who worked with an aid organisation in the aftermath of the typhoon in the Philippines. Based in Tacloban, she did a daily audio diary for the BBC. She described the conditions and spoke to the locals as they tried to re-build their lives. She told a story about a remarkable boy she’d met and interviewed. Before the storm hit while people were being evacuated, this boy and his dad remained behind at their home to protect it from looters. They believed the storm wouldn’t be as bad as predicted and feared they’d lose their valuables if their home was abandoned. This had apparently happened before. It was agreed that his mum and sisters would flee to higher ground. As the storm approached, fierce winds ripped their house apart. Everything was destroyed. They tried to take cover, but this proved impossible. A wall collapsed and crushed his father to death. The boy remained at the scene holding his dad’s hand until the rains came and the water rose and threatened to drown him. He simply didn’t want to leave his father. When he couldn’t stay a second longer, he swam away and was miraculously rescued.

The following day, he was reunited with his mother and sisters who thankfully were unharmed. When asked about how he’d told his family about their father, the boy replied, “When I saw them, I didn’t need to tell them. They could see from my face what had happened to my father.” The journalist commended his bravery. To which he replied: “I am the man of my family now. I must show courage to take care of my mother and sisters. It is my job. My responsibility. I am honouring my father.”
This boy is 10 years old.

I sit as I drive thinking to myself what a privilege it is for me to travel in a road-worthy vehicle with fuel that is readily available, that I can afford to buy. On a road that is safe. To a home that is warm. To a family that is healthy. To a life that is free. What a privilege indeed. I suppose that in order to truly embrace a real sense of gratitude you need at times to be kicked in the face with a news story like that. I got home that night and squeezed the bejaysus out of my children. Talked to my husband about more than just how his day was.

It’s these haunting news stories. A brave child facing a tragedy. Horrific child abuse cases. Child kidnappings. Trafficking. Teenage gang violence. These are the stories that make me squirm. They creep into my head and my heart. The discomfort I feel is good I’ve decided. It’s a cheap lesson for me to appreciate my own life. Acknowledge what I take for granted. And then suck it up and try to be a better human being with a better attitude. I owe this to my children. To my husband. I owe it to a 10-year-old boy in a village in Tacloban. I owe it to the world.

A Boy Named Oliver

Exactly five years ago a couple of hours after our son was born, my best friend asked "How do you feel? What does it feel like to have just had a baby?” Hormone-flushed and drug-giddy, I confessed, “I feel like a rockstar. This feeling is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I am completely blown away.” Today as I type this, sans drugs or post-partum hormones, those exact words sum up how I’d describe my feelings about our son Oliver. He takes my breath away. In a multitude of ways. I am genuinely in awe of our little chap. I am in awe as much today as I was when I first unraveled his swaddling blanket and looked in wonder at the miracle of him.

From the very beginning, Oliver was an easy baby. Happy little guy. Fed well. Slept well. No teething drama. Social. Travelled easily. Loved his nanny. A contented soul with a serious and quirky little frown who quietly took in the world and everyone in it. We marveled that for a couple of twits who’d jumped headfirst into parenting having read none of the books and with no cooking clue, we’d clearly been given just what we could handle. He was eight months old when our lives were turned upside down. A surgical procedure we understood to be simple suddenly turned serious. MRI, neurosurgery, tumour. Big words with a heavy context. Especially when you mark the word ‘infant’ in the patient category. Oliver required surgery that would prevent him from losing the use of his legs and control of his bladder and bowels. The risks associated with the surgery were high. The risks of not undergoing the procedure were equally as complicated. We were devastated. And utterly terrified. Being as grown-up as we could, we ventured through each scenario. We tried to be rational. We tried to weigh up our options. But through all the serious talk, we kept coming back to the subject where neither of us could remain objective. This was our child. Our precious baby boy. We doubted ourselves at every turn. Were we making the right choice for him? Should we operate? Should we wait? Was he going to be ok? What if he wasn’t? The magnitude of our indecision and the what-ifs we pounded back and forth were agonising. The uncertainty of our course of action gnawed at the foundation of the shaky confidence we’d been able to fudge together in our short time as parents. It was a tough couple of months and we took strain.

Eventually, we agreed to the surgery. Mindful of the risks associated with the operation and the fact that any complications could lead to issues further down the line, we felt we couldn’t live with ourselves knowing that we didn’t at least try to rectify the problem. On the day of his surgery, I was led into the operating theatre while Tim said goodbye to his son in a little pre-op cubicle. Tim was stoic and yet at the same time fought to keep his composure in the face of sheer terror and uncertainty. My gentle husband with the biggest heart. We avoided eye contact with each other as we feigned upbeat reassurances as much for our son as for ourselves. My job was to accompany Oliver into the operation theatre and hold him as the anestheticist put him under. Our boy didn’t struggle or squirm as the mask was gently placed over his face. His blue eyes were wide and trusting, as he looked straight at me. He was completely relaxed and he even gave me a little smile as he slipped into unconsciousness. Holding my baby’s vulnerable body like that in a room where a team of specialists prepared to extract a mass of tissue from his spine was the hardest moment for me. I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to bolt out of the door carrying him in my arms. To me, it was this moment that I became a mother. In the truest sense of the word and all its meaning. I understood as never before, the fierce and instinctive need you have to protect your child. How deep those waters run. How powerful that instinct. And how you can never go back.

The procedure was scheduled for four hours and within two, we’d received word that Oliver was out of surgery in recovery and we could see him. Our neurosurgeon, a man of few words yet with an aura of palpable calm, gave us the news that he was pleased with how the operation had progressed and the outcome as he could see it. He confessed how nervous he had been about our son’s procedure. He’d spent weeks reviewing, researching and planning for it. In his 20 years of practice, he’d performed countless operations of a similar kind. But never on a 10-month old baby. The burden of that responsibility weighed heavily on him and he was man enough to acknowledge it. We were impressed by his grace and humility. In the ICU when Oliver first opened his eyes, we could see him process many things as he regained consciousness: the strange environment, the unfamiliar sounds, the pain and discomfort. He flashed his trademark frown and his face crumpled. But when his focus cleared and his gaze reached us, that mischievous sparkle in his eyes was there and he tried to lift up his little arms in welcome. We were both overcome with gratitude and relief. He was still the same Ollie. Our Ollie. Our champion. Our brave boy. He was going to be ok.

Five years on and that happy chap with those piercing blue eyes is now a little man. Sensitive and perceptive but with a wild streak that sees him climb higher, run faster and jump further. He’s a far cry from the infant lying in a cot in the ICU ward at St Augustine’s hospital. Except in many ways he’s not all that different. He is just as brave. Just as strong. Just as determined. He can still make my heart swell with the sparkle in his eye or when he lifts his arms into my embrace. Five years ago today we welcomed a courageous and special little boy into our lives and he taught us the biggest lesson we’ve ever learnt as parents.

The small stuff truly doesn’t matter. Where you live. Your job. What car you drive. How much money you have. This is all irrelevant. So too is the other stuff we agonise about as parents: how little our children sleep, whether they’re ahead or behind their peers in milestones, how much mess they make or the quantity of butternut they ate for supper. It’s when you’re faced with the big stuff, the truly life-changing stuff – that your role as a parent is put into glaring perspective. You understand then that your greatest job is to love your children. Take care of them. Do your best. Make the tough decisions in their best interests. Cherish every day. Take nothing for granted. This is all that’s truly important. The rest is fluff. Some parents face far greater challenges than ours. Obstacles far beyond what we could ever comprehend. Life or death situations. For these gladiator parents, having only the fluff to worry about would be a privilege. We were the lucky ones. Ollie taught us this lesson. We will never forget it.