On 15th June, last Sunday, we celebrated Naomi's tenth birthday. Quite a landmark. Those of you in Kettering and Upminster may well recall a fair amount of commotion caused by Naomi when she arrived at 28 weeks, weighing in at 2lbs 13ozs. We had 'dashed down' to Upminster for the weekend and had ended up spending most of it in Harold Wood Hospital, Romford.
To complicate things further she had a major brain haemorrhage when 10 days old and was on full life support for weeks, not expected to live and certainly not expected to come through unharmed. Now, thanks to medical science and the prayers of many, she is alive, perfectly healthy and planning how to oust Connie Fisher from her role as Maria. (I think she'd settle for Mother Superior...as long as there is a big number somewhere.)
When I was re-diagnosed in November, the consultant told us that my survival would be 'remarkable, but not impossible.' We both agreed that we had seen the 'remarkable' happen and so it all helps us in the struggle to remain hopeful. Now I cannot promise to include a poem in every entry (you may well be relieved to hear) but it just so happens that I wrote one for Naomi as she approached the end of her first decade.
Swimming
We are just back from swimming,
…you dropping from a high flume
into the pool and
gliding to the side…
when I find the photo of you.
Tiny,
delivered long before your birthday,
brand new and still in a plastic box.
Rising and falling at the machine’s bidding,
a milk-straw ribcage propping up a canopy of
rice-paper skin, and the
self-beating drum visible at its edge
firing ticks onto a screen.
It told us you were still there,
hanging on at the end of the plastic line,
the chemical nursery rhyme
keeping you asleep.
I hold the photo frame towards you.
“Who’s that?” you ask, as water
drops from a strand of your hair
on to the shiny square glass
and slides towards the edge.
We are just back from swimming,
…you dropping from a high flume
into the pool and
gliding to the side…
when I find the photo of you.
Tiny,
delivered long before your birthday,
brand new and still in a plastic box.
Rising and falling at the machine’s bidding,
a milk-straw ribcage propping up a canopy of
rice-paper skin, and the
self-beating drum visible at its edge
firing ticks onto a screen.
It told us you were still there,
hanging on at the end of the plastic line,
the chemical nursery rhyme
keeping you asleep.
I hold the photo frame towards you.
“Who’s that?” you ask, as water
drops from a strand of your hair
on to the shiny square glass
and slides towards the edge.
