Hello people! Welcome to chapter 1! Enjoy! Disclaimer: I don't own SWAC! Unfortunately
1 – diagnosis and memories
I sat on the hard wooden chair staring at my black boots. I liked those boots. They were warm and comfortable, plus they suited me. Close by a man cleared his throat and I looked up. A man, in his late twenties or early thirties, was looking at me through his fringe of fair hair. He was the doctor. He looked sad. And torn. Looking back I can begin to understand how he felt. How hard it was for him. How do you tell a six year old they might die? That they may not live to see their teen years, that they might never learn to ride a bike without stabilisers? That each minute, each second longer they live is a miracle? How do you explain that to a six year old little girl who has never done anything wrong? That ought to have her whole life ahead of her.
The doctor wasn't unfriendly, but I had always been shy. Plus he had made mummy cry with his long words. I didn't understand. But I would. And soon. I'd become fluent in medical talk and used to the clean, blank walls of a hospital. I turned to look at my dad. His face was screwed up, his eyes closed and his eyebrows contracted. He was trying not to cry.
"Her condition is not untreatable." The doctor said, breaking into my thoughts. He talked about me as if I wasn't there and I didn't like that. I swung my legs in frustration. As a six year old it's hard to earn respect.
I looked down at my hands. They had warm, fluffy gloves on; purple, my favourite colour. It was only November, but the doctor said getting cold was bad for me. Underneath those gloves were bruises, unseen, but I knew they were there. So did everyone in that room. They were the reason I was there.
"What c-chance does she stand?" My father choked out. A tear rolled down his cheek and my throat swelled and my heart ached at that sight. My father never cried. Never.
"Well, sometimes people with her condition can be completely cured. Around 90% of people respond well to treatment and live nearly normal lives afterwards." The doctor spoke in a hushed tone, as if hearing the news quieter would lessen the blow. He stared intently at the pattern of the wooden desk that stood between us. Her condition, he'd said. I didn't like that. Not one little bit.
"The other ten percent, they…" my father paused, unable to go on.
The doctor understood and answered, "They respond badly…it's like this with all illnesses, there's always a chance…you never know. We can't save everyone." He sounded like he was pleading to be understood, to be relieved from the guilt he felt because of the patients he couldn't save.
Oh. I was going to die? I understood then. He clearly thought I wouldn't understand, but even at six I was not unintelligent.
"She's only – hic – six!" My mother cried.
"I know, ma'am, I know." He paused. "I'll do everything I can."
As we sat there, the doctor continuing to talk about me as if I wasn't there I spaced out. I started to think about some of the fun times I'd had, until I became ill.
"Higher, higher, mummy! Higher!" I screamed as my mum pushed the swing I was sat on. As I swung higher, I felt I could fly! I felt I could do anything! Anything, I wanted!
I could see the house over the treetops. The swing was in our orchard. It was spring and the pink and white blossoms of the trees surrounded me. The blue sky stretched above me. The sun shone, warming my skin a little. I lent my face back and just enjoyed the feeling.
That was fun, but I'd never be allowed to do anything that dangerous now. Not that swinging on a swing is dangerous for normal people, but I wasn't normal. I looked around the office again.
There, on the doctor's desk, was a picture of him standing next to a chestnut horse, upon which a little girl sat. She could only have been about my age and the doctor looked just as he did now. She was pretty; with long blonde hair that shone in a light whose source the picture didn't show. Her dazzling blue eyes sparkled with excitement. I suppose she must be his daughter, which was a reasonable assumption considering the similarities in their appearance.
I loved horses. And I loved to ride. My mum and I used to go every summer holiday from when I was three. We learnt to care for the horses together and daddy promised me that one-day we'd get our own horse. I guessed that wouldn't happen now. There were so many things I thought were going to change; yet so many we didn't even know about.
I was pulled out of my revere by the sound of a chair scraping across the wooden floor. Daddy had stood up and was shaking hands with the doctor. I glanced at the name plaque on his desk. "Dr. A. M. Cooper," it read. I wondered what his first name, or names I should say, could be. My mum was pulling on her coat. I was at that awkward stage in a child's development when one is not quite sure if their mother is "mum" or "mummy." I decided from then on I'd be grown up and call her mum.
I stood up, careful not to knock myself, and brushed down my long purple skirt. It was a darkish purple and came to just below the height of my boots. Beneath it I wore white tights too. I grabbed my black winter coat off the chair and pulled it on around my shoulders. We said our goodbyes to the doctor and there was no doubt in my mind that I would see him again. I offered him a small smile at this thought. We might as well be friends if we were going to see so much of each other.
He repeated his previous words as the door closed. "I'll do everything I can." And I only just caught the whisper that followed, not really sure if I made it up or not. "I promise."
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