Jessica wakes up feeling sick. I’m the parent who sleeps near the door, so I take her to the bathroom and sit her next to the toilet so she can throw up. Juliet measures out some paracetamol. I look at Jessica - she’s so tired that she’s fallen asleep with her head resting against the top of the bowl.

I try to wake her to take her back to bed but she will not rouse. I call to Juliet. She cannot wake Jessica with her doctor tricks like pinching. We call the ambulance but the paramedics have no miracles as they take her to the local hospital.

               Our sleeping child is still and will not wake,
               her bed lies vacant, blankets banked and warm.
               Some devil lies inside her head, a snake
               that grips her brain, a brutal thunderstorm.

There we wait and watch as the experts get lines in. My wife thinks parallel thoughts. The mother says they will get her back. The doctor watches signs that our daughter is dying. They stabilise her, then send her off to the Children’s Hospital. We follow behind - no traffic this early in the morning. We avoid focussing on anything but the flashing lights that precede us. We had talked about organ donation forus. Who thinks about it for their child?

At the Children’s Hospital, we are ushered into a waiting room. A doctor and a nurse arrive. The doctor is blunt and cold - there is no hope for Jessica. She turns and leaves.

               It must be hard to watch these children die,
               and break the parents of their helpless hope.
               You must be strong, unfeeling, lest you cry
               in front of them. It's hard for you to cope.

The nurse looks stunned and speechless. Straight away, we offer our daughter’s organs to save another child. The nurse is so grateful - she thought that Doctor Tactless had broken us and condemned more parents to a longer wait, longing for someone to help them.

               Another mother's baby will not die
               for liver failure ever leads to death.
               Our daughter's will suffice, although we cry,
               and give a child her chance to take a breath.

The rest of the staff are supportive and caring. They honour Jessica. The neurosurgeon arrives at 5 am to apologize that he couldn’t save our girl. One nurse sits with our daughter is on life support. She monitors the life support machines while knitting and talking to a clinically dead seven-year-old. Friends come in and say goodbye while Jessica looks reposed, peaceful, and still living. Soon the team comes and takes away her body. They return with her shell - pale white, still, light but dead weight. We cry forever, together.

               A liver, kidneys, pancreas, and valves save five.
               How hard the balance hurts, yet still they are alive.
 

                                   14 May 2024