End of a miracle

Vicky wanted just the usual blessings of love, home and family.  Was that too much to ask?

I had a husband and four daughters.  They were ordinary, everyday blessings, but they may as well have been wrapped in tissue, packaged in a fancy box and tied with a bow.

It was all I had ever wanted and I considered myself lucky.

My daughter Vicky was the same.  At 14 she met her boyfriend Richard and at 16 she left school and found a job working in a café.

“I want a family and a nice home” she told me.  “That’s all.”

And I knew that, just like me, it would give her an enormous amount of pleasure.

At 19 Vicky told me she was pregnant and I thought back to when my girls were born.

I had felt indescribable love for each small bundle that was placed in my arms and such pride at watching them grow.

Now my daughter was about to embark on the same journey.

Vicky and Richard moved into a house nearby and started making plans.  She bought tiny clothes, prepared a list of names and saved for all the things they’d need.  The future seemed full of promise.

I’d never seen her so content.  Months crept by and I always went along with Vicky when she had an appointment.

Finally, Richard and I sat either side of the hospital bed, holding her hands while she puffed and panted.  Even then her face was fixed in a smile.

“I can’t believe it,” she said.  “I’m about to be a mum.”

From time to time she clasped the gas and air mask to her mouth.

“It looks like a duck’s beak!” she said.  “Quack, quack!”

She quacked through each contraction.  Richard and I were in stitches.

Eventually she gave a final push.  I watched in wonder as the baby was delivered.  It was a girl.  Even though I’d had four daughters myself it was the first time I’d been able to witness the miracle.

I was allowed to hold the baby for a moment, then I introduced the tiny form to her mummy.

Vicky’s face said it all – a combination of awe, shock and adoration.  It was the most natural, ordinary thing in the world and yet it was the fulfilment of a long held dream.  She was a mother.

Vicky named her daughter, Shannon, and it was as if she’d found her life’s vocation.  Every day I saw her push the pram proudly down the road, stopping to show the baby off to friends and neighbours.

I watched her bathe, feed and dress her daughter and the happiness she found in those simple actions was plain to see.

Over the next two months Shannon’s cheeks filled out and her hair grew in soft brown tufts.  Her delicate features were replaced with a rosy glow and sparkling brown eyes.

Vicky made a not of everything in a baby book.

“I don’t want to forget any of this,” she said.

The months passed and nothing much happened.  Just the everyday wonder of watching a new baby grow and develop.

When Shannon was five months old Vicky came round to see us at our home in Canning Avenue, Wakefield, West Yorkshire, with some news.

“We’re going away on holiday, Mum,” she said.  “To Whitby with Richard’s family.”

“Whitby?” I said. “Very glamorous!”

“I don’t care,” she said.  “It’ll be Shannon’s first trip – we’ll have a great time by the sea.”

She spent the next couple of weeks writing lists and getting things organised.

“I’ll take loads of pictures and we’ll buy a bucket and spade when we get there,” she said.  “I want it to be perfect.”

The day before they left I gave her a kiss and said: “You take care of yourselves.”

“Of course,” she said.

Two days later I was sitting at the computer when the phone rang.  It was Richard.

“Is everything OK?” I asked.

Richard’s voice sounded shaky.  “It’s Vicky…” he said.  She’s fainted.

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

I thought back over the past few weeks.  Had Vicky been over doing things?

“We were out walking Shannon and she collapsed.” Richard said.  Then his voice started to break.  “We’re at the hospital.  They’re putting tubes in her.”

Suddenly I felt sick.  Something wasn’t right.

“They don’t put tubes in people who have just fainted,” I said.  “Please Richard, what’s going on?”

By now he was sobbing.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “But I’ve got to go.”

“OK,” I said.  “We’ll come and find you.”

I hung up and called Whitby Hospital.  When I got through to the right department a nurse said: “You’ll need to get here as soon as you can.”

“Please tell me what’s going on.”  I said.

“We’re working on your daughter,” she said.  “But get here quickly.”

I was terrified.  “I thought she’d just fainted,” I said.  “Look I’m here on my own and I need some hope.  Is it serious?  Just tell me we’re not going to lose her.”

But the nurse just said: “We’re doing everything we can.”

I gave her my mobile number and called my husband Dave telling him to come straightaway.

Then I stood by the front window and let out a piercing yell.

“Please fight, Vicky,” I said.  “Don’t leave us.”

It was as if I hoped she’d hear me.  Dave and our younger daughters Donna and Abbie arrived.  We got in the car.  The journey would take at least two hours.

We were on our way when my mobile rang.  It was the nurse again.

“Jackie are you driving?” she said.

“No my husband is,” I replied.

“Can he pull over?”

“No,” I said.  “There’s no hard shoulder.”

“OK,” she said.  “In that case I will put the doctor on.”

A new voice came on the line.  It said: “Mrs Johnson, I’m so sorry to have to tell you…”

There was a pause. Then the voiced added: “I’m afraid we lost the fight.”

It was like someone had punched me in the stomach.  I screemed.  Dave cried.  The girls were sobbing and wailing in the back.

‘Please bring her back, please try a bit longer,” I said.

But the doctor explained that they’d tried for longer than normal and Vicky had shown no signs of life.

The phone call ended and one of the girls said: “Is it true, Mum?  Is our Vicky dead?”

I managed to say: “I’m so sorry.  She’s gone.’

I can’t remember the rest of the journey.  I’ve no idea how Dave managed to drive or how we found our way to the hospital.

I recall Richard waiting outside with his dad Paul holding Shannon.  I remember us all crying together.

I’ll never forget being shown to a room where a curtain was drawn around a bed.

There was my Vicky.  She looked so peaceful.  I held her, stroked her hair and kissed her face.  I wanted her to open her eyes, laugh and say “boo!”

I wanted to hand Shannon to her and watch as she showered her with kisses and tickled her toes.

“Please wake up, darling,” I said.

But Vicky was gone.  She was 20.

The doctor explained that Vicky had collapsed and suffered a heart attack.  There was a post-mortem to determine why, but the results were inconclusive.  An inquest was scheduled.

The next few weeks were torture.  Somehow we arranged the funeral where we played our favourite songs and Richard ordered a wreath spelling the word: Mummy.  It was heartbreaking.

Being a mummy was all Vicky had ever wanted and after only five months it was over.

The inquest was held.  Vicky’s death was put down to Sudden Adult Death Syndrome or SADS – a term used for unexplained heart related deaths in young people.

My first thought was for Vicky’s daughter Shannon.  What if the condition was hereditary?

The pathologist assured me it wasn’t but when I looked it up on the internet I read that it might be.

I cried.  The thought of losing Shannon too was unbearable.

She is now 10 months old and we’re trying to get her and the rest of the family screened.  I don’t want this to happen to anyone else.  We all miss Vicky terribly. 

She was an ordinary girl who just wanted an ordinary life.  She didn’t ask for much but it was taken away from her.

Shannon lives with her dad and I look after her while he works.  Together we’re determined to make sure she receives the love and devotion her mum gave her in the short time they had together.