Poppyjazz

There are things that we all carry through life in memories; smells, colours, places, something that engrains those moments in our memories for as long as we can hear them, see them, imagine them.

When it comes to Poppy, and her struggle, it is sounds. For as long as they are able, my ears will hear that sound. 

It was in the early hours of the morning. Poppy had been given a bath.  The ward was silent. She clung to Wend’s shoulders, her blue eyes stretched wide, full of confusion.  I left Wend upstairs, holding Poppy, fearful, hopeful, terrified.

Soon after, Poppy was taken from the arms that wanted to cling to her as she did to them.  She was taken to surgery in preparation.

Wend came and we sat, not much to say.  And then came that sound that replays in my ears. Chnk, chnk, chnk,chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk.  The blades of the helicopter, turning and bringing with each turn, hope for a future for a little baby who knew not much more than the inside of a hospital ward.  With each turn,  it also carried the sound of loss and devastation to those who were grieving whilst they gave Poppy a chance.

Last week there was a sound that came again.  A sound that rings in another turning point in her lifelong battle. The phone rang to say the time has come. Time to wait for the phone call that initiates the journey to Sydney where the sound of chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk, chnk…..

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