In a small, white windowless room two people met, one tall
the other small. The first person slowly, carefully stirred a cup of coffee
they then turned to the second person and said in a desperate voice ‘It’s my
daughter, it’s her third time. ’
A fridge hummed quietly in the corner of the room, the
second person replied ‘My daughter is has just arrived, she is only two and a
half. ’
Let’s call the first person Jill, and the second person
Peter. Jill whispered ‘She is only nine; the other two operations did not
work.’
Peter paused, holding a white polystyrene cup with cold
water inside and then slow took a drink. Dreading the answer to the question he
asked ‘What is her third time?’
Jill look puzzled, using the cupboard to support the heavy burden
placed upon her shoulders by days, months, years of worry ‘It’s her third bone
marrow transplant, I am her only donor. I’m her only chance. Pray for me. ’
Peter looked down and took a moment to think for a little nine
year old girl he had and would never meet.
My name is not Peter, the lady's name was not Jill, my daughter
is two and half and hers younger than nine. That was an example of an everyday conversation in
an everyday ward at GOSH. All four of us were and still are perfect strangers
in an imperfect world.
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