35. Marlowe
CHAPTER 35
Marlowe
I 'm determined that this trip will be cause for celebration for Tabs, something for her to embrace rather than fear. She's known for years that a valve replacement operation is in her future, and we talk about it as one of those great, delineating events in life, as if a new pulmonary valve is as momentous as the coming of Christ. Which, of course, it will be for her and for those of us whose happiness depends solely on the health of this little girl.
After the operation, you'll be able to run as far and as fast as you can!
After the operation, you can learn how to ice-skate!
And do parkour!
And trampoline! (God, how badly she wants to go trampolining. I'll spend every hour of my weekends in those hellish, neon-lit trampoline parks that I've heard other parents from school complain about if I have to.)
So, yes, this procedure will mark a seismic shift in my daughter's life.
It will, quite literally, give her a new lease of life, as if, by moving heaven and earth and paying hundreds of thousands of pounds, we’ve purchased a lease agreement that promises athleticism and freedom and boundless energy, for the next few years at least.
That’s worth celebrating.
So I take her into the centre of town to get some bits and pieces for the hospital: new PJs, some reading books and sticker books.
She skips along beside me as I hold her hand and navigate the crowds of weekend shoppers.
‘Take it easy, sweetie,’ I say as gently as I can.
Every time I have to remind my eight-year-old daughter to tamp down her natural little-girl energy and take it easy , a piece of me dies.
‘Sorry, Mummy,’ she says reflexively, and I squeeze her hand and smile down at her.
‘You don’t need to be sorry.
I’m sorry I have to say these things to you.
But in a few weeks you’ll be running and skipping all you like, won’t you?
’
Her smile is huge.
‘Yeah. And dancing.’
‘And dancing. A lot of dancing. I can’t wait to see you dance everywhere we go.
’
‘Will I be able to run through the airport?’
‘On the way home, maybe. It depends on how you’re feeling, honey.
You may still be really tired from the operation.
But you won’t be out of breath.
Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Will the airplane be like the one in Home Alone? ’
‘Um…’ I cast my mind back to the movie.
I’m pretty sure the McCallister adults travelled at the front of the plane.
‘It won’t be as fancy as that on the way out, but on the way back it’ll be far fancier.
We’ll have seats that turn into actual beds.
How cool is that?’
She beams at me and instantly starts to skip again.
‘So cool! Will we get a pillow?’
I squeeze her hand gently to remind her to take it easy.
I do not need an ambulance trip to the nearest A&E to become part of our day out.
‘I think so. I’ve never flown in the fancy part before.
’ I’ve never flown long haul at all, in fact.
‘Now, where to first?’
‘Waterstones?’ she suggests.
‘Waterstones it is.’
Like me, Tabs loves reading.
It’s lucky, given that the range of physical activities available to her is pretty tiny.
She’s smart for her age and devours books quickly.
Thank heaven for our local library.
We don’t buy many books, except on birthdays and Christmas—my wallet can’t keep up with her reading pace.
So the smoke comes off our library card.
But I’m determined that she’ll have some beautiful new books to enjoy on the flight and at the hospital.
Waterstones has always smelt like home to me: that scent of printed paper that’s as dependable, as comforting, as a swaddle.
I was a child of varied interests—I sang, and I played a lot of tennis, and I read as many books as I could get my hands on.
Tabs doesn’t seem as interested in singing, unless it’s Taylor Swift or Gracie Abrams, and tennis has been out until now, but books are her jam a million times over.
‘Oh wow,’ she says reverently, glossing her little hand over the intricate gold foiling on some special editions of Penguin Classics.
‘So pretty.’
‘We can get one or two,’ I tell her.
They really are gorgeous.
‘You might like The Secret Garden. There’s a little boy in it who everyone thinks is ill, but he gets super strong by being out in nature, and he’s running around in the secret garden by the end of the book.
’
She throws me a you poor, deluded woman look.
‘I don’t think nature will fix me,’ she says solemnly, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I do neither, in fact.
‘No, but you’ll be able to enjoy it a lot more when the doctors fix you up.
’
She turns the book over and looks at the price.
‘It’s 'spensive, Mummy.’
I inhale sharply through my nose and get to my knees so I’m at eye level with her. It kills me that my eight-year-old girl worries about money, that she doesn’t run into a bookshop and demand things like other kids her age might but instead frets about how we’ll afford those things.
She’s seen me scrimp all these years.
She knows that the material kind of treats don’t come along much outside of Christmas and birthdays.
She’s accustomed to there being precious little money to go around in the Winters household.
I recall something Athena said when she insisted on funding Tabby’s opulent bedroom tent as her Father Christmas present last year and I tried to put my foot down. She told me, in her inimitably forceful and candid way, that this is about ramming home a very important message to a sick little girl—that sometimes, in a world full of shitty disappointments, sometimes, just sometimes, life not only delivers but blows your fucking mind. It’s always worth believing.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Tabs worry her way to this momentous and gruelling operation. If ever there was a time to channel her godmother and ram home the importance of an abundance mindset, it’s now.
‘It’s more expensive than the others, yes, because it’s a beautiful special edition,’ I tell her now, putting the book into her hands. ‘More love and care has gone into making this book, so it has a higher value. It’s special, just like you’re special, and this trip we’re going on is very, very special. So how about we treat ourselves, because a special trip deserves a special book. Hmm? What do you think?’
She nods slowly, her face still solemn. ‘Do you have enough money?’
‘Oh, sweetheart, of course I do. I have this great new job, remember? And it means that we can afford to get some nice treats for our trip. Special treats. And you can put this pretty book by your bed in the hospital, and hopefully it’ll help to comfort you. We’ll bring Bartholomew, too.’
Bartholomew is Tabby’s new Jellycat bear. Athena bought him for her as soon as we got our date for the operation. He’s soft and solemn and sports a very smart pair of red-and-white pyjamas. He’ll be our wingman for the trip.
‘Mummy,’ she says, and then pauses in that way that tells me she has something on her mind.
‘What is it, my love?’ I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, still on my knees.
She looks at the carpet. ‘Will you be with me the whole time in the hospital? I don’t want to be alone, even with Bartholomew. I want you.’
So this is what’s bothering her.
‘I will be with you the whole time, except when they’re doing the actual operation,’ I promise her. ‘I’ll be stroking your hair when they make you go to sleep, and when you wake up afterwards, I’ll be there. I’m not allowed in the operating theatre in case of germs. They have to keep it really clean.’
Her chin wobbles. ‘But I don’t want to be without you. It’s scary.’
I blink my eyes rapidly to stem the tears threatening to well up. ‘I know it’s scary, sweetie. I know . But you won’t be awake during the operation. So you’ll have me with you all the times you’re awake. And do you know what? It’ll just feel like a few minutes that you’re asleep, but when you wake up you’ll have a whole new valve. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘What if I can’t go to sleep?’ she mutters, reaching for a strand of my hair and rubbing it between her fingers. She’s done this since she was a tiny girl.
‘You don’t need to worry about that, because they have this magic sleepy gas. It’s so funny! You breathe it in, and then the doctor will ask you to count backwards from ten or some other number, but you’ll start snoring before you finish. What do you think of that?’
Her smile is slow and wondrous. ‘No I won’t. I can count backwards.’
‘Yes you will. I promise you. It’ll feel lovely, like you’re floating through the clouds.’
What I don’t tell her, of course, is that watching your child go under is one of the most distressing things a parent can witness. Stroking your little girl’s hair as she drifts off under anaesthetic on a cold, clinical gurney is so strikingly similar to how I imagine it would be if she passed away that I can’t bear it. I really can’t.
I’m not sure how I’ll survive those hours after they wheel my unconscious child into theatre, sitting in the waiting room all alone as strangers operate on the most important organ in her body, rocking and waiting and praying for good news until my tears run dry and my knuckles turn white.
I honestly don’t.