My Dearest , Darling Jo

My dearest darling Jo,

I don’t know if you realize how strong you really are.

Even before you were born I could feel the power of your body within me. Then, when the time came, you got jammed. Sideways. Such efforts to get you safely delivered.

You came out yelling, so mad with how the world was treating you, but within seconds was just getting on with life – breakfast. I was told you wouldn’t survive - that was the first time.

You stopped growing at 20 months old. Totally stopped. It took until you were getting close to five, and had already started school before we both convinced the doctors to let you have treatment. It hadn’t been given to anyone so young before as it meant very painful and large daily injections.

It worked. I remember your childhood ambition – to reach the top shelf in the supermarket.

There have been so many trials and ups and downs. The growth needed removing. You were only four. When you came round you looked at the locker.

‘Where are the flowers? You get flowers when you’ve had an operation.’ So Mom was dispatched to find some – at eight pm. Eventually, I persuaded a local takeaway to sell me their pot plant.

The wound got infected. That meant awful scars and lots of plastic surgery to improve matters – eleven small operations in twelve weeks. You would come out of the anesthetic at about 11 30 am and be back in school for the afternoon.

Then I remember the day you sat next to me. ’Why can’t I be normal?’ We discussed what was normal – was it being tall or short, fat or thin, clever or not so bright. ‘So I’m normal for me?’ It wasn’t mentioned again.

Eventually, school was over – university and a degree and your ideal job in animal conservation. A trip to Africa on research. You loved it.

You didn’t tell us about the first hemorrhage and emergency surgery.

You were staying back at home when you had the second hemorrhage. The hospital was brilliant, but we were taken aside and told ‘We can’t get a blood pressure.’ Fifteen minutes later you were sitting up and talking.

Then they discovered the reason - you had higher blood pressure in your liver than elsewhere – that and having osteogenesis imperfecta - the reason for all those childhood broken bones.- meant not just bones, but blood vessels were fragile.

A long wait began for a new liver – a transplant. We were told it might take two years - and your prognosis was a few months. You had a heart condition. They didn’t think you would survive such surgery. Then the phone call came – 40 miles to the hospital - by then you were half the weight you had been and had very obvious jaundice. Your liver was so large you could only manage a spoonful of food at one meal. I admit I cried. You didn’t. Then the disappointment – the donor's liver was damaged.

Two and a half years after you were told you only had a few months left a new liver was finally found. We said goodbye, not knowing if we’d ever see you again, and then had to just wait.

Next day we set off for the intensive care department - less than 24 hours since the op began - but your bed was empty.

‘Where is she?’ It seems unbelievable, but, because despite intravenous drips and huge, fresh wounds, you actually felt well for the first time in years – you’d gone shopping!

That was a while ago now. Covid arrived and you are shielding.

You have bounced back so many times. Think back, Jo. So many times. And you are going to do it again. You are.

I loved you from the first day of pregnancy - the day your Dad panicked, just for a moment - and will love you always. You know that. But no more scares for a while PLEASE, Mom.