Hymn: Fit and Well

I've got to admit, it's not been the nicest Sunday I can remember. And I don't think it's one I'll easily forget.

I thought my beautiful little S was dying.

We went out for a walk this afternoon. Not long after S woke from her customary nap. And after she'd had her 4 o'clock milk. We set out for the park.

We'd just left our close. We were saying the colours of the pretty flowers. We were holding hands. When she just stopped. Literally stopped. Almost dead in her tracks.

At first I thought her two-day constipation was over. She tends to stop like that when she's got to go.

But her eyes glazed over. She didn't respond as I knelt beside her. She crumpled. I caught her as she fell. She was limp and lifeless. My little girl. My little girl.

I picked up her tiny body and turned for home. My head was spinning. I kept telling her that Daddy was here, that she'd be all right, Daddy was here. T phoned 999, struggling to remember where we live.

S lolled in my arms. It took a lifetime of moments to walk the fifty yards home. I clung to her. I kept talking.

An ambulance was coming.

T was banging on the neighbours door, howling with panic.

I laid my little girl down. She was grey. Her lips were blue. Her unseeing eyes wide open. My God, I was losing her. I couldn't believe what was happening: a couple of minutes ago we were laughing together. Now I was watching her die.

I kept talking, whispering to her, my lips brushing her cheek. Can you hear me, Scarlett? Daddy's here. It's going to be all right. Can you hear me?

In the background I could hear T crying and the neighbours' confusion and the scream of a siren.

I couldn't understand. She'd been fine. Giggling, talking, playing. Then this. Nothing had happened but now this. She wasn't choking. She was breathing although it was so shallow, almost not there at all. She almost wasn't there at all.

She was hot, though. I took off her little flowery dress. As I did she sighed. Then she spat out what looked like simple water. She started breathing more deeply. A hint of colour returned to her face.

A doctor materialised by our side. Her immediate assessment was that S was over the worst. That it had been some sort of fit. A convulsion. That her body had simply shut down temporarily to deal with a fever. That it was quite common. That she would be all right. We climbed into the ambulance, S in my arms still, and still glazed and still but with colour and breathing returning to normal.

All the time, I kept talking. And even though the doctor reassured me, still a terrible dread held me. Why was S not responding? Why did she keep grabbing at her leg like that, over and over again? Why didn't she seem to see me? Had it been longer than it seemed? Had I done something wrong? Had something terrible happened? Had our little girl been damaged?

I called some friends to pray. I choked trying to explain. I bit my lip lest S should hear my fear. Saying it out loud somehow made it real.

I returned to my quiet daughter.

'We're going to the hospital. Where you were born. We haven't been here for a while. Where the doctors will help you feel better. Look Scarlett, can you see the lights? Can you see the cars on the road? See if you can count then with me. One...two...three...four... What colour is that car? Is it red? Is it red, Scarlett? Like the flowers? Do you remember the flowers, Scarlett? Don't worry, it will be all right. Mummy and Daddy are here. Oh, look, Scarlett! Can you see the cows?'

"Yes" she whispered.

'Good girl' I managed as tears broke from my eyes, 'Good girl.'

It was a febrile convulsion, apparently. She has a virus. It had raised her temperature. The hot weather had just been too much. Her body simply 'reset' itself. No long term harm done. As many as one in thirty kids suffer from it. And in almost every case, it only happens once.

Even once feels too much to me.