Except that I know it can kill. I know of a little girl whose mum grieves for her because of Chicken Pox. I have read of the pain that she lives with every day. And it really doesn’t matter how you lost your child – it hurts.
The spots are almost finished now and in a couple of days she’ll no longer be contagious and it will all be over. It pretty much is for her now. She’s had a few days to skive off school, watch daytime telly, read trashy teenage mags, and moan that it won’t be her fault if she doesn’t perform as well in exams as she could have done. It’s been a minor inconvenience for her. And that’s as it should be I guess.I know the theory. I know the stats. I know it’s unlikely to happen. But then if someone had given me the odds on whether I’d lose one of my three children when he crossed the road, I would have dismissed that as highly unlikely too.
He is gone. And everything takes on a new meaning. Stats (once my refuge – my degree was in Psychology – a statistician’s dream) have become meaningless. What I would once have considered a blip became so hard to manage.
And now I look at her and am relieved she’s OK . And I think of Susan and Catherine - who weren’t. And I wish ...