I will go to the prom!
The thought of the prom kept her alive.
Tuesday 2nd September 2008
Who knows what I was expecting? But as I was led to the hospital bed, nothing could ever have prepared me for this. My little girl lay there, a patch of her long blonde hair shaved off, and a tube sticking out of her head.
'The next 48 hours are critical,' the specialist explained. 'Cheylonne's being kept alive by a ventilator.'
I swallowed hard as the walls around me started to spin.
'No,' I gasped, my legs giving way.
And as I sat next to her bedside, praying she'd pull through, I couldn't stop thinking about how different she'd looked just three hours earlier, as she'd twirled around the kitchen in an imaginary prom dress.
'I want something pretty with a fitted bodice and a full skirt,' she'd announced. 'None of my classmates have seen me in a skirt before.'
'That's because you don't like wearing them,' I'd said, rolling my
eyes as I loaded the dishwasher.
Cheylonne, then 15, was a tomboy at heart, but lately, she couldn't stop going on about this bloomin' prom dress she wanted.
'The prom's not for another year!' I'd laughed.
In my day, there was no such thing as school proms, but I was happy to see Cheylonne so excited about her first one. So, as she and her friend, TJ Hawkes, then 14, had disappeared out the front door on the way to the post office, I'd smiled to myself, imagining my tomboy daughter dressed up as a princess.
But just half-an-hour later, TJ had burst back in, shouting that Cheylonne had been hit by a car. We'd raced out the front to see her lying in the road. A policeman had held me back, then helped me into an emergency response car. Now, here we were at Frenchay Hospital in Bristol, seeing Cheylonne for the first time since she'd come out of theatre. She'd fractured her head in three places and surgeons had operated to remove the swelling.
'We've removed the fluid on her brain,' the doctor explained grimly. 'Now we hope she pulls through'.
So me, my mum, Roberta Buckle, then 62, one of my other daughters, Aimee, 22, and Cheylonne's dad, Bernard Williams, 50, sat by her bedside, doing just that. Thankfully, she made it, and after three days, she was taken to Bristol Children's Hospital. Trouble was, as the days passed, there was no improvement.
'You've got to be strong,' I whispered, as I played her favourite McFly songs.
'Please wake up.'
But two weeks after the accident, Cheylonne was still unconscious, and being kept alive by a ventilator. That's when the doctor sat us down to talk about the unthinkable.
'It's unlikely Cheylonne will wake up,' he explained. 'If she does, she could be brain-damaged. Do you want to switch off the machine?'
Of course I didn't! Just hearing the words made me cry so hard, I thought I'd never stop.
'I can't,' I sobbed. 'Can we give her two more days?'
'Of course,' the doctor nodded.
Who knows why I asked for two days? I was just clutching desperately at any hope of her surviving. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare and, before I knew it, two days had passed, and we were once again faced with the inevitable.
'Can we just see if she can breathe on her own one more time?' I begged the doctor. 'Please.'
'We can try,' he agreed.
So Bernard, Mum and I watched as the doctor switched off the ventilator. I held my breath and stared at my little girl's face. Please breathe. Please. Every bone in my body was willing her chest to rise. Then suddenly… A gasp! Cheylonne had taken a tiny breath by herself.
'She did it!' I cried, overjoyed.
But she wasn't out of the woods yet. She was still unconscious and doctors had no idea if she'd been left brain-damaged. Bernard and I took it in turns to stay by her bedside, talking to her about what we'd watched on telly, or her friends, her sisters, Aimee, Rebecca, 24, and Abigail, 10, and brother, Billy, 22. Friends and family came to visit as often as they could. One day, her Aunty Viv was sitting with me.
'Your mum told me about the dress Cheylonne wanted for her prom,' she told me. 'I'll make it for her.'
'Thank you,' I gulped.
But I knew Cheylonne might never go home, let alone to her prom. Three agonising weeks later, in April 2007, she opened her eyes at last. It was a miracle.
'Hello love,' I said tearfully.
She blinked, but the tube in her throat meant she couldn't speak. When the tube was removed, in June 2007, it wasn't long before her slurred words turned to the prom. And now, instead of being terrified she wouldn't make it, the prom gave us something to look forward to.
'I'm still going,' she murmured.
'Do you still want that dress you described?' my mum asked.
'Yes,' Cheylonne said excitedly. 'I want it to be pink, with a floaty skirt.'
'Your Aunty Viv's going to make it,' I smiled. 'For when you're better.'
In the days and weeks that followed, between physio appointments and speech therapist lessons, the prom dress was all Cheylonne talked about. And when she came home in a wheelchair a month on, knowing Viv had made a start on her dream dress gave her the incentive she needed to get well again. By January 2008, she was walking again, and her speech was less slurred, so she went back to school. Four months after that, the big day arrived. As I helped her into the pink silky prom dress, I blinked back the tears. And when she did an excited twirl, I was completely overcome.
'You look beautiful,' I gulped.
With her blonde hair curled and her lips covered in pink gloss, she looked so grown up .
'I love it,' she smiled.
As she showed her dress to Mum, my stepdad Peter, 63, Rebecca, Aimee, Billy, and Abigail, no one could hold back the tears. And when she climbed into the pink limo we'd ordered, I didn't know who was more excited, me or her. She arrived home in a taxi at 11.15pm.
'It was brilliant,' she grinned. 'And everyone loved my dress.'
'Did you dance with any boys?' I asked.
'No,' she said, cheeks going red.
Later, as I kissed her goodnight and caught a glimpse of the dress hanging up on the back of her door, I couldn't stop smiling. The prom's a special day for all young girls, but for my Cheylonne, it really had meant so much. In fact, it was a real lifesaver.