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Dean's birthday wish

Nothing would make me break my last promise...


Published by: Gail Shortland
Published on: 28th April 2010

There were two sets of pleading, big eyes in front of me. One pair belonged to a King Charles spaniel puppy. The others were my 12-year-old son’s. ‘Please,’ Dean begged.
‘We’re only looking,’ I started. Then he fluttered his eyelashes.
‘Oh… we’ll take her,’ I sighed to the rescue worker.
‘You’re the best,’ Dean cried. ‘We’ll call her Ruby.’
Truth was, he usually got what he wanted. He had a Wii, a scooter, shirts from his beloved Liverpool football team… I took him ice-skating, bowling, and swimming. But he wasn’t a brat, he deserved everything he got.
When Dean was 10 months old, he’d had a fit, ended up in intensive care. I’d been a right mess.
The love I’d felt took my breath away. ‘If you pull through, you’ll never want for anything,’ I’d promised him.
He’d survived, and was diagnosed with epilepsy. And I’d kept my promise, dedicating my life to making him and his older sister Lucy happy.
Taking the puppy home, Dean was so excited. ‘You’ll have to look after her,’ I told him.
‘I will,’ he nodded, seriously.
Three weeks after getting Ruby, we went bowling. We had a great time, but Dean kept rubbing at his neck.
‘Something wrong, love?’ I asked, stroking his head.
‘My throat’s sore,’ he said. ‘I must be getting a cold.’
‘So you won’t want any KFC chicken?’ I teased. It was his favourite.
‘I can try,’ he grinned.
Later at home, I tucked him up on the sofa with a scary movie. When he was younger, he’d huddle behind me when Dr Who was on – now he loved gore.
He was growing up so fast. Still, I knew he kept his SpongeBob blanket tucked under his pillow! He loved cuddling up to it.
Dean reckoned he wanted to be a Liverpool footballer – either that or an ice-cream man! Well, in four months, when he turned 13, he’d be a step closer.
‘Night, Mum,’ Dean called, going up to bed at the end of a long day.
‘Love you,’ I said, sticking my head around the kitchen door, where I was washing up.
A few hours afterwards, I followed him up. But, later on, I was woken by Dean going to the loo then back to his bedroom.
Was… was that sobbing I could hear? I went to check on him. ‘Honey, is everything…’
I stopped. Dean was in bed, having a fit. I knew exactly what to do – his last fit had been a year ago, but they were a way of life for me. I knew how to react.
‘It’s okay,’ I soothed.
‘It’ll pass.’
Fetching a cold flannel, I pressed it to his forehead,     and his eyes locked with mine.
‘I’m here, sweetheart,’ I smiled. But he wouldn’t stop fitting.
I called an ambulance, and we were rushed to Alder Hey hospital in Liverpool.
His dad Geoff arrived soon after.
‘Dean’s been put on dialysis to support his struggling kidneys,’ I told him. Then, spotting the doctor coming our way, I smiled.
‘But as long as he rests, he’ll be fine in a day or two, right?’ I added.
Biting his lip, the doctor looked at me. ‘Your son’s brain is swelling,’ he started.
‘It’s putting pressure on his spinal cord.’
‘You mean… is he… could he… die?’ I stammered.
‘It’s possible,’ he nodded, sadly.
I was speechless. Dean had had fits before, but nothing this serious. Things couldn’t be that bad, not after the lovely day we’d had…
But, over the next few days,
my beautiful boy’s organs started to fail.
Dean’s dad and me never left his side, and kept playing his favourite song, Eye of the Tiger. His brain kept swelling, though. Only the machines were keeping him alive.
Numb, I sat with my dying son. I’d heard his first words, watched his first steps – I’d given him life.
‘We should put his ashes in a rocket,’ Geoff whispered. ‘He’d love that.’
But I couldn’t think that far ahead. Hadn’t I promised to give him everything? But what about now? I was helpless.
‘I love you so much,’ I sobbed, kissing Dean goodbye.
A final breath and he was gone. He’d not even made it to his 13th birthday, he’d had so much life ahead of him… No. If I thought about that, I’d go mad – keeping busy was the only way ahead.
‘I have to organise his funeral,’ I said, rushing home.
I whizzed around the house, tidying, washing – anything to stop myself thinking of Dean.
Then, a few days after his death, I was rushing around when I suddenly froze. In a daze, I’d stumbled into his room and was tidying up, oblivious.
Realisation hit – this was the last place he’d seen me, his eyes locking on mine. Had he known what was coming?
Suddenly, sobs shuddered through me. Dizzy, I leaned against his desk and something caught my eye. It was a list he’d written.
‘What on earth…?’ I croaked.
It was a birthday list. Shaking with tears, I read his innocent words. A BIG party, read the first line. A computer game, to go ice- skating, money… Bless him, he’d even written a guest list.
‘I’d have given you whatever you wanted,’ I sobbed.
He must’ve been so excited writing it, and now it would never happen. All I could do for him was plan the perfect funeral.
I dressed Dean in a Liverpool shirt with Deano 12 on the back and spiked his hair. He had his favourite SpongeBob blanket in his coffin as well.
But, sat in the crematorium, surrounded by 300 people, something else hit me. Why did this have to be it? Why couldn’t these people celebrate Dean’s life, instead of mourn his death?
One last time, I’d keep my promise, and give Dean what he wanted. I’d throw him his 13th birthday party, as he’d planned it.
Suddenly, I remembered what his dad had said about sending his ashes up in a rocket. It’d be the perfect way to end the party.
In February, three months after his funeral, I held Dean’s party and 220 people came.
We had readings, a DJ… I wanted people to talk about it for years. I wanted to remind everyone of Dean.
The finale was an eight-minute firework display. The sky lit up as Eye of the Tiger and Queen’s
Don’t Stop Me Now played.
‘It’s such a shame Dean isn’t here,’ I overheard someone say.
‘He is,’ I whispered. ‘In the laughter of his friends and the smiles of their memories.’
As the final rocket sent his ashes into the sky, his fun-filled life flashed before me. There wasn’t anything I’d denied him.
For almost 13 years, he lived a wonderful life. And I was honoured to have shared it with him.
• Shelia is donating her fee to epilepsy charity Idea League. Ten pence is also donated for every person who becomes a fan on www.facebook.com/DeanHenshall
Sheila Henshall, 45, St Helens, Merseyside