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My miracle man!

Aaron left his biggest surprise for us until last...


Published by: Sally Windsor and Gail Shortland
Published on: 1st June 2010

The pile of clothes for the charity shop was getting bigger daily. My three-year-old son Aaron was growing so quickly.
‘This shirt doesn’t fit either,’ I gasped, straining to do it up.
Aaron was already wearing clothes for seven year olds.
Reaching for a dark blue jumper, I tugged it over his head.
‘He’s a good looking chap, though,’ smiled my husband Wayne.
That he was. People were always cooing into his pram, saying how gorgeous he looked.
But I worried about his looks. Aaron had a larger than average head, and long, thin arms and legs.
I’d convinced myself it was a growth spurt, the rest of him would catch up eventually – until doctors told us it was to do with the fits he’d been having since he was eight months old.
He’d had three fits, and each one seemed to affect his development. My poor boy
would forget how to sit up and crawl, then have to learn all over again. Eventually, he’d stopped learning at all…
Doctors knew he had epilepsy, but they didn’t know why it was affecting his development and growth.
Still, we did everything to make him happy – his five-year-old sister Rachel more than anyone.
‘Mummy, I’ve got some cars out for Aaron,’ she said.
She knew he loved watching Formula 1 racing on the TV, so she had got out a load of toy cars to push around the carpet.
‘Here, like this,’ she said, trying to put one in his hand. Struggling to grab the car, he sent it flying across the room in frustration. I held my breath anxiously, but Rachel was so patient.
‘We’ll play something else,’ she shrugged, fetching some building bricks. Watching them play just hammered home how different Aaron was to her at that age. She’d been walking and talking, yet he had the mental age of a nine month old. Why?
Finally, when he was four, our doctor had a proper diagnosis. ‘Aaron has a genetic growth disorder called Sotos syndrome,’ he said. ‘It prevents his brain from developing properly.’
Right, well whatever the problem, we could handle it now we knew what it was. There was only one question I had left.
‘Is it life-threatening?’ I asked.
‘The fits are dangerous,’ the doctor admitted. ‘But people with Sotos have a normal lifespan.’
Thank God!
Even though Aaron couldn’t walk or talk, he still had a personality.
One day, an Elvis song came on the radio, and Aaron’s face lit up with a huge grin.
‘Do you like that?’ I asked, turning it up. His smile widened.
‘You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog...’ I sang, as he giggled and shrieked. He didn’t have to be able to talk, I understood him completely, the way his eyes were filled with happiness and love.
‘I love you, too,’ I whispered.
The next few months weren’t easy, though. Aaron needed constant care, and continued having fits.
At night, he wanted to stay up playing, as if he didn’t want to miss a moment of life. We got a night nurse in so we could get some rest.
Every evening, I put him to bed, though – I wouldn’t miss that pleasure for the world.
‘Get some sleep,’ I’d tease, tickling his chubby cheeks.
But when he turned five, I couldn’t be there to wish him sweet dreams. I had to go into hospital to have an ovarian cyst removed.
‘Make sure Aaron has his favourite toy dolphin,’ I told Wayne. ‘And don’t forget to brush his teeth.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ he laughed.
I didn’t give the operation much thought – until the doctor came to see me afterwards. During the op, they’d discovered some damage to my fallopian tubes.
‘I’m afraid it’s unlikely you’ll have more children,’ he gently said.
I fought back tears. Although I’d never thought about having more, having the decision taken away from me was heartbreaking.
Aaron and Rachel would never have a little brother or sister to play cars or sing along to Elvis with.
But surely I should count myself lucky, I had two precious children already… And over the next two years, they kept me busy. As Aaron’s seventh birthday approached, I thought about how we’d celebrate.
‘We’re going to have a cake and balloons,’ I told him during bath time one night. He splashed happily.
That night, I was looking after him because our nurse was ill. We played with his cars and stacking cups as he giggled away. By 1.30am though, he was finally flagging – I certainly was.
‘Time for bed,’ I yawned, tucking him in. ‘Only a few more sleeps until your birthday. Love you.’
As his eyelids closed, I tiptoed out. Exhausted, I climbed into bed next to Wayne.
At 7am, Rachel raced into our bedroom.
‘Let’s wake Aaron up,’ she called.
We walked into his room – and froze.
Aaron was laying face down on his mattress, he’d had a fit in his sleep.
‘No!’ Rachel screamed, and Wayne ran to call
an ambulance.
I went on to autopilot, laying him on his back, trying to resuscitate him as we’d practised so many times.
One, two, three… breathe. I blew air into his lungs. Again, one, two, three… breathe.
Wayne raced back into the room. ‘Is he breathing?’ he cried.
‘He’s c-cold,’ I stammered.
Together, we tried breathing life back into our little boy.
‘Don’t leave us,’ I begged. Too late. We both knew it was too late.
‘I should have stayed awake with him,’ I sobbed.
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ he cried.
So why did I feel so guilty? I cradled my son’s head on my lap, and stroked his hair from his face.
‘Mummy’s going to miss you,’ I whispered. How was I going to tell Rachel? We sat her down, tried to explain.
‘Aaron’s gone to heaven,’ I croaked. ‘He was very tired.’
‘But I’ll miss him,’ she gasped.
‘We all will,’ I wept.
Over the next few days, I was lost. Even his funeral didn’t help. I snuggled his cuddly dolphin beside him in the coffin, and cried as his favourite song, It’s Now or Never by Elvis, played out.
But how was I supposed to move on? Poor Rachel was struggling, too, she was so quiet without her brother.
Then to make matters worse, I got a stomach bug and couldn’t stop being sick.
The doctor ran some tests, and called me in to see him.
‘It’s not a stomach bug,’ he told me.
‘Another cyst? I don’t think I can cope if…’ I started, tears welling.
He interrupted. ‘You’re pregnant.’
‘But… I was told I couldn’t have more children. Are you sure?’
He nodded.
Rushing home to Wayne, I told him the unbelievable news.
‘It’s a miracle,’ I wept. ‘It has to be a present from Aaron.’
Suddenly, I cupped my stomach protectively. ‘What if the baby has Sotos?’ I gasped.
At my 20-week scan, though, we were given the all-clear.
Our daughter Scarlett was born in March last year – almost exactly a year after Aaron’s death.
We brought her home from hospital on the first anniversary of his funeral. It was almost as if he’d planned it so the day wouldn’t be a sad one.
And she’s the spit of Aaron. When she screws up her little fists in a temper, I just smile. It might annoy other parents when their kids have a tantrum, but it reminds me so much of her big brother.
We talk about Aaron all the time – we’ll never forget him. And now he’s sent us Scarlett, it proves how special he really was.
Jackie Hemingsley, 35, Tywyn, Gwynedd