My Moonlight Notes

Again it was the panic attack that suddenly woke me up. Sitting up straight in the bed, cold sweat, heart beat. Husband's sleeping like a baby beside me, arms hugging his pillow, head moving slowly, deeper into the pillow.

Seconds later, as usual, I would calm myself down, remind myself that it's all over, there's nothing to be afraid or sad about, and would sleep again.

This night, the light shone straight into my window. Memories came flooding back into my eyes, along with those longing and painful tears, of white papers slowly floating into the room.

Oh, I will always remember that very first time she cried. Her cries were not a shriveling or high-pitched shriek, but the quiet, sobbing, and muffled voice. Only a mother could've picked up that cries. Walking into her room, she was huddling beneath her comforter, eyes red and swollen. That night, was a bright night. Moon light bouncing off her beautiful silky hair, the brownish glow dim in the darkness, her eyes still glittering and sparkling despite the tears, her mouth covered partially beneath the folding of her arms.

"I dreamt that a dog was chasing it but it fell into a river..." she sobbed as I pulled her into my embrace. Stroking her hair gently, cooing her, she continued, "I tried to save the dog, but it drowned..."

It's ok sweetheart.. It's ok...

Tucking her back into her bed, I sang her favourite tune. Somehow, that night, as my memory serves me correctly, she never stirred. Her eyes were wide, not looking at me, but staring out of the windows wide opened. Shadows of the branches and leaves of my backyard tree danced under the white layer of snow that covered portions of her bedroom.

"Mummy," her voice, so sweet, still lingers in my ear till this very day. "Why is the night so bright?"

Crying now as I recalled the answer I said, "It's God's way of reminding little darlings that mummies are His way of lighting up even the darkest nights."

She slept, so did I, and the next morning I woke up before the house was up, only to find a white piece of paper on the floor, under my bedroom door. The scrawny handwriting, the spelling mistakes, and the crumpled piece of paper that still remains hidden in one of the drawers of a locked room,

"Thank you Mummy! I love you. Love, Baby"

My heart melted. It still melts to even think about it. My darling. My 6 year old darling. So thoughtful, so loving, so endearing. How one note from her, from that beautiful bright night, could even put the brightest sunlight into darkness, and cast shadows in the sunniest days. Holding that piece of paper in my hands, I went into her room, bent down and kissed her on her forehead. She stirred, woke up, and smiled.

"Morning Mummy."

All that is left now, are those memories of carrying her down the stairs, into the kitchen to make her favourite cereals of honey and oat. Ocassionally, I'd sit on the piano and her sweet laughters would fill the music room when I close my eyes and hold my breath. Perhaps, on those very fortunate days, when I stroll in the park and watch a frisbee pass by, I'd see images of my little baby running behind our golden retriever, hair and ribbon tied floating in the air in rhythm with her pink skirt, chasing both dog and toy.

I never blamed the teacher for taking her to the National NuclearMedicine Lab back 18 years ago. It wasn't the teacher's fault. Alright, maybe the teacher should have been more watchful. Maybe she shouldn't have ever allowed her to leave her sight. But it happened. It just happened. Her friends said that she wandered into a room with thick doors and a opaque glass.

The door just shut behind her. We could hear her screaming from inside.
We called the teacher. The teacher yelled for help.
The tour guide ran to a room beside.
When the door opened, she was lying unconscious on the floor.
There was a huge green machine. Bright green.
People wearing huge white masks and jackets.
They didn't let us go in. They took her away. To a hospital. Somewhere.

It was 2 days before we finally saw her. Saw her. They didn't allow anyone to come in contact with her. How I wailed and kicked and fought with the hospital guards as I tried to break free, smash the doors and snatch my baby back from them. How I broke down eventually into the arms of my husband, only to see my baby, lying motionless behind the windows.

And how my life changed that day onwards. How the chair outside her room became my bed. The staff toilet became my bathroom. Sometimes I even borrowed a jacket or blanket to keep myself warm when the thermostat was down.

3 months. From the day she finally opened her eyes, jumped out of bed and skipped around the room as I clapped from outside. On many ocassions she'd even press her face to the window as I'd press mine on the other side, sometimes too she'd cry wanting to come outside, and how I struggled to make her smile while deep inside I was breaking and crying too.

And finally, how her beautiful and silky brown hair finally thinned, fell and dropped. That beautiful brown head became white and smooth. Her eyelids blackened, her skin wrinkled, her body shrunk. Watching my very own baby slowly decaying from the effects of plutonium, that sense of helplessness and hopelessness, that painful experience of watching her slowly fade away.

The day came. My pastor, I and my husband, clad in thick white jackets with a mask over our head, walked dreadfully into the room. My baby was beyond recognition. Bundled under a maze of tubes of different colours, her eyes were closed, her breaths laboured in pain and difficulty, her body shrivelled and small.

And as all mother's ask, "How could this happen to my baby?" And I ran out from the room. My husband never did stopped me, though I now wished that he did back then. I cried so hard that my eyes hurt and tears were now dry. I swore I cried my heart out when my husband came out with the pastor, and the group of doctors slowly wheeled the small bed out with a zipped black bag over it.

Yet, amidst those tears, something caught my eyes. On the floor, still, quietly sitting there, under the doors of her room for the last 3 months. A small, white, folded piece of paper. And that stopped the tears immediately.

Standing up with whatever energy left, staggering and bending down, picking up the white paper with trembling hands. The tears flowed again, this time, quietly and peacefully, as the paper unfolded.

"Mummy." A stick lady, holding the stick hand of a smaller stick girl. At the corner of the paper, written, "Baby."

Alone and quiet now. The same tree, the same branches and leaves dancing under the same layer of snow. The same stillness as that night, when my baby asked me why the night is so bright. Oh baby, if only you would write me just one more note. One more, and I'd give up anything, absolutely anything for that note. A note that would melt my heart all over again. A note that would simply make my day. A note that would remind me, that you were God's way of lighting up my darkest nights.