Stories

Stories >> Stories home >> Never coming home

Never coming home

Cruel fate meant the fun I had with my two big sisters was all too brief


Published by: Jai Breitnaur & Jo Cusack
Published on: 24th February 2011

The three of us moved like a well-oiled machine as we sat on Kelly’s bed at Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in West Derby, Liverpool. She applied the last of my lippie, while Stacey held up a mirror.
Every time my sisters, who suffered from cystic fibrosis, went into hospital for their six-month check-ups, they’d offer makeovers to the nurses for 20p a go. Currently, they were giving me a freebie – in other words, I was their guinea pig! ‘What do you think?’ Stacey smiled, as I admired myself in the mirror.
‘Beautiful,’ I lied. I might only have been 10, but even I could see I looked like a clown!
Kelly, 14, and Stacey, 12, loved glamming people up. It was just a shame they weren’t very good!
‘Remember that time we painted your nails?’ Kelly giggled, wiping off my lipstick.
‘When we spilled the red polish all over Mum and Dad’s new white bathroom suite?’ I snorted. I’d been five then, I think that was the first makeover they’d tried on me.
Our parents Susan, 47, and Tommy, 51, had gone beserk when they’d seen the mess.
‘Talking of mess,’ Stacey said. ‘How’s our room looking?’
Kelly had always had her own room, while me and Stacey shared. We were as thick as thieves, but there was one thing she couldn’t stand… me being untidy.
A few years ago, she’d used tape to mark out a line down the centre of the room that my mess wasn’t allowed to cross.
Just then, a nurse wandered over. ‘Another customer!’ Kelly grinned, but she shook her head.
‘It’s time for physiotherapy, girls,’ she said.
‘Can I help?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ grinned Stacey, handing me a bag of 20p pieces. ‘Run down to the tuck shop and get
me a Dairy Milk!’
Orders under my belt, I made my way to the shop.
For as long as I could remember, my big sisters had half an hour of physio twice a day to help clear the mucus on their chests.
That’s what cystic fibrosis does, you see, it causes mucus to build up in their airways. They could have terrible coughing fits, and they were always
at risk of getting chest infections.
Because their immune system was so poor, it could be serious. A common cold could kill, and I was used to being sent to my nan’s at the first sign of a runny nose.
By the time I got back to the ward, Mum was there to take me home. ‘See you two on Saturday,’ I grinned. They were due home at the weekend. ‘I’ve worked out a new dance routine to Take That, and I can’t wait to show you.’
But on Saturday, only Stacey came home. ‘Kelly’s got to stay in a bit longer,’ Mum smiled. ‘She needs some different medication.’
That wasn’t unusual, and me and Stacey just got on with life – arguing over clothes, whether 911 were better than the Backstreet Boys…
So, a few days later, when Mum and Dad picked us up from our Auntie Denise, 47, I was excited. ‘Are we going to get Kelly?’ I said.
‘We’re going home first,’ Mum said. Her voice sounded different. Strained. Sitting round our living room with a cup of tea, Mum held our hands while Dad explained that Kelly had caught an infection.
‘The doctors did everything they could,’ he told us. ‘But this afternoon, Kelly died.’
She was 14.
‘No!’ Stacey screamed, breaking into heaving sobs, while Mum tried calming her down.
Dad reached out for me, but I didn’t cry, I was in shock.
The next few days were weird, I kept expecting Mum to say she was going to pick up Kelly. But at her funeral, it really hit home. Sobbing friends, teachers and family lined the pews, and I realised I’d never see my big sis again.
But I had so many happy memories. Like when Kelly would play Take That’s Could it be Magic at full volume. Me and Stacey hated it, so we’d turn up Blazin’ Squad to drown it out. One day, Mum was so cross, she’d confiscated our tape players and put on her Marvin Gaye album instead.
After Kelly’s death, me and Stacey were inseparable. We even went to Florida together in the October with a charity supporting cystic fibrosis sufferers, where I learned to do Stacey’s physio.
As soon as I was 18, we started going out together, down the Labour Club mostly. One evening, she warned me she wasn’t feeling too great.
‘If I have a coughing fit,’ she said, ‘just ignore me and carry on
– I don’t want a fuss.’
I agreed. Later, she couldn’t stop herself from hacking in the pub, when suddenly a woman ran up and hit me on the head with her handbag. ‘What was that for?!’ I cried.
‘This poor girl can barely breathe, and you’re ignoring her,’ she fumed.Poor Stacey – she was laughing so much, it made her cough worse!
When I was about 20, we decided to start fundraising for Destination Florida – the charity that had taken us on holiday as kids. We organised a pub crawl and packed bags at the local supermarket.
‘It’s so good to know we’re doing something positive for others,’ Stacey wheezed when we handed over a cheque for £800.
She was 22 now, and I hadn’t really noticed how far downhill her health had gone. But, months later, she went into hospital. ‘Not doing any makeovers?’ I smiled when I visited one Saturday.
‘You can do me,’ she smiled weakly. As I straightened her hair and did her make-up, we laughed about a night out I’d been on with the girls, gossiped about a bloke who’d asked me on a date. It seemed like old times.
‘See you next week,’ I winked, kissing her on the forehead as I left. The following evening before bed, I text her to say goodnight.
It must have been about 2am the following morning when Mum came in and woke me up. ‘I’m sorry love,’ she whispered tearfully, stroking my hair. ‘But Stacey slipped away an hour or so ago.’
I nodded sadly, tears in my eyes. ‘I guess I knew…’ I croaked. I’d been fooling myself she’d come home again.
After her funeral, the house seemed lonely without her. I’d gone from three to just myself.
Me and Mum looked through pictures of us all.
‘Stacey was so determined to raise money,’ I smiled, looking at a snap of her in fancy dress.
‘She wanted to do something good before she died,’ Mum sighed.
Suddenly, I had an idea. ‘She still can, and Kelly, too,’ I grinned. ‘We can carry on fundraising, do
it in their name.’
‘Great idea!’ So, over the next year, we ran loads of events, raising more than £3,000. That’s enough to send a child and nurse on holiday with Destination Florida.
I’ve got the rest of my life to make sure Kelly and Stacey didn’t die in vain – and to give terminally ill children the chance to have fun, just like I did with my sisters. I miss them so much.
• For more information, email destinationflori@aol.com
Toni Bond, 23, Liverpool, Merseyside