Damian 10 years on... (Part Two)

Damian was born in South Africa shortly before the release of his favourite film Star Wars, in 1977. Immediately, he went into heart failure and required maximum medical intervention to keep him alive. He was unable to feed, initially required a feeding tube and numerous other invasive devices. He was kept at the hospital, and only allowed home after several months. His mother had to cope on her own in a very difficult climate. Characteristically, she broke cultural taboos by taking Damian on a ‘blacks-only’ bus one day, since she had no use of a car. Although somewhat apprehensive, her disdain for the system of segregation was rewarded with friendliness and good humour, with Damian being passed around by the swooning ladies on the bus, saying “Little Master!” and all desperate to hold him!

He was a remarkably pretty baby: Born a month premature, he was small for his age but quickly developed a huge grin which would often have his mother stopped in the street by admiring passers-by. His hair was rich blonde as a young boy, his bright face matched by a remarkable intelligence and creativity. He would love to draw and write stories; pastimes which he enjoyed to the last. His illness never limited him a great deal in the early years; the pressures in his heart favourable, his cheeks were flush and his lips pink. Regrettably he suffered a great deal in other ways; an unsupportive step-father meant he struggled to feel secure until his family moved at the age of six to England. Here he enjoyed the company of his great grandparents in Nottingham, where he lived all his life. Also, many second cousins from both sides of the family. In particular, he loved holidays with his great uncle in Harrogate, where he would play Star Wars with his cousins.

Similarly he had very supportive cousins further south in Oxford, who would take him on holiday and provide great love and friendship. Quite early on he would joke that Oxford University was his intended destination in life! This cousin, Candace, now has her own family; but looks back with fondness on the times she looked after Damian. After he died, Candace wrote him the following letter:

Dearest Damian,

At 6 years old – your age when I first met you – you told me you knew me from my voice, before you ever saw my face. Age 20, you prepared me for your death, softening my path to grief with your humour:

“Look at it this way, Can” you said, “I passed my sell-by date years ago!”

And yet I never expected you to go. Your sense of humour, your positive grip, your great lovingness and above all, your braveness – were all so life-affirming, it did not seem possible.

My mind turns to all the stages and eras we went through from Star War figures and cardboard spaceships onwards. To our many diverse conversations on everything from film directing to psychology to St. Mark’s gospel. I miss borrowing books from your bookshelf.

As tears come to my eyes because I no longer see your face, I suddenly hear your voice:

“Cheer up, Can. I am not gone. Smile about all those little memories of me growing up. The tantrums in the toy aisles of Woolworths. Piggy backs across Oxford to the Sheldonian Theatre. Dancing to Michael Jackson in your garden at Mill Street . Promising to drive you across America in a pink mini. Making your computer keyboard sticky when I typed my stories. My long hair phase. And so on. All good practise for bringing up your two boys... Give them empathy – especially when they’re in the middle of a tantrum or growing their hair. They’ll turn out all right. Look at me, I did.”

You certainly did, Damian. More than all right. I am so proud to have known you and had the privilege of looking after you. Thank you for the riches you gave me. You are a positive example to us all on how to live life to the fullest that we are able. And you are right. You are not gone. The light in our hearts - which is you - will never go out, you most precious, most special Damian.

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