Long Awaited Parties

Over Christmas 2011, pure joy permeated every nook and cranny of the Morgan household. Just as sunshine brings warmth to a chilled room, a sense of wellbeing radiated warmth to every corner.

"It's so wonderful to be singing carols, eating turkey, enjoying Christmas." Liz's glowing cheeks radiated warmth.

Yes," I said, "it's like waking from a bad dream to have our little lad restored."

"And, of course, Sean is happy in his tree house with Rachel," James added with a wink.
Sean gave the thumbs up. Rachel encircled her arm in his.

"Well," I said, "if Bruce Lee here hadn't tackled those guys we could have lost the box and Wesley. Our family is indebted to him."

Sean saluted nonchalantly. Becky mouthed a thank you.

Kirmingsham Hall was the ideal location for a party for the birthdays Wesley had missed during his illness. Over several months, the family had been meeting in huddles making plans.

Twenty-two spacious acres of lawns spread around the property like a huge green carpet. Three lakes met the grass, dark waters lapping against the gravel paths. Two rowing boats were moored adjacent to a wooden jetty stretched over the clear water. At the far side of the largest lake rose woodlands where birds called from their nests.

"We've erected the marquee and toilets blocks," Tony, our gardener and handyman said, "and heaters just in case. By the way, John, Liz, everyone is thrilled Wesley is well."

Liz said sombrely, "I don't know how any family can prepare to lose a child." Then brightening she added, "Just look at him opening presents. His eyes are popping out of his head!"

On Friday January 4th, on his seventh birthday, Wesley opened more and more presents, using both hands to rip the paper and parcel tape. A hill of wrapping paper grew in the lounge. Riding on a two-wheeled metallic blue bike with nine gears, he left the house tinkling the bell, a blue gift tag with "from Sean and Rachel" attached to the handlebars.
I noticed Wesley showing his bike to a small group of boys wearing Goostry Community School jumpers. Recognising two teachers from Wesley's junior school, I went over to make them feel welcome. They seemed at ease with the nurses from GOSH and were freely mixing with guests.

Shaking the hand of one special attendee, Mr Clive Thomas MRCP, I said, "I'm so glad you made it."

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything," the consultant from paediatric oncology said as he shook my hand warmly. "We had to juggle a few things around in my schedule, but I just had to come!" He appeared a remarkably humble man, given his knowledge in the field of childhood illnesses and his international reputation.

One story I knew he would never use as a case history was Wesley John Morgan: a healing that confounded the medical world. I hoped that we could keep the true story closed to all but a trusted few.

I saw James chatting in a corner to friends. Some were from his course in programming and network administration at Stockport College of Technology. James had been spasmodic in the pursuit of his studies but I knew he had abilities in IT, remarkable abilities. Others I guessed were people he had met online, cyber buffs like he was, either on social networks or playing online games like World of Warcraft.

I watched Liz move in and out of the house and marquees, radiating warmth, shaking hands, hugging and kissing friends. Liz and Rachel were central to the chatter, almost as if they were mother and daughter.

I stood with Becky, watching the five-foot-eight attractive Save the Children worker, and Becky said, "I feel like she's an older sister. I'm so glad Sean saved her."

"Yes," I said, "she fits in well and she seems ideal for Sean."

I thought, 'She must have seen a darker side to Sean while they were in Somalia,' although she never mentioned it. Maybe she was so used to dealing with death that seeing Sean in action had not fazed her.

I noticed that as Liz, Becky and Rachel busily carried food on trays around to the guests, they spent a lot of time with a slender young girl from amongst James fellow students. She looked eastern European, with brown eyes, a slim nose and an olive complexion. However, drawing closer, I heard her speak in a North American accent with a Texan twang.

Her long legs in stonewashed ripped jeans were straddled either side of her chair, which she sat on backwards, like a cowboy. On her red tee-shirt a slogan read, "Computers suck but I don't". A dark-brown leather jacket emblazoned with a red and gold World of Warcraft logo hung loosely. Her hair, braided to her waist and jet black like Liz's and Becky's, almost reached the floor. A zebra-striped woollen hat with earmuffs sat on her knee. On her feet she wore red lace-up Doc Martens . A uniquely dressed person, who seemed unafraid to be herself, which I admired. She looked to be in her early 20s.

Taking Becky aside, I sat her down. "Who is she?"

I didn't ask James, knowing I would only get a grunt. Obtaining personal information from James was as rare as hen's teeth.

"Her name's Alyana," Becky said. "She was born in Albania but adopted at six months by a couple from Austin, Texas, and she's on the second year of James' course at college. Her friends call her Aly. I think James likes her."

Not sure that I had heard correctly, I said, "Huh?"

"James is cool, Dad, honest," Becky said. She continued, "You guys just don't relate to the same stuff. His friends are awesome people once you get to chat to them. She's a smart cookie...so don't blow it!" Becky prodded me, "James really, really likes her."

I remained seated as Becky walked away. Scratching my head, I struggled to imagine James in a relationship. 'He's not shy,' I thought, 'he just doesn't seem interested in people, only cyber-people. Most of his time's spent in his room. I've no idea what he gets up to, in his hermit-like existence.' My eyes were being opened.

Some years before I had popped my head around his bedroom door and seen a bewildering array of computers and peripherals. Two desktop PCs with monitors on the work surface, two midi-tower systems on the floor, and cables stretching to a large black server standing in a corner. On his two pine desks there were hubs and modems, cables galore, peripherals, and two laptops. All the machines were whirring, glowing, flashing, and bleeping.

I asked James what he was doing and received a strange look. I didn't inquire again about what he did. Deciding at 23 that he should go to college was one small step for man, a giant leap for James, I thought.

But had I misjudged him? My thoughts were interrupted.

Out of the corner of my eye, my muscles tightened when I saw that Becky's ex turn up. Jason was Wesley's biological father so I determined to be civil. He had landed a good job, apparently, with a pharmaceutical company in Germany. He must have been doing well as he had parked a new red Porsche Carrera on our drive and was wearing designer clothes. Crossing the lawns, I gave him a quick acknowledgement and walked into the marquee, a nasty taste in my mouth which almost made me spit. He was as welcome as a skunk.

Nodding towards him, Sean asked if I wanted him to take Jason on a boat ride on our lake. He could sleep with the fishes, he said. I laughed, tempted because Jason worried me. He was always talking on his mobile phone and looking shifty and suspicious.

Wesley tugged my arm, breathing a sigh, "Come on, Granddad, come and see my presents. They're in my bedroom. Now pl...ease. Come on."

Whistling to Bourne, I lifted Wesley into the air with more difficulty than I expected, placed him on my shoulders and headed to the house.

"Careful," James called, holding hands with the girl with braided hair.

I wasn't sure if he meant Wesley or me. My burden had certainly put on weight.

Liz, Rachel and Becky were busy in the kitchen dishing out red and green jellies and creamy trifles into small dishes. The girls had been preparing the refreshments for days. A catering firm had delivered plates of various meat and vegetarian sandwiches, sausage rolls, salads, pickled onion and cheese on cocktail sticks, crisps, pork pies, pizza slices, tacos, chilli, and a variety of dips. Appetising smells filled my nostrils as we climbed the stairs, Wesley feeling heavier by the minute.

"Don't forget that we cut the cake in about ten minutes, Dad," Becky said, her cheeks glowing as she spooned more delicacies into the dishes.

I was intoxicated to be sitting on Wesley's bed, seeing him look so vibrant. How would we have felt if instead of a birthday party, we'd had a funeral? I could not imagine that sorrow and shuddered at the thought. Losing a child would be one of the most heart-rending experiences a family could endure. I had read somewhere that when you lost a child, you always remembered them as children; they never grew up in your mind. I preferred to see them live and mature.

Taking up books, clothes, games, robotic figures, model cars, and a host of electronic gadgets, he showed them to me one by one. Holding an iPad, Wesley said, "This can be loads of books, games, a camera, and a phone. It's amazing." He pressed some buttons on the iPad that Liz and I had given him and it bleeped and started spelling a word.

I noticed the baby posters were gone from his bedroom wall, replaced by Liverpool FC and some school mementoes. One of the new posters, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, was stuck to the wall with tape.

Becky, understandably, would not let Wesley watch the 18+ millennium trilogies when we watched the Swedish versions on DVD, but James argued it was allowable to stick a picture of Lisbeth on Wesley's wall. It was difficult to disagree. I looked at my hand, noticing that one feature of his wall had remained from his nursery days: a mural of a tree, flowing outwards with spreading branches, assorted flowers and green drooping leaves in the wind, animals sheltering under its shadow.

I thought aloud, "That could be the Tree in Eden."

me, Wesley said, "That's what Mummy calls it, Granddad, the Eden Tree, and she says it has watched over me since I was a baby."

The drawing had been stencilled on the nursery wall by a friend of Becky's before Wesley was born. How could a link be possible? I looked at the mural and the tattoo on my hand and felt cold chills.

Gazing at Wesley with such pride, my heart bursting, I remembered how much he had been through and how incredibly brave he had been. I had never heard him complain. His sandy hair, lost through chemo, had returned like red fuzz. His weight had improved 80 percent of normal.

Sometimes we were tempted to treat him with kid gloves, given all that he had endured. It would not have been right, though, to wrap him in cotton wool, for him to miss out on life. He had been given his life back. It was his life to live, not ours. He was a miracle child.