Open Writing

Have you noticed how the first weeks of December are much shorter than the standard seven days? While my adult friends agree, the children say ‘No. The weeks get longer.’ Several times a day they fetch a stool and climbing up, check the calendar, their small fingers counting the sleeps until Christmas day. They are full of hope, riding high on the possibility that Santa will bring them the gift of their dreams.

I remember that feeling. The excited anticipation of things to come. I also remember the Christmas a brief affliction of measles heralded the most disappointing week of my young life.

The most wonderful events were about to happen: the end-of-year fancy dress parade and an afternoon of square dancing at school. I had been chosen to run in both the sprint and the relay at the inter-school athletics competition on Friday.

On Saturday morning I would join fellow members of the Girl’s Brigade on a hike to gain our tramping badges. It would be my tenth badge which meant I would also gain a special star. And Mother had made me a new dress for the Sunday school the prize giving on Sunday afternoon. This was certainly going to be the busiest and most important week of my life and I fairly buzzed with the excitement of it all.

I was overjoyed when mother bought me a new grown-up swimsuit. It was made of shiny blue fabric and fitted like a dream when I tried it on. I returned to my room after showing the fit of the swimsuit to mother and was putting my clothes back on when I saw the red spots on the tops of my legs. Like pale hundreds and thousands the rash covered my thighs. Measles! No. Not measles. Not now. Not this week.

I determined to say nothing. I had to get through to Sunday. This was Tuesday afternoon. I felt fine. I would carry on as usual. No one would know.

I ran home to lunch on Thursday and changed into the gypsy costume that was my fancy dress for the afternoon’s festivities at school. Halfway through lunch mother leaned across and undid the ribbons on my blouse.

‘I thought so,’ she said peering at my chest. ‘Measles.’

I pleaded and cried but it was no use. Mother was adamant. I was to stay home. ‘Could I not go on Sunday? I would be fine by then,’ I begged. ‘We’ll see,’ said mother. Mother always said ‘We’ll see’ which really meant, you didn’t have a hope.

The pain of my disappointment did not last long as preparations began for a family gathering on Christmas day. Mother kept me busy, helping her in the kitchen and together we decorated the house. I learned that each new day is one of discovery and that hope, like the season of spring, always returns.