Precious little life goes up in smoke

Photo / Herald on Sunday

I saw him killing her.

The poison he breathed out slowly filled her body. It's hard not to blame him. I know it's not easy to stop once you have started. I know that first-hand. But it's easy to think that if he tried harder he could have stopped, if not for me then for her.

I prayed he did, hoped and wished with every fibre of my being he could find the strength when he saw our miracle. But he didn't. And now she's gone and no amount of wishing will bring her back.

I blame myself too, of course. How could I have thought smoking would only affect him? I know now that most of the smoke from a cigarette stays in the air and pollutes the lungs of innocent others. Grey tendrils sneaking into my lungs while she was in my belly. Smoke entering my tiny child.

If she just slipped away in the night, called back to where she came from without warning as some children are, maybe it would have been easier. Then at least I could take comfort in the fact that her business had finished on Earth, and she was at peace now with the higher power that had chosen to end her life.

But if it weren't for his smoking she would still be with me now.

I still remember the night she was taken. We were lying in bed, in each other's arms, listening to her cry through the baby monitor.

I wanted to go to her and find out what was wrong, but he said I should wait for her to get to sleep. Eventually the cries faded and the steady sound of her breathing filled the monitor.

Exhausted but happy, we drifted off to sleep too, hoping that we would get at least a few hours before she woke us.

When I woke up it was light. He was still sleeping. My first thought was relief - I had had a long refreshing sleep. Then I realised with a jolt that the monitor was silent.

I turned it up. The crackling was eerie. I rushed into her room, grabbing the phone. Please not her, please not her ... was a steady chant in my head. I reached the cot and gently nudged her. Maybe she's just sleeping ...

As I felt her tiny face the coldness of her skin froze my blood. The next few moments were a blur. Him, woken by my scream, rushing down the hallway, his words spoken, rushed into the phone.

"We just woke up and and our baby's not breathing ... she's just 5 months old ..."

I held my lifeless baby, singing to her through a blur of tears. Bad things don't happen to us? We aren't those people you see on TV, who have terrible things happen. We were just ordinary.

We used to be so happy, so young and filled with life. We were a passionate couple, too - our baby girl had strengthened our relationship. I kissed him and we made love and, even though his breath stank of smoke, I thought it made him seem exotic and rebellious. The smoke was just another part of him.

Now we lie in bed, barely touching. It feels like he is a million miles away from me, on the other side of the world. Most of the time I wish he is. Now when we kiss the taste of smoke in his mouth isn't exotic anymore. Instead it feels like I am kissing the lips of death.

* By Hannah Swedlund, Year 10,
Western Springs College