A medical drama.
A battle for survival
A story of courage no mother will be able to put down
Andrew had a dream - even when cancer struck
It was Andrews courage and determination that inspired me to write this book
(Count to Ten, published on 1 December 2011 by Night Publishing in e-book and paperback, is the re-written, revised and updated edition of Fly With A Miracle by Sheila Belshaw, published by Denor Press in 2000)
e-book and paperback links:
http://www.amazon.com/Count-To-Ten-ebook/dp/B006GQXR4I
Extract from Prologue of Count to Ten:
Suddenly the laughter stops.
There is an eerie hush. I dare not breathe. What will they do to me?
Why don’t they get it over with? What are they waiting for? I can’t bear
it any more.
I feel something touch me. Someone is forcing my head up and
someone else is putting . . . someone is putting something down
across my knees. Something heavy. Something warm. Something
clammy, droopy, wet –
Something absolutely still.
I will not look.
Whatever it is I do not want to see it.
Again I hear the voices. Whispers first, growing to soft murmurs. I
sense them all around me but I keep my eyes tightly closed.
The voices move away. I force my eyes to open. The moon beams
straight in through the window and my eyes are dragged to the heavy
warm clammy thing lying limp and unrecognizable across my knees.
I gather it into my arms. This mutilated body. And crush it to my
chest. And rock it to and fro as my tears drip on to the once perfect
flesh to mingle with the bright red blood. I hold it. This mutilated body.
I stroke it and try to coax the life back into it, willing it to be whole
again, willing it to breathe, willing it to move, willing it to live and
breathe and move and laugh and cry –
But nothing happens, and all I hear is a loud buzzing in my ears.
I close my eyes and press my own wet cheek against that poor
blood spattered cheek.
Then suddenly, over and above the buzzing, I hear my own voice
and I am shouting:
There is an eerie hush. I dare not breathe. What will they do to me?
Why don’t they get it over with? What are they waiting for? I can’t bear
it any more.
I feel something touch me. Someone is forcing my head up and
someone else is putting . . . someone is putting something down
across my knees. Something heavy. Something warm. Something
clammy, droopy, wet –
Something absolutely still.
I will not look.
Whatever it is I do not want to see it.
Again I hear the voices. Whispers first, growing to soft murmurs. I
sense them all around me but I keep my eyes tightly closed.
The voices move away. I force my eyes to open. The moon beams
straight in through the window and my eyes are dragged to the heavy
warm clammy thing lying limp and unrecognizable across my knees.
I gather it into my arms. This mutilated body. And crush it to my
chest. And rock it to and fro as my tears drip on to the once perfect
flesh to mingle with the bright red blood. I hold it. This mutilated body.
I stroke it and try to coax the life back into it, willing it to be whole
again, willing it to breathe, willing it to move, willing it to live and
breathe and move and laugh and cry –
But nothing happens, and all I hear is a loud buzzing in my ears.
I close my eyes and press my own wet cheek against that poor
blood spattered cheek.
Then suddenly, over and above the buzzing, I hear my own voice
and I am shouting:
Live! Live! Live!
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