Zoë Means Life – Sue Cansdale's story
There had been a wild storm the night before. As I drove to Morpeth, wind still buffeted the car. I had been hurting for almost three years. Every single waking moment of every single day. I hurt so much I did not know where to put myself. It felt like a life sentence. Only sleep brought respite. When I awoke it all began again.
I saw an ash tree that had its head snapped off. Splintered fingers of trunk pointed forlornly at the sky. Where heart-wood should have been, there was nothing. Only empty blackness. That's me! That's exactly how I feel. When I die, that's what they'll find. A black empty shell. How can anyone understand? I could not even understand myself.
Life had been good to me. I was born into a loving family. I married a wonderful man, Richard. He adored me. I had two children, a boy and then a girl, both healthy and strong, good-looking and intelligent. We weren't rich, but through hard work we were comfortable. We never had the usual teenage problems. We encouraged our children to be adventurous, to be themselves, to care for people. We were proud of them. We never pushed them to achieve great things. We wanted them to be happy. We loved each other's company. We arranged our lives so that we could do things together.
From the beginning Jamie and Zoë were great friends. She was born on his third birthday. All he wanted was ‘his baby'. He got the casting vote on her name. Zoë means Life. It was a good name. It suited her. When Jamie went to work in London they were on the phone every day, sharing secrets you never tell parents. Zoë was the organiser. Remembering birthdays. Arranging family holidays. Even in their twenties they came on holiday with us. Not because mum and dad paid, not at all, they were proud, they paid their own way.
Jamie was a Computer Architect with Sun Micro-Systems. Zoë was studying Graphic Design at Northumbria University . She enjoyed student life. She still lived at home with her ponies and her Dalmatian puppy, Jasmine. She said she had the best of all worlds.
When I found I had breast cancer Zoë took a year out to look after me between college and university. I didn't want her to, but she insisted: ‘When I was young you did so much for me, this is something I can do for you.' She cooked and cleaned and drove me to Newcastle for radiotherapy every day, a trip of more than fifty miles. My treatment went well. I can't pretend the radio and chemo were fun, but, with Zoë, it was a happy time.
She was a good kid. Beautiful on the outside as well as on the inside where it really mattered. I adored her. We enjoyed so many of the same things: ‘Grow your own friends' we'd laugh. She was my daughter and my dearest friend.
The day that changed our lives was a beautiful, warm late September day. Richard had a nephew training to be an Army Officer. He phoned to ask if he could come and visit. We said we would be pleased. He arrived on a motorbike. We didn't know he had one. A shining, red, powerful beast of a machine. He wore red leathers with white ‘go-faster' stripes. He'd taken a crash course and bought it, explaining the deal as: ‘Nothing to pay for six months and free insurance' adding ‘I could never have afforded it otherwise'.
There was one strict rule in our house. No motorbikes. They were too dangerous. You had no protection. Too many young people we knew had died. It made sense. Jamie and Zoë accepted it.
We looked at the bike. I saw longing in Zoë's eyes. She loved speed. She was noted for driving fast. It . was the only thing we ever argued about. Zoë was so like me. Behind the ‘butter wouldn't melt' we were both thrill-seekers.
As a family we'd bungee-jumped in Canada . We'd white water rafted the Thompson River in British Colombia with the river running high. We'd almost tipped out on a twelve foot wave; a wall of water. Now that was exciting. Dangerous too.
The day that Matthew came with his bike Newcastle was playing Manchester . The roads were empty; conditions perfect. . . ‘Well, just one little ride.' We were seduced. Zoë's face lit. A neighbour lent his helmet and jacket.
I had the first ride. Matthew was careful, only opening the throttle on the straight mile towards Scots Gap. Oh the sound! The feeling! The thrill of it! Matthew slowed and cornered. The C force was amazing. I felt 1 was crushing him over the handlebars. The ride was exciting and terrifying.
Then it was Zoë's turn. I felt the same old fear: ‘Stop being a neurotic parent! '. I watched her prepare. She had flawless skin, beautiful and totally unaware of it. The sunlight caught her hair. It was like spun gold. She tossed it free of the jacket and crammed it under the helmet. She swung lightly into the saddle. She was so precious. So special.
Her father recommended a safe route and kissed her lightly on the cheek: ‘Have a lovely ride darling.' ‘Take good care of my little girl,' I called, hoping the words would keep her safe.
It would only take them ten or fifteen minutes, then she would be back. She would have had her ride. I began to make mushroom soup, a family favourite. Half an hour stretched to an hour — They should be back by now.'
‘They maybe overshot or stopped to help someone...'
Friends we hadn't seen for years called. We invited them in. Richard was in turmoil.
We continued to smile —
‘How are your children?'
‘Where are they now?'
After two hours a police car came slowly through the village.
‘They're looking for us! There's been an accident!'
Richard rushed out to the roadside. Seconds later he was back.
Zoë's dead!'
I felt like I'd been hit by a hammer. It couldn't possibly be true! Matthew maybe — it was his bike. But not Zoë!
The policeman came in. The friends fled. The policeman was gentle. He told us what he thought had happened. Matthew had three broken ribs and was in shock at Wansbeck Hospital . He kept repeating the army number that'd been drilled into him. He said he'd missed the turn to Hartburn. Further down the road he'd stopped to see if Zoë was enjoying herself. She was having the ride of her life! He came round a corner at Pigdon . not travelling fast. A car was coming towards him. He thought he saw people in the road. He braked. The bike somersaulted and landed on Zoë. We think she died instantly. We pray she did. The air ambulance took her to Wansbeck. I listened in stunned silence. I felt numb. I could not take it in. This wasn't really happening. My most precious darling child! I could not shake the hideous nightmare.
Things like this only happened to other people. We read about them in the papers. Why had it taken so long to tell us? I looked out of the window. My dad was mowing grass. He was eighty-three years old. He had no idea. We'd have to tell him. We'd have to tell Jamie. We'd have to tell Zoë's boyfriend, Len — he was expecting her. I felt sick.
Then I remembered something Zoë had said when she quite a little girl: ‘If anything ever happens to me, I want the doctors to use all my spare parts to help people.' We'd agreed then that this would be kind. I turned to my husband:
Please phone the hospital and ask them to use everything they can.' He did.
They said it might be too late.'
I felt gutted. It was the only thing we could have done for her. The phone rang. It was the hospital again. They had managed to retrieve some tissues; her heart valves and corneas. The relief! What a waste it would have been to put that young, strong body in the ground. I could not have lived with myself.
We visited Matthew in the hospital.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry!'
He kept repeating it. That's all he could say.
“It wasn't your fault, you had nowhere to go...'
I cannot feel angry with Matthew. I do feel desperately sad. He did try to take care of Zoë. But there were no people in the road. Just a little girl out with her family, rescuing frogs from drains. They heard a motorbike coming and all stepped onto the verge. His way was clear. As he came round the corner Matthew saw them and misjudged the situation. Panicked. Braked too sharply, the bike somersaulting...
Zoë had had everything to live for.
We all made mistakes. Why did we let her on the bike? She would have listened to reason. For twenty-two years we had nurtured and protected her. How could we let her go? We thought we were responsible parents. She trusted us. But when it really mattered, we let her down. Guilt weighs heavy like a stone. I feel I killed her too.
I loved her more than life itself. I miss her every moment. It gets no easier. Tears still come unbidden in quiet moments. ‘Happy' is a feeling I remember well and know I will never truly feel again. I cope by keeping too busy to think. I cannot allow myself to speculate what might have been.
I've filled the house with photos of Zoë having fun. In every room are lovely things she made. A boar's head for her grandpa's Reiver Banquet. A Medusa head-dress with green sparkly snakes (a costume from her student Christmas Bail). Black-face sheep with papier-mâché horns; a hairy postcard — each item reminding me of special times we shared. It's not the length of life that matters. It's how good it was. And Zoë's life was good.
We gathered arm-fulls of fern and flowers from the wood beside our home. It was her special place. We dressed her grave — all of us to whom she was so precious. We made a bed of leaves and moss to lay her in, covering the harshness of bare earth. All fifty of her year group came to see her off. The church was packed. It was a celebration of her life. More like a wedding. A butterfly danced in a shaft of sunlight: ‘Come in cheerful clothes,' we'd said.
I wore my favourite coat, the long purple one that Zoë really liked. Richard and I spoke of her zest for life: her courage, sense of justice, loyalty, wicked sense of humour, and of her creativity and flouting of convention.
Zoë's coffin was the finest English oak. Her father, brother and boyfriend carried it on their shoulders from the church, helped by her cousins Peter and Marissa, and Joe, a long time family friend. I followed behind, holding Matthew's hand.
We played her favourite music. Bob Marley's ‘Two little Birds' . Everyone walked the half-mile to the graveyard in autumn sunshine. The road was filled with people. Her dogs were there. Jasmine the Dalmatian and the two Jack Russell terriers. They had to know where she had gone. She would have wanted that.
We buried her in a peaceful cemetery in Cambo . An old friend played Take 5 on his saxophone as people gathered round her grave. Her father read the Indian burial prayer:
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the mornings hush
I am the uplifting rush
of quiet wings in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there — I did not die.
That was Zoë's philosophy. it is mine too. It makes me feel close to her. It makes sense of things. At the end, Zoë's friends filed past, scattering petals taken from a big silver bowl.
That evening we returned alone to Zoë's grave. A mountain of flowers softened the reality. Bees were busy among the wreaths. There were many personal tributes. A huge perfect toadstool. A can of Guinness. They would have amused her. A red squirrel ran along the fence, undisturbed by our presence.
Later, when it grew dark, we lit candles and floated them down the burn in foil containers. Some swirled in an eddy. Others bobbed quickly on the current, disappearing over rapids with a plop. I was reminded of the way we live our lives.
The aftermath of Zoë's death was awful. Our heads would not function; superhuman effort was needed to do even the simplest tasks. We learned to accept life as it came. One little goal each day, a big achievement. We all wished to die. We promised each other not to take our own lives. I found solace walking with the dogs for hours, watching the puppy Zoë adored running for the sheer joy of being alive. In my mind I saw a young girl on a bicycle pedalling like mad, long golden hair streaming out behind, cheeks glowing, a Dalmatian running by her side. . . Zoë was always in a hurry.
Gradually, small achievements have become greater. The pain is no less. ‘You are so brave,' people tell me. I am not brave. I have no choice. I have to get on with it.
The bike shop and the insurance company still piss me off. ‘A year's free insurance and nothing to pay for six months'.
Matthew was well compensated, bike only three months old, full refund, no questions. For Zoë? Barely the cost of her modest funeral and headstone!
‘But it wasn't her fault!'
‘Doesn't matter'.
‘Bright young student on the threshold of her life'.
‘Over eighteen, non-wage earner, no dependants'.
Bastards! It's a scandal. The law needs changing. It's a conspiracy of silence. People just don't know!
Was her life really worth so little? I'd give everything I have to get her back. They've no idea how much she helped us. I don't believe they even care. She worked with Richard on the lathe, mowed grass and charmed the Bed and Breakfast guests. They wrote and told us. She kept my books and answered the phone. So many things she did in quiet ways. I did not know how much until she was no longer here. We don't want the money for ourselves. It would be for a little field in Hartburn; a wildlife sanctuary in Zoë's memory. We've planted trees: hazel to feed the squirrels, oak, snow blossom cherry, red-berried mountain ash and conker for the village kids. Plans made before she died.
Zoë's heart valves were used to save two little girls. A six-year-old in England and a baby in Germany . A cornea restored sight to a lad the same age as her brother. We were glad. We knew little about organ and tissue donation and the learning curves been steep. Almost everything can be recycled. Corneas restore sight. Heart valves save children's lives. Bone, skin and cartilage are good for reconstructive surgery. skin making the perfect natural dressing for burns patients (and of course increasing chances of survival).
Many recipients feel guilty. They think the donor had to die so they could live. The donors would have died anyway. They and their families make something good come out of tragedy. What a waste to bin all those invaluable spare parts!
Time passed. I thought a lot about the people Zoë helped. I wanted to tell them that she was special — that it had been her wish to help them. The transplant co-ordinators at The Freeman Hospital were helpful. I sent a card, care of the hospital in the Midlands , with my wishes for a long and happy life. It was returned.
A note informed me:
‘The family has gone through years of heartache and anxiety with a very sick child. They do not want to know about the donor. They are rebuilding their lives.'
It was signed by a Liaison Nurse. I pleaded for ‘the family to decide'. Reply? ‘I know what's best!' She blocked it! She was wrong! I was so angry! I wrote to my MP. I wrote to the Minister for Health. I wrote to the Director of the hospital involved. I was in luck! Her husband had a heart transplant years before. She understood. She phoned the family. They wanted to say ‘thank you'. They did want to know about Zoë. They too had questions.
They wrote to us telling us how sick and weak their child had been. Zoë's heart valve had transformed her life. I needed to hear that. The little girl's name was Lucy. She was a twin. She could not walk more than twenty yards, or play and swim like other children. Now Lucy can swim, dance, roller-skate and ride. They sent us photos. I cried when the letter came. I cried for them, for Zoë, and for me!
A lovely friendship has developed. Lucy drew a picture of her rabbit, saying ‘thank you' with a thousand kisses. She is a lovely little girl.
We'll always ache for Zoë. But her forethought helped us too. ‘Her children' are the silver lining on our darkest of clouds.
Cherry trees blossom in a garden at Northumbria University. Beneath one, you'll find a plaque:
‘We remember with love and affection our friend and fellow student Zoë Cansdale who loved life and lived it with honour, courage and zest'.
Zoë had a lovely life. In her twenty-two years she did more things than many people do in a lifetime. We still have so much to be thankful for. The sun shines. Birdsong greets the dawn. Each season brings new life to fields and woods. This gives me hope.
I'll never feel that soaring joy again. But I have loved and laughed and cried in ways that some will never know.
