In the early hours of the morning I woke up, and being the young, dependent five-year-old I was, I called for Mum.

"I need to go to the toilet," was all I could mumble.

"Come on then," my mother would patiently reply. We walked into the bathroom and Mum said "I'll just go and check on Dominic." My three-month old baby brother.

* * * * *

While I was busy attending nature's call, I heard something terrifying, something I hope I never hear again or anyone else for that matter. My mother screamed "MICHAEL!" It was a scream that contained it all, horror, fright and not having the knowledge of what to do. As I reflect on this situation, I realise now I would've immediately jumped up and run to my mother, but then, well, it was different. Then, I waited for someone to come and say, "Are you finished yet?" Then, I waited for somebody to come to my assistance. Then, all I wanted was to be cared for. It was selfish really.

I heard my father's footsteps running into Dominic's room. Why did my mother scream? Mothers are controlled, they don't scream or cry or anything like that. My philosophy was just about to change.

I walked calmly into my room, opposite Dominic's. My mother was sitting on the end of my bed sobbing uncontrollably. I walked into Dominic's room and saw my father had Dominic on the change table, but when I went to look at him, my father pushed me away, obviously not wanting me to see. I felt really angry at him then, thinking "How dare you push me away, why can't I see my own brother?" But now I thank him for not letting me see. At this, I went back to bed and started to cry. "I want Dominic, I want Dominic." I heard my mother hang up the phone after giving our address. From here I remember seeing all of the ambulance crew rush into Dominic's room.

"What are these people doing here? Go away, this is my house. JUST GO AWAY!"

I started to cry again. Not knowing what was happening. To me everything that morning was either wrong or had gone wrong or was going to go wrong.

Then an ambulance officer came in and comforted Mum and myself. Dad was still in Dominic's room with the crew of paramedics. Then the ambulance officer came over to me and picked me up, walking over to the painting hanging on the wall by yours truly. "Did you do this?" I gave the practically mute reply of "Yes" but was astonished to hear her say, "I don't think you did, I think an artist did it" and she tickled me. It was then that I laughed for the first time that morning. It released all of the pent up tension and emotion. She talked to me about my pre-school and things I enjoyed doing.

"You're a clever girl writing your own name. How old are you?" I went in to Mum again and she asked me if I could get her a drink of water. When I returned she was asking Dad, "Does he have a pulse?"

"What's a pulse?" I asked inquisitively.

"Can a heart beat be found," Mum explained.

All I could envisage was a little red Valentine-type heart. I thought to myself, "I'll make him one at pre-school." Preschool.

"Who's going to take me to pre-school?" I asked.

"Someone will darling," was the extremely vague reply.

* * * * *

From here, all I remember is members of my family coming over and giving me breakfast and dressing me.

Mum asked me if I still wanted to go to pre-school or not. Mrs Harge, my favourite teacher would be there, she prompted. It was clear she wanted me to go to pre-school so I happily agreed. I didn't realise the significance of what had just happened. Then, I felt as if nothing had happened, but now, it feels terrible, like someone has taken part of me away.

I remember singing songs to Dominic and painting pictures for him. What killed our dear little Dominic is known as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. It kills one in five hundred babies every year. This event helped to bring my whole family together, we realised how much love and support we really had and still have. People will read mine and other similar stories and their comments will be "Oh poor thing, but it'll never happen to me."

Well .......... It happened to me.

Kate Mason (age 11)

He was a child in an adult's body. A youthful spirit that never aged, was never spoiled. I always wondered how he never let his handicaps bring him down. He never stopped smiling.

My grandfather was a definite part of my life when I was younger. He was much more than just another relative who gives you 10 dollars on your birthday, and then is never seen again until next year. He was much more than that. He called me "My frabjous boy", from the Lewis Carroll poem "The Jabberwocky". He told me the name was perfect for me. It seemed whenever I wanted to find him I never had to look further than that old, dusty rocking chair, where I would find him always, surrounded by piles of books. Grandpa was always reading. he kept all his books in a big library in the back of his house. I remember going down into that library and just marvelling at all the thousands of different books. There were shelves and shelves of books of every shape and size, it was incredible. And Grandpa knew where every single book he had was. As soon as you walked into the room all you saw, smelt were books. It was all books. Each book was kept in pristine condition, Grandpa really did love his books. He taught us to love them too.

There were a few chairs in that room where one could read, but for Grandpa, there was only one chair. It was a brown, musty-smelling chair in the sunroom. Granny wanted to get rid of it, but Grandpa would never let it go. This is the chair that he sat in all day and all night, reading his books. Not book, but books. You see, unlike myself, who could (and still can) only keep my attention on one book at a time and sometimes even have trouble remembering the storyline between reading sessions, Grandpa read at least four books at a time. The books could be totally unrelated; he could be reading a war saga, together with a Shakespeare comedy, as well as an examination of the J.F.K assassination and a biography of Salvador Dali. Grandpa was amazing. He never grew tired of reading. Reading was like a substitute for hearing.

Grandpa was deaf. He lost his hearing at the age of thirty. But he never seemed to get frustrated or angry when visitors came and he couldn't understand what they were saying. He just got Granny to tell him. Grandpa could understand everything Granny said - he could lip read her so fast, it was almost like a normal conversation. I was continually amazed by how Grandpa could seem to pick out slight variation in people's emotions and even volume of their voices by his lip reading. Grandpa would know when anyone was shouting and would keep his voice down when we were all whispering. Also he would occasionally burst out into song for no apparent reason. He remembered songs from his younger years, and even though he had not heard a single note for more than 50 years, he could keep a tune incredibly well. One of his favourites was "The Virgin Sturgeon", and although I thought the song was pretty silly, Grandpa's version could keep me entertained for the whole night. He sang the song in a high falsetto voice and made many crazy movements while singing. I was his biggest fan, I could never get enough. Even though Granny told me not to encourage him, I always wanted another song, and there was always a new song that I hadn't heard before. I loved those songs. Sometimes it really was hard to believe that Grandpa was deaf at all.

He knew so much. All the knowledge of the world was contained in his books. Whenever I wanted to know anything, he knew just the book for it. I really thought he knew everything back then. It seemed he had a book for everything. One time, he sneaked me a dirty jokes book and told me not to tell Mum or Granny. We just sat up that night reading the jokes and laughing. I really didn't understand most of them back then, but I had a good time just listening to Grandpa and watching him laugh. I would laugh as well. Grandpa certainly knew how to laugh. His laugh could be described as a cross between a donkey's bray and a kookaburra's cackle. It was infectious to all within a radius of 100 metres. He really did get the whole family going, especially at dinner times. The whole family caught the disease of laughter and were not cured until dessert time. He could also get us all going by pulling one of his faces. Grandpa had a tremendous talent for pulling faces. The faces he pulled were crazy. A particular favourite of his was what he called his "Harpo Marx". For this face, he screwed up his eyes, blew up his mouth like a balloon, and stuck his tongue out. The effect was really mind-blowing.

Perhaps my fondest memory of my grandfather was one particular day when he called me into his library. I was 10 at the time. "My frabjous boy", he said, "I want to give you something which my father bought for me and which has given me pleasure for many years. I hope it will give you pleasure as well." I remember those words so clearly, that was exactly what he said. Grandpa went over to a brown cupboard, and took out a big cardboard box. From this he removed a set of large, green books. "These books were my favourite, and I hope they become yours." The books were called "Arthur Mee's Encyclopaedia for Children", and they were just beautiful. The smell of those old books is so distinctive to me now, a sort of musty yet sweet odour. To me it has always been the smell of knowledge. Grandpa had written on Volume 1 of the set "To my frabjous boy, with love, Grandpa." That night I began to read the encyclopaedia, from the first Volume. It did not take me too long to read the whole set cover to cover. Before long they became my favourite books.

Less than a year after that we immigrated to Australia. We left Granny and Grandpa behind. We missed them terribly. I couldn't wait to see them again. Then at around the time of my 13th birthday they came to see us. Grandpa hadn't changed a bit. He never changed. He still had his faces and his songs and his laugh, and his reading chair was just replaced by one of our lounge chairs which he promptly claimed. And of course he had his books, well some of them at least. But their stay was all too short, and before long they were gone. That was the last time I saw Grandpa.

Just 10 months ago, Grandpa got really sick. Mum flew over to be with him. One day the phone rang, and I picked it up. It was Mum. She told me that Grandpa had died. The main thought that went through my mind was, why did it have to be me that answered the phone that time? That night, while the rest of my family cried themselves to sleep, I read. I read that set of encyclopaedias again. I hadn't touched them since that first time I read them when I was 10. As I read I remembered Grandpa, as I still do sometimes today. I read those books and remember what Grandpa taught me. He taught me that no matter what the world takes away from you, no matter what hardship or handicap you have to face, you will always have your mind. Your mind is forever. All the rest is just a shell. This has been said before a million times, by many people, but I have experienced it first hand, by a man who lived his life according to the saying. A man who will remain a hero to me forever. I think that my Grandfather was the cleverest person in the world.

Ilan Israelstam (age 17)

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This page updated: 23 January 2006 Webmaker: Howard Smith. hsmith4@une.edu.au