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I remember so vividly the day, almost 40 years ago, when I went into my nine-year-old daughter Rosanne's bedroom and found her sobbing her heart out. I put my arms round her but did not say a word. I knew why she was crying because my own heart was breaking too. It was just six weeks since her beloved sister, Sharleen, had died.

My husband Roy and I had been living in Singapore, where he was working, with our two daughters. His work took him to many countries. We had already spent three years in Istanbul, where Sharleen had been born, and then went back to my native Scotland, where Rosanne was born.


I was happy. I had a perfect family and my wanderlust, whetted by two years in Egypt during wartime service, was satisfied by Roy's job. We were all enjoying our stay in Singapore until that day when Sharleen took ill. A local doctor prescribed some medicine that, instead of curing her, killed her. It was the drug chloramphenicol and Sharleen's blood was allergic to it. When the doctors realised, she was immediately flown home to Great Ormond Street Hospital in London but she died within a few days.

I too wanted to die. I remember walking off the pavement in front of an oncoming car hoping that would be the end. The car pulled up inches from me with a loud screech of brakes. I do not recall feeling sorry for the driver - only disappointment at my failure - but I have lived with my guilt ever since.

It was not until I saw Rosanne's tears that I realised what I was doing. I was so deeply entrenched in my own grief that, instead of sharing my sympathy and understanding with Rosanne and Roy, I was wallowing in my own distress. Rosanne and Roy needed my love more than ever before, just as I needed theirs.


Until Sharleen's illness I had been writing the daily storyline for a children's strip about a little Scottish seal called Sandy. I turned my attention back to this. It was difficult to write amusing words when I was still weeping but I persevered. It was hard, too, to let Rosanne out of my sight. When she asked to go on a Brownie pack holiday Roy convinced me that we must encourage her to get on with her own life. Today, Rosanne is a trained counsellor with three lovely daughters.

Roy and I found happiness again, bound even closer by our common tragedy. We settled in Scarborough, where Roy died. I have been wheelchair-bound with multiple sclerosis for years and, when I could no longer cope without my husband's loving care, I moved into an Anchor Trust residential home. Here I am content amid friendship and peace. I look back on life's sad and happy memories with gratitude for having known so much love.

Nora Knox has multiple sclerosis and lives in a residential home.