My dear Samuel, you would be turning 18 today...

My dear Samuel, you would be turning 18 today. A day I often envisaged - when our youngest child would become an adult - a milestone for us as parents too.

I go between seeing you as forever 11 with your cheeky grin, floppy hair, big dreams, and love of Lego and Star Wars, and picturing you aged 18, wondering what kind of grown-up birthday party you might be organising.

I wanted to write to tell you how things are now and what has happened since, except I feel I don’t need to, because I feel your presence all around me and I talk to you every day. I can feel you beside me when things are tough, and I imagine you passing me Teddy or giving me one of your big hugs that seemed to put the world to rights again.

Your big brother and sister are flourishing young adults. I can see bits of you in them - your life and loss have shaped them. Abigail was inspired by her experiences with you and your fabulous medical team and is now nearly qualified as a doctor. She is hoping to work with children. Antoine is busy, adventurous and runs fast like the wind. I can picture you cheering him on in his races or running alongside him.

I hear about your friends who have just graduated from school and are moving on to the next phase of their lives, having just completed their Leaving Certificate. It makes me wonder where you might be headed now. Would you have gone into technology or something creative? What type of teenager would you have been? I’m fairly confident you would have continued to be sociable and might have tested a few boundaries along the way.

Before you died, you mentioned it would be good to do something for the Blood Bikes who collected your blood weekly during treatment. We tried to honour that wish, and donations led to a new Blood Bike called “Samuel”, which zooms around Dublin collecting and delivering blood samples. I often see it on the road, and it’s like getting a little glimpse of you still out there doing good in the world.

You have inspired so many good things, like “Samuel’s Space” for sixth class in your school and the beautiful inscription to you on the park bench installed by your athletics club. I wonder what you would make of all this, and I think you would love the Lego benches with Star Wars symbols and a big “S” in “Samuel’s Space”.

These things bring comfort, and we feel the support of a community where you were deeply loved. But nothing can ease the pain of your physical absence. There is no word in English for a bereaved parent - a loss so profound it has no name. Your dad and I connect with other parents through Anam Cara, where we meet people who understand without needing an explanation.

I miss your smile, your unique scent, your hugs, your sense of humour, your kindness and thoughtfulness, your big ideas and your creativity every day. I come into the house and can almost see you lying on the floor doing your homework or carefully placing Lego figures as you prepare to film. Then I look again, and you’re not there. At first, these memories brought only pain and regret for what might have been. But slowly, I can feel light coming through the cracks. I’m building a new relationship with you - one where remembering you and the good times can make me smile and laugh again.

You being in such a rush to grow up and do so many things makes more sense now, not that I think any of us had a premonition of what was to come. In your 11 brief years, you were a chief executive along with your best friend Sebastian, fell in love, played in a band, created so many wonderful things, made lifelong friends, made so many people laugh and touched hearts wherever you went.

Over the last few years, I slowly realised that I wanted to live again, to honour you and find some meaning in your life and death.

Your love of people has opened new connections and strengthened existing ones for us. We still hear stories of funny things you did at school, how you looked out for people who felt left out, and some of the mischief you got up to that you thought we would never hear about. I laughed when one of your teachers told us how you put pictures of Star Wars stormtroopers on your family tree homework assignment. This was just like you, finding funny and creative ways around rules.

I still talk about you a lot and find it hard to get to know anyone new without first telling them about you. I won’t pretend it has been easy, and there are still lots of bumps on the road and moments of darkness. I know that, despite all the tears we have and will continue to shed, you would want us to have some fun, laughter, mischief, joy, meaning and hope. On your 18th birthday, we will have a cake in your honour, maybe play some of your animation videos, and get together with people who knew and loved you.

I will always love you, Samuel.

Your mum, Louise

Samuel Roquette, youngest son of Louise and Benjamin and little brother to Abigail and Antoine, was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia shortly before his fifth birthday. He underwent more than three years of chemotherapy at Our Lady’s Children’s Hospital, Crumlin, after which he was able to resume the life of a typical, active, eight-year-old.

Samuel loved athletics and football. He was also a huge Star Wars fan and enjoyed making Lego stop-motion animation videos - spending hours creating them, and even setting up a little company with his friends.

In December 2019, Samuel suddenly and unexpectedly relapsed. He was diagnosed with leukaemia for a second time on December 10th, 2019, and died three days later on December 13th.

Samuel was just 11 years old.

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