Now I wish I'd been a bit more vocal when they were deciding where Jessica was going to be buried. I haven't been to my Mum's grave for months... precisely because I haven't been to Jessica's grave for months... because the two graves are practically side by side. I don't expect anyone's been to Mum's. I certainly don't think Dad has. Probably all the cleaning I did last year has been undone completely.
Will I ever be able to visit the grave?
Why didn't I when the first anniversary of Jessica's death came around?
Showing posts with label daughter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daughter. Show all posts
Monday, 21 May 2007
Monday, 5 March 2007
Wear
I've noticed that one of the clothing trends for the summer is a top with a very high waist - just below the boobs - which makes it look as though you're pregnant. I'm wondering if this means I'm going to spend the summer surrounded by women who look as though they're in maternity wear.
I refused to do the whole maternity clothes thing with Jessica. Well, I say 'refused' but that only worked up to a point. Seven months down the line, I didn't have much choice. But I hated every minute of being in these clothes which I felt had somehow been 'imposed' on me. Actually, I seem to remember hating school uniform for exactly those reasons. I don't think I looked at myself in the mirror very much when my bump got really big. I didn't realise it at the time, but I suppose I just didn't want to see it. I remember there were times when Martin wanted to touch it, to rub his hands across it... and I never actually told him to stop doing it, but I suppose my looks and my silences made it clear that I didn't appreciate the attention. So he soon got the message and stopped doing it. And I remember that after I gave birth, I was just more determined than I'd ever been about anything to get back into my jeans. Nothing was going to stop me from yanking them right up to my waist. I think I did myself some damage the first time I tried them on, but I didn't care. Getting that button to go through the little eye in the fabric became a mission. It was the most important thing I'd ever done.
The other day, I went into a shop and tried on one of those new tops. I took off the blouse I was wearing and slipped on the one I'd taken into the changing room. It was covered in large, retro-60s black and yellow and olive green splashes. As expected, it hugged me just below the boobs and then billowed out, right down to around my hips. As expected, it made me look as though I was concealing a tummy.
And I just stood in this changing room looking at myself in the mirror. And I ran my hands down my reflection, feeling the touch of cold glass where once there'd been a bump. And tears started falling down my cheeks. I didn't even realise it at first. But before I knew what was going on, the reflection before me became blurry and indistinct until it almost washed away.
And when I'd got the tears out of myself, I took a deep breath, put my own blouse back on and walked straight out of the shop, without saying a word to anyone.
I refused to do the whole maternity clothes thing with Jessica. Well, I say 'refused' but that only worked up to a point. Seven months down the line, I didn't have much choice. But I hated every minute of being in these clothes which I felt had somehow been 'imposed' on me. Actually, I seem to remember hating school uniform for exactly those reasons. I don't think I looked at myself in the mirror very much when my bump got really big. I didn't realise it at the time, but I suppose I just didn't want to see it. I remember there were times when Martin wanted to touch it, to rub his hands across it... and I never actually told him to stop doing it, but I suppose my looks and my silences made it clear that I didn't appreciate the attention. So he soon got the message and stopped doing it. And I remember that after I gave birth, I was just more determined than I'd ever been about anything to get back into my jeans. Nothing was going to stop me from yanking them right up to my waist. I think I did myself some damage the first time I tried them on, but I didn't care. Getting that button to go through the little eye in the fabric became a mission. It was the most important thing I'd ever done.
The other day, I went into a shop and tried on one of those new tops. I took off the blouse I was wearing and slipped on the one I'd taken into the changing room. It was covered in large, retro-60s black and yellow and olive green splashes. As expected, it hugged me just below the boobs and then billowed out, right down to around my hips. As expected, it made me look as though I was concealing a tummy.
And I just stood in this changing room looking at myself in the mirror. And I ran my hands down my reflection, feeling the touch of cold glass where once there'd been a bump. And tears started falling down my cheeks. I didn't even realise it at first. But before I knew what was going on, the reflection before me became blurry and indistinct until it almost washed away.
And when I'd got the tears out of myself, I took a deep breath, put my own blouse back on and walked straight out of the shop, without saying a word to anyone.
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Birthday
I was driving today and suddenly my entire body was covered in a cold sweat as I realised I couldn't remember Jessica's exact birthday. I just couldn't recall if it was the 8th or the 9th of the month. I think I actually went into a state of paralysis for a split-second as the shock of the moment entered me.
Within another instant, I remembered exactly which day it was, but the fact that I'd forgotten it - even though it happened for less than a moment - shook me up completely.
After I parked the car, I sat in it for ages before getting out, just trying to gather my thoughts and calm myself down. I felt like phoning Martin to tell him what had happened and I started getting his name up in my Contacts list on my mobile, but I changed my mind. I don't know. Maybe I was too embarrassed to tell him I'd forgotten the birthday. Maybe I thought he wouldn't understand why my memory lapse had terrified me so much, albeit briefly.
Then I got out of the car and... got back to work. Everything just always seems to be about getting back to this or getting re-acquainted with that. Is it worth the bother?
Is this what things are going to be like now? Will I gradually start forgetting things to do with Jessica?
Am I making too much of a brief blip?
Within another instant, I remembered exactly which day it was, but the fact that I'd forgotten it - even though it happened for less than a moment - shook me up completely.
After I parked the car, I sat in it for ages before getting out, just trying to gather my thoughts and calm myself down. I felt like phoning Martin to tell him what had happened and I started getting his name up in my Contacts list on my mobile, but I changed my mind. I don't know. Maybe I was too embarrassed to tell him I'd forgotten the birthday. Maybe I thought he wouldn't understand why my memory lapse had terrified me so much, albeit briefly.
Then I got out of the car and... got back to work. Everything just always seems to be about getting back to this or getting re-acquainted with that. Is it worth the bother?
Is this what things are going to be like now? Will I gradually start forgetting things to do with Jessica?
Am I making too much of a brief blip?
Monday, 5 February 2007
Letters
Ages ago I read a book by a woman dying of cancer. I think her name may have been Ruth Picardie and I think she was a journalist. The point is that at the end of her book, she included copies of some letters she'd written to her children which she wanted to them to have as a keepsake after her death. The thing I remember most about the letters is that they included details about what the children were like at the time the letters were written, tiny little facts like, "Your favourite crisps are salt and vinegar," or, "You have two sugars in your tea."
If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?
"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.
"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.
"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.
"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.
"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."
Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?
"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.
"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.
"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.
"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."
If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?
"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.
"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.
"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.
"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.
"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."
Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?
"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.
"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.
"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.
"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
Sounds
I heard that wailing again last night.
It was exactly 2:48 am when the sound forced me out of my sleep. I felt my whole body go tense.
"Martin," I whispered, "Martin, can you hear it?" I reach across and rubbed his shoulder. He moaned slowly. I think I may have heard him say, "What?"
"I can hear it again," I said. "Listen."
He shuffled around slightly and pulled the blanket up over his head.
"Martin," I hissed, allowing my voice to become louder. "Wake up. You can hear it clearly now."
The wails were filling the air. I was sure I wasn't imagining it. I think I actually heard the sound of a car going past the house at the same time as I heard the baby's crying, which sort of proved to me that I wasn't making it up, because if I could hear one 'real' sound, then surely the other one must have been real as well.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I looked at the clock by my side again. Yes, I'd seen the time correctly: it was 2:49.
I cleared my throat. "Martin, you've got to get up." I pushed his shoulders again. "Martin, please!"
His voice emerged, thick and sleepy. "Oh, for God's sake, Pauline, what is it?"
"Listen!"
He turned to look at me, his eyes blinking. We remained silent for a while, looking at each other.
Suddenly, the sound was gone. Everything around us was silent.
"I just heard it a second ago," I said.
"Heard what?" he asked, lying back down again.
"You know what!" I pushed the blanket aside and walked up to the window, my feet cold on the carpet. "It was loud and it was clear. If you'd woken up ten seconds faster, you would've heard it too!"
He began pulling the blanket over himself again. "Pauline, please just let me get some sleep."
"But I heard it!"
"Yes, okay, you heard it. Now just get back to bed."
I walked over to his side of the bed and pulled the blanket off him. "No! I want you to stay up so you can hear it too!"
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds. Then, with a sudden release of tension, he bolted out of bed, grabbed a pillow and began walking towards the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and turned around. His voice was low and rigid. "No! YOU can stay up. YOU can spend another night listening for this fucking baby! I am going to get some sleep!" He slammed the door behind him.
I turned to the window, straining my ears.
No more sounds came. After about ten minutes, I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep.
It was exactly 2:48 am when the sound forced me out of my sleep. I felt my whole body go tense.
"Martin," I whispered, "Martin, can you hear it?" I reach across and rubbed his shoulder. He moaned slowly. I think I may have heard him say, "What?"
"I can hear it again," I said. "Listen."
He shuffled around slightly and pulled the blanket up over his head.
"Martin," I hissed, allowing my voice to become louder. "Wake up. You can hear it clearly now."
The wails were filling the air. I was sure I wasn't imagining it. I think I actually heard the sound of a car going past the house at the same time as I heard the baby's crying, which sort of proved to me that I wasn't making it up, because if I could hear one 'real' sound, then surely the other one must have been real as well.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I looked at the clock by my side again. Yes, I'd seen the time correctly: it was 2:49.
I cleared my throat. "Martin, you've got to get up." I pushed his shoulders again. "Martin, please!"
His voice emerged, thick and sleepy. "Oh, for God's sake, Pauline, what is it?"
"Listen!"
He turned to look at me, his eyes blinking. We remained silent for a while, looking at each other.
Suddenly, the sound was gone. Everything around us was silent.
"I just heard it a second ago," I said.
"Heard what?" he asked, lying back down again.
"You know what!" I pushed the blanket aside and walked up to the window, my feet cold on the carpet. "It was loud and it was clear. If you'd woken up ten seconds faster, you would've heard it too!"
He began pulling the blanket over himself again. "Pauline, please just let me get some sleep."
"But I heard it!"
"Yes, okay, you heard it. Now just get back to bed."
I walked over to his side of the bed and pulled the blanket off him. "No! I want you to stay up so you can hear it too!"
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds. Then, with a sudden release of tension, he bolted out of bed, grabbed a pillow and began walking towards the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and turned around. His voice was low and rigid. "No! YOU can stay up. YOU can spend another night listening for this fucking baby! I am going to get some sleep!" He slammed the door behind him.
I turned to the window, straining my ears.
No more sounds came. After about ten minutes, I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep.
Monday, 29 January 2007
Luck
I've been thinking about luck coming from unexpected quarters, ie blessings in disguise, the silver linings of clouds, all that sort of thing. Not in a general sense: specifically in relation to the death of a child. To put things very bluntly - and today I'm in a frame of mind which prevents my finding any reasons whatsoever for NOT putting EVERYTHING bluntly - I wonder if the manner of Jessica's death was 'lucky'.
Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?
I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]
The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?
When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.
I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.
Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?
I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]
The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?
When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.
I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)