grieving anew

Yesterday I saw my counsellor. And again, something major came out of it.

For the past few days I have been yearning for a baby. I have no intention of getting pregnant – I’m 48 in less than a fortnight and spent the final four months of my last pregnancy (15 years ago) in a wheelchair– nuff said! However, the yearning to hold my own baby has been immense. It made no sense to me at all. I wondered if it was triggered by a comment from the man I recently dated a couple of times. “Would it be such a bad thing?” was asked in response to a news item about older mothers. I responded with, “Well for me it would be a bloody disaster.” And I meant every word.

However, things change don’t they. It would still be a disaster. But life is never simple. And despite the fact that I have absolutely no intention of having another child, this yearning to hold my own flesh and blood in my arms has been incredibly intense.

My last blog entry was written late at night after dinner in a gastro pub with my mother and daughters. It was to celebrate my eldest’s 23^rd birthday. I’d had to leave the table at one point to vomit. Some food had got stuck in my oesophagus. It happens occasionally since I had some surgery to relieve a hiatus hernia a couple of years ago and I’m supposed to have the oesophagus stretched where the scar tissue is situated to ease things a bit. I don’t feel ill when it happens - just very uncomfortable and nauseous but as soon as the problem is rectified, I’m fine again. It happens like that sometimes and I’m used to it. No big deal. I can’t complain as everyone keeps telling me that I look amazing now but I’m now reaching the point of considering actually needing that surgery.

By the time I got back to the table, I was, as usual, just fine. I remember thinking that I should stop wimping out and putting off that minor corrective surgery and then this wouldn’t keep happening. Anyway, I pushed my food around my plate and waited to see if my body had recovered sufficiently to continue eating but after ten minutes, with stone cold food, I gave up.

It wasn’t until yesterday with my counsellor that it hit me that I had dashed to the loo that night soon after my youngest had dropped a bombshell. The evening was going well when she suddenly piped up that Al’s girlfriend had been pregnant with his child but had terminated it about three or four years ago. I sat – stunned and in shock – as she casually moved on to another topic. After what felt like an eternity I asked, “Did her parents know?”

She looked at me with such disdain. “Mum like someone would tell their parents something like that. It’s private - they’d go mad.”

I slipped partly into work mode. “Well lots of girls say that at first but in my experience, (and you know that’s a LOT of experience) parents might get upset initially, but most rally round and support - they’re usually pretty good about it. And I’d be devastated to think that either of you two couldn’t come to me for that kind of support because I’d want you to know that I’d support you whatever you decided.”

She nodded and said, “Well that’s you mum but not everyone else is like that.”

“Did Al know?”

She pondered for a second or two, then shrugged her shoulders, “I dunno.”

I was consumed – with both horror and anger. For her it was some kind of casual debate. But I had just been informed that my son could have lived on. There should have been a child – my grandchild. My mother, having removed her hearing aids earlier on the evening, was pretty much oblivious to what had just taken place. My eldest was sitting silently - studiously examining her plate and avoiding eye contact with anyone.

I snapped, “So you know for sure that Al’s girlfriend had my grandchild murdered and you just thought you’d drop it into the conversation?” She looked horrified as it sank in and stammered, "Sorry."

It wasn’t her fault. She’s 15 and, like any other 15-year-old, can be insensitive. And my choice of language horrified me. After just assuring my girls that I would support any decision they made in relation to an unplanned pregnancy, I’d then been completely judgemental about a decision that another (then) 15 year old had made. I very much doubted either of them would turn to me in such a crisis now. My head was whirling. My distress was around the fact that my son is dead and although he can never be replaced, one of my regrets has been that he had no children to live on after him and now I had just learned that it could have been so different.

But the irony is that I genuinely would support my girls regardless of whatever decision they arrived at. You can’t do my job and not know that each situation is unique to that individual and needs to be treated as such. It would have been a perfectly sensible and understandable decision. I had no right to judge. And if Al had not died, I would probably never have known about it. But it now takes on such enormous significance.

Anyway, at that point, my body took over and I had to dash for the loo. By the time I returned, I had pushed it to the very darkest recess of my mind. It was not the time for such a conversation - I couldn’t cope with my mother dramatising it and demanding support for her trauma at the news. So it wasn’t mentioned again. They ordered and ate desserts, my eldest was presented with gifts and cards, and I drove everyone home.

And, until yesterday, I forgot about it! How did I manage that? I sat talking through this odd and quite unexpected yearning for a child and wondering if it was related to my rapidly approaching birthday – body clock ticking etc – and suddenly it hit me like a sledgehammer. And there I was, in pieces, sobbing uncontrollably for the child that existed for such a short space of time.

I have no right to ask the girl about it. I have no idea whether she made that decision in a cold and dispassionate manner, whether she ever regretted it, or whether Al even knew. And if he did, was it a decision he supported? Did her parents know? If so, did they support her? Did she go through it alone? Did she feel she had a choice? Is that why she was so distressed when he died? Is that why she went to such great lengths to arrange a tree planting in his memory in our local park?

However, underpinning it all is that my grandchild isn’t here. And I am grieving – again – but this time for a child who was there – yet wasn’t. My flesh and blood. My son’s child. My grandchild.

As is usual after counselling, I met my friend for lunch –this time at the local carvery. Ordinarily, I'd have confided in her but my youngest joined us. We chatted about all kinds of things and I put on a good show – I don’t do public displays of emotion and knew that I was on a knife-edge so kept schtum.

After we got home, I sat quietly focussing on a game of Tetris on my laptop. I played it over and over again, fighting back the tears because I had so many questions and wanted to be calm so as to avoid unnerving her when I asked them. I was fighting a losing battle and I knew it.

Eventually, after reminding me for the umpteenth time that we really needed to deliver the giant cupcake that she had produced for my eldest’s birthday (the actual day was yesterday), she asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t deny it - my eyes were red-rimmed so, through my tears, we did a lot of clarifying.

She knew very little. She can’t remember exactly when she was told or who told her. It could have been the girl or one of her friends. “So many people told me so many things after Al died Mum – there was such a lot to take in.”

The bottom line is that I am left with so many unanswerable questions. They are unanswerable because they should never be asked. I have no right to dredge it up after all this time. I couldn’t possibly compromise her privacy by speaking with her parents – they might not have known. And what if it isn’t true at all? What if it was just an extra bit of melodrama added in the general excitement of Al’s death. Teens can do things like that. I should know – I work with them.

Anyway, bless her, she even apologised for telling me – as if she should have had to keep something from me in order to protect me. I’m *her* mum – it’s my job to be the protector. Not the other way around. As if a child of 15 should have to suddenly acquire the maturity to second-guess how her mother will react to something stressful. She should have been able to rely on me to react in a way that would enable her to open up – not clam up.

I’m not so self critical that I don’t see that my reaction was, given the circumstances, perfectly understandable. But FFS what a mess!