Monday 26th July 2010

One year ago.

Suse rises a few minutes before I do.  She quietly potters around the kitchen.  I go to the toilet, still in a sleep haze.  I walk into the bathroom, and then I see it.

The negative test.

We’ve been good.  For the last three weeks, we’ve been good.  We’ve enjoyed ourselves and loved each other.  I’ve been out of town for two of those weeks, and there’s a cliché reserved for just such occasions.

But the fact is, we’ve been in a good place.

Our counsellor, June, says that we are a couple of extremes.  By that, she doesn’t mean that we are two wild humans.  She means that, as a couple, we swing on a pendulum.  When we’re on an upswing, and things are good, they’re really good.  But when they’re not… they’re not.

I walk into the living room.  There I see Suse, her face tired and drawn.  She sits in front of morning television, chewing on porridge.  She doesn’t even pretend to be watching.

“Did you see?”  At first I can’t tell if it was her who spoke.  But there’s no one else around.

I nod.  I walk up to her and take her into a hug.  She relents, and I feel her body melt into mine.

“Even though it was the blocked side, I still had to hope.  Each time, every single time, I can’t help it.”

“I know, love,” I say, “I know.  Do you think I didn’t know what the pimples were about?  Do you think I didn’t think it too?”

She sighs, exhaling softly.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Well if you are, then I am too.”

I look at her eyes, drawn and sad.  It’s like I’m watching the pendulum itself, it’s swinging back that quickly.

 

* * * * *

I sit in the study, completing chores.  Nothing particular, just tidying up things from last week.

And then I hear it.

The soft sobs from the next room.

I walk out down the hall, and see my wife, in the same place that she was this morning.  Half the day has gone, and lots has happened.  But in mind, she’s remained here the whole day, just like this.

She lets out muted sobs, quiet helpless sobs.  I’ve seen my wife cry a lot in the last six months.  I’ve cried a lot myself.  I never thought I’d become a crying expert, but I do know the character of my wife’s pain.  And here, right now, there is no anguish, no sharpness, no anger to her pain.  Instead, I see a softness, a hollowness, an emptyness.  Quiet, tired hiccups.

These are her sorrow tears.

She sits, her head lilted to the side, her shoulders fallen, staring at the blank screen ahead.  I walk to her.  She barely sees me.  I slide onto our couch, and I take her head, resting it against my shoulder.  She falls into me.  It never ceases to surprise me how well we fit.  Me, all short limbs and stocky Cornish trunk, her, long flowing gracious appendages.  And yet, we fit very snugly.  Somehow, I was designed to fit this glorious woman.

She buries her head in further, her tears blotting against my shirt.  We sit there like this, for about twenty minutes.  Her tears flow smoothly as I stroke her hair.  I never thought I could be this comfortable around someone else’s grief.  I guess you learn it when you have to.

After a while, her shoulders stop bobbing, and the streams dry up.  Like I said, these are her sorrow tears.  There is no crescendo here.  Eventually they dissolve to nothing.

“What are you thinking?” I whisper.

“That I’m a barren old woman.”

“Nothing’s changed, honey,” I say.  “Nothing’s changed.  We’re in the same place as we were yesterday.”

“I know,” she whispers, a couple more sobs breaking through.  “It’s just harder to see that today.”

My own tear falls, as the pendulum brushes my cheek on the way past.

 

* * * * *

Friday 8th January 2010

Gestation: 15 weeks

One year ago.

Terry walks down the aisle.

Under one arm, he holds a coffin.  It is white, and about twice the size of a shoebox.  It has polished silver handles, but there is little need for them.  It fits snugly into the crook of his armpit, wrapped in place by his massive forearm.

He is dressed in a red shirt with gold stitching; celebration colours.  For here, today, we are celebrating the life – the very short life – of Val.

Val is short for Valiant.

* * * * *

Val was born at twenty-three weeks gestation.  He had a brief, but courageous life, lasting two hours in his parent’s arms.  He should never have been born this early.  And having been dealt this hand, should never have lived even more than a few minutes.  At twenty-three weeks, a baby’s lungs are so underdeveloped that usually there is very little ability to breathe.  There is just not enough lung tissue to stay alive.

Five days ago, I missed a call.

“Hello, Mark,” Terry whispered into my voicemail, his voice beginning to crack.  “Kim went into labour, and… and they couldn’t stop it.  Our little boy was born just now, and they said he is…”  There is a pause.  “But he’s still breathing, you know?  Fighting.  And… and… I just don’t know what to do.”

Terry took a big breath, a long silence ensuing.

“I just thought…”  Another long pause.  “I don’t know what I thought.  I just… I don’t know what to do,” he repeats.  “And I thought… that you… might be able… to do something,” he finished, his voice fading as he hung up.

I rang back as soon as I heard the message.  It was nearly fifteen minutes later.

“Hey, Terry,” I said.

“Hello, mate,” he replied, his voice empty.  “I don’t know why I called you.”

“I do, Terry.  And I’m glad you did.”

Through the end of the phone, I heard Terry begin to cry.  This 220-pound Goliath, an ex-Novocastrian, broke down.  I sat there listening, my own lip beginning to quiver.

“I just… I don’t know what to do.”

“I know mate,” I said.  “Well, not like this, I don’t,” I continued softly.  “But I know what it is to feel helpless.”

* * * * *

Terry continues to walk down the aisle, the coffin tucked under his left arm.  Kim walks just behind, her hand lightly touching the lid as they go.  There is barely a bump to be seen in her belly, her other hand resting lightly over it;  as if to ease the ache.

Her eyes are vacant.  She’s retreated some place.  To a place of strength and reserve;  to make it through the service.  But it is a place of separation, too.  She is with us in body, but even now, she is in shadow.

Just minutes ago, Kim spoke with amazing courage and beauty, about her little boy who had left.  As did Terry.

In this:  undoubtedly, unequivocally, the most painfully moving funeral that I have ever attended.

I look across at Suse.  Her eyes are fixed on the couple.  On all three of them, really, as they continue their slow funeral procession.  Tears stream freely down her cheeks, unnoticed.

I grip her hand tight, but she does not avert her gaze.

I turn back, and I take it in.  With Terry in red, and the coffin in white, the scene merges from rich colour, to shade, and then into Kim’s translucent complexion.  Almost invisible.

And then it happens.

Terry stops, and his face screws up in agony.  His entire body bobs, his eyes clenching tight.  He brings his free hand to his face.  Kim stands there, her mask remaining flat, still, watching.  Silently, this huge man begins to walk once again.  In his celebration shirt, his face crumpled like paper, his own tears now spilling like everyone else in the chapel.

All the while, continuing to hold an impossibly beautiful coffin under his left arm.

Such sorrow.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Nothing ever quite like it.

And I hope to never again.

* * * * *