by Sarah Belle
They both start to cry, so Maggie and Archie speed up the goodbyes and soon they are gone. We’ve all had enough tears for today.
Last week Gran, Aunty Maeve and myself cleaned out Lily’s house and packed everything for Maggie. There is a new family renting there now and they seem very nice. They have a young teenage daughter who seems to have grabbed Will’s attention. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m glad that someone has moved in; it takes away the expectation that Lily will walk out of the garden gate and come over. It’s helped me to begin to move on.
I’ve spent a lot of time with Gran over the last few weeks; she keeps me busy so that there’s no time to sit and feel sorry for myself. Even though we are always on the go with light gardening and spring-cleaning, we are yet to get the nursery ready for the arrival of the baby in two weeks’ time. We had just started the clearing out and packing up of the front room when Lily passed away and today we are back to it, polishing and packing away the silver and glassware.
“We still have a lot of work to do before this baby arrives, Jules: washing, cleaning and cooking,” Gran says.
“OK Gran. You’re a bit of a slave driver. Aren’t pregnant women meant to take things easy? Look at me, my thighs are bouncing off the underside of my belly,” I say.
“No one ever died of hard work, my sweet,” she grins.
There’s a first time for everything.
“How did you do it Gran? How did you have so many babies and do all that work?” I think of the convenience of my own life, disposable everything, premade meals for adults and babies, microwaves, sterilisers, more money to afford things and my personal favorite, a nanny. These women had none of that. They just worked hard their whole lives.
“We didn’t have a choice Jules. It wasn’t like it is today with washing machines, electric irons, all the kitchen appliances you have,” she laughs. “Most of us gave birth at home, we didn’t even go to a hospital. Nothing for the pain, no doctors and nurses to help if something went wrong, no two weeks in hospital afterwards. Many women lost babies because there wasn’t access to doctors like there is now. We just had babies and continued on our merry way.”
Gran lived through both wars and the Depression, and yet here she is, larger than life. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself or expect that the world owes her something.
I get serious for a moment. “How about all the losses, Gran? How did you deal with all of those?”
She stops her work and looks at me with a wise smile, “I just did the best I could at the time. My brothers in the Great War, that was hard because I’d never experienced loss before that. Luckily your grandfather survived, otherwise none of you would be here today. He was at the landing at Gallipoli you know.” Her face is full of pride.
“He was an ANZAC?” I ask.
“Yes, he was. You have a very strong heritage, Juliette. Your Uncle Din was on the Kokoda Track too. You have fighting blood in your veins, my girl. You’re made of the good stuff.”
“It must have been a horrible time.”
“Yes and no. We made the best of it. Everyone thought the war was going to be glamorous, noble; but in reality it was tragic. So many men lost; so many mothers and wives with broken hearts. There isn’t a house in this street where a mother hasn’t buried at least one of her young; some through war, others through illness.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them. Maeve, myself, Anne. We’ve all buried children, husbands, brothers and sisters.”
The possibility of losing my sons is too much to even think about. Children should never pass away before their parents, but in these times, it was all too common. How did these women mend their broken hearts enough to go on after so much loss?
“Does it get easier, to lose people that is?”
She lets out an ironic laugh, “No. Never. And time does not heal all wounds, I’ve never believed that. The wounds remain, they just lose their rawness. At the moment, when you think of Lily, you feel sadness at your loss, but the time will come when you will think of her and feel happiness at the time you shared.” She grabs my hands across the table and my eyes start to fill with tears again. “Lily would want you to be happy, to laugh and smile, to enjoy each day with those you love. She would come down from the heavens and kick your little bottom if you sat around moping.” I laugh, because that’s exactly what she’d do.
“I just miss her so much Gran. I keep waiting for her to walk in the door and say something funny. And when she doesn’t, I want to go over to her house and see her.”
Gran squeezes my hand and passes a hanky.
“Every morning when I wake up, for just a tiny second, I forget that she’s gone, and I can’t wait to have a cuppa with her, or blanch the veggies, or whatever we used to do together. And then, I remember. I remember that she’s gone, forever.” The tears stream down my face again as my voice cracks, “I can’t imagine not seeing her ever again, Gran. I just want her back.”
Gran gets up and sits next to me, taking me into her strong arms, allowing me to let it all out. Wracking sobs escape, from deep down inside, so deep that they hurt to bring up. Pure, raw grief overflows like flooding rains, purging all my hurts. Tears for my Dad, for Lily and for my Mum are released with the ferocity of a dam floodgate opening.
“Shhhh, it’s OK Jules. Let it all out my love, that’s it, let it all out.”
Her words of encouragement, spoken with such wisdom and love, propel me into the deepest outpouring of emotion of my life. I sob until my breathing is laboured and I’m forced to suck in oxygen asthma-style, just like an hysterical toddler.
“Let it go, my girl. Let it all go. Feel it all wash away with your tears.”
My tears for a loved father, gone too soon, for my best friend whose journey was also cut short, and for my mother, misunderstood and blamed for behaviour she couldn’t control. All the years spent hating her for how she treated me, all the personal relationships I went out of my way to avoid just so that the pain of loss and disappointment wouldn’t have to be endured again. All the wasted years spent trying to prove to everyone that I didn’t need them, sacrificing my loved ones for the sake of…what? Being successful? Being known? Being worthy of clients and celebs who aren’t worth a grain of salt compared to these people, to my modern family?
“An old Irish proverb, Juliette: ‘A lesson learnt by tragedy is one never forgotten’. Take the lesson you have learnt from dear Lily, whatever it may be, and let it make you stronger, wiser, kinder. That way she will always be with you, in your heart.” She squeezes my hands and looks at me with a nod.
“Thanks, Gran.” I smile at her. What an amazing old lady she is. I think about my clients, and none of them, not even all of them put together, could hold a candle to her. I hope when I grow up, my family loves me the way we all love her. I hope that my friends love me the way I loved Lily. I hope that when my time is through, people will think more of me than what car was in my driveway, or who my clients were, or how much money was in my bank account. It would be nice to be remembered as a loving wife, mother and friend. When I grow up…
It’s the middle of the night when a minor earthquake occurs in my uterus. It would be a five on the Richter scale, followed by a few aftershocks. It’s starting.
“Chris, Chris? It’s time, we have to go now,” I say, nudging him in the ribs.
He snores and snuffles.
“Chris!” I say louder. “It’s time.” My nudge is a little harder, perhaps a little too hard, as he falls out of bed in fright.
“Wha? Jules? Wha’s happening?” he mumbles.
“Chris, it’s time. The contractions have started.”
“Oh, right. OK, I’m on it.” He jumps up to his feet and looks around the room, dazed.
By the time my clothes are on and my bag is in hand, Chris is still standing there looking 98 percent asleep and two percent confused. Just as well one of us is in control of things.
“I’m just going down to Uncle Di
n’s for the keys, OK? You just get yourself organised and be ready when I get back.” Men. They just don’t handle this waking in the middle of the night thing, do they? Yes, pot, kettle, black.
Aunty Maeve returns with me to stay in the house and watch over the boys while we are gone.
“Don’t ye worry ‘bout a thing, me love. You just go and birth another spectacular baby.” She kisses me and sets us out the door.
It’s a quick trip to St V’s. Chris takes me into reception of the maternity ward and the Matron comes out to greet us. The whole time the contractions have been getting stronger and stronger, but they aren’t insufferable just yet.
“Thank you, Mr Taylor. You can go home now; we’ll telephone you with news when we have it,’ she says crisply.
“Go home? What? Can’t he stay? Be with me during the birth?” I say.
The Matron’s face distorts into a look of pure horror. “Stay?” she bellows. “No, he certainly cannot stay, Mrs Taylor. This is not a place for husbands. Good grief. Imagine a world where men are allowed to see babies being birthed. They’d just get in the way, and probably require medical attention themselves.”
There is more chance of Collingwood winning two successive Grand Finals than there is of me changing this lady’s mind.
Chris takes me in his arms, brushes the stray hairs off my face and gently traces my rounded cheek with his fingers. “My beautiful wife,” he says smiling at me. Those sexy crinkles melt my heart again. He puts a hand on my tummy and right at that moment the baby kicks. His face lights up and then he looks at my tummy as though it is the most miraculous thing he’s ever seen. “I can’t wait to meet you, little one. Be kind to your Mummy. She’s the love of my life.”
A tear rolls down my cheek and my chin wobbles as he takes my face in his rough hands and brings his lips to mine in the most delicate, loving kiss I’ve ever experienced. I can still feel his lips long after he’s pulled away.
He heads out the door.
“I love you, Chris,” I call out after him, but he’s gone and doesn’t hear me.
I come back down to Earth and realise that all that’s left is my suitcase, an enormous dose of fear and a short, stout, bosomy Matron who scares the hell out of me. She’s a beast.
Soon enough, the contractions are fast and furious and I am wheeled up to the birthing suite, although it’s just another hospital room. There are no candles, soothing music, aromatherapy, big baths for water births, and no Chris. Shit! I can’t do this without him. He was there for both Ethan and Cal. He was my advocate, he made sure the anaesthetist turned up and plugged that sweet, sweet cocktail of drugs into my spine. He massaged my feet and soothed me with heated washcloths and offered words of worship. In fact, he did whatever I told him to do because he was scared shitless of Pregzilla.
The nurse walks in with a razor, a shaving brush and cake of soap.
“What are you going to do with that?” Day spa, 1961-style?
“I’m just going to shave you love,” she smiles.
“My legs are fine. I shaved yesterday, but thanks anyway.”
“I’m not going to shave your legs, Mrs Taylor.”
“You’re not?”
“Goodness no! I’m going to shave your…” she nods, eyebrows raised.
“My what?” No way.
“You know, your privates.”
My privates? Does she mean…?
My expression must be confused so she clears it right up for me, “Your vagina, love, I’m going to shave your vagina.”
What? Oh my God. What an invasion of privacy.
“No, no, it’s alright, really. I’d prefer that you didn’t”.
“Sorry love, I know it’s not nice, but I have to. Hospital rules.”
“The hospital has a set of rules that state that all labouring women must have bald vaginas? I’d like to see that in writing.”
“It helps the doctor see what’s happening, that’s all,” she says.
“Well, I….” I feel mortally embarrassed, because my vagina is as hairy as a mountain gorilla. My tummy was so big that it was not possible to see what was being shaved and I didn’t want to run the risk of cutting part of it off by doing it by feel.
The nurse ignores my discomfort and goes ahead with her job. The shaving cream is icy and I flinch each time she goes near me with the razor.
“Relax love, I don’t want to nick you. Keep still.”
It is sooooo hard to keep still when a stranger is holding a very, very sharp blade to your girly bits. Yogic breaths help me keep stillish until she’s finished.
She leaves the room, only to come back minutes later with a long hose with a bulb on the end. She puts it down next to me.
“And what are you going to do with that?” I ask.
“I’m going to give you an enema,” she announces calmly.
What? What the hell is going on here? My inner voice is hitting high C and about to shatter glass.
“Uh uh, no way, lady. You’re not shoving that hose up my bum.”
“It won’t take long, love. Won’t hurt a bit,” she smiles.
“In what universe won’t having a hose shoved up your arse ‘hurt a bit’? Are you kidding? What’s wrong with this hospital?” I say.
“It’s just what we do. Everyone has it.”
“OK, you go first.”
“Not everyone, everyone. I’m not having a baby.”
“And I’m not having an enema.”
“You might have an accident while you’re pushing, so it’s best to get it out now.”
“An accident? God, I sound like a pet dog. So, let me get this straight, you want to shove a hose up my bum to make me poo, which you will have to clean up now so that you don’t have to clean it up later, if I poo naturally during the birth? What the hell kind of logic is that?”
She looks at me like a mother who has reached her patience limit and is about to explode.
“No. No. No,” I say adamantly.
The Matron comes in. “No what, Mrs Taylor?”
“Um…no….thank you?” Is she cranky because I didn’t use my manners? My God, she scares me.
“Mrs Taylor,” she takes a deep breath and rolls her eyes slightly, as though dealing with an imbecile, requiring her to explain things very slowly. “We give every woman an enema. It’s for health reasons. It clears the back passage of any fecal matter so that it is not expelled during the birth. Surely you don’t want to expose your baby to that, do you?”
Well, the other two didn’t seem to mind. I have heard that it is common for women to poo during birth, but that the midwives clean it up before anyone knows about it. Maybe that is where the term ‘shithead’ comes from? I begin to laugh. The Matron and nurse look at me as though I belong in the psych ward.
“And prey tell, Mrs Taylor, what is so funny?” Matron tuts.
“Oh God. Where do I begin? First the Sister comes and shaves my girly bits bald and now you want to give me an enema with that enormously long hose, telling me that it won’t hurt. How about you go first and we’ll see how much it doesn’t hurt? I’ve had two children and I know that there is absolutely no physical privacy or dignity left by the end of it, but come on. Give me a break.”
“Mrs Taylor…”
“No, thank you, Matron, I will not be having an enema today,” and with that I close my legs — as best I can.
Her face folds in on itself like a sock puppet, but what is she going to do? Hold down a pregnant woman and shove it up there? I’ll resist it every bit of the way. I’ll clench my buttcheeks together so hard my eyes water. Nothing is getting up there.
“Very well, Mrs Taylor, as you please.”
A victory has occurred. The power has shifted back to me again. This is my birth, not hers.
“Here love, drink this, it helps with the pain,” another Sister says.
Anything that helps with pain is a friend of mine.
“Sure, I’ll be in that,” I say, and I chug down a vile liquid tha
t tastes like a cross between mucus and brandy, with a hint of petrol. Minutes later my head is lighter than air; in fact, small molecules and atoms are passing through it, along with psychedelic patterns and large orange elephants. There is no hope of controlling my limbs or my mouth, but on the positive side, there is no pain either.
Then the nurse is smiling at me with the enema kit in her hands. “See, I told you you wouldn’t feel anything.”
The good news is that my labor is in its final stages, so this will all be over soon. The bad news is that the drugs have worn off and there is a baby the size of the Golden Gate Bridge attempting to pass through my birth canal.
“One more push, Juliette. Come on love, you can do it,” urges the Sister.
“No, I can’t!” I’m flailing. My energy has long gone; tears of exhaustion mixed with sweat are running down my face.
“Juliette, you’re so close now. Come on, one more push. You can do it, come on.”
The tank is empty, there aren’t even any fumes. Please, make it stop. Lily’s beautiful face pops into my head — her smile, her laugh — and suddenly there is enough energy to give my all for one last push.
“Arrrrggggghhhhhhh!”
“Well done, Juliette. Great job. It’s a little girl!” The Sister holds up a red, puffy blob covered in blood and white goo.
A girl! A little girl! I have a daughter. She squawks and bellows that little newborn roar as they clean her up and check her over.
“Is she OK?” I ask, trying see what’s going on. “She’s alright, isn’t she?”
“She’s perfect, Juliette. Just perfect. Here you go, time to meet your little girl,” she says, wrapping up a tiny person in pink blankets.
Finally, she’s in my arms, snuggled and warm. I can’t see what she looks like for all the tears in my eyes. Happy tears, as one little girl enters the world, and sad tears, for the grown woman who left it.
“Hello, little one.”
The tears stream down my cheeks as her little hands clasps around my finger. I know that Lily is here with me; I can feel her standing beside me, cooing at my baby. I so wish Chris was here to share this moment with me. With us.