by Helen Batten
Dr Martin demanded a complete report of the night’s events. In the end she concluded that Poppy had contracted an infection. Because of those hours between the abruption and her being delivered, she had been bleeding and there was a small clot, causing a blockage in her brain. Her spinal fluid was sticky, which meant the infection had lodged in her brain and she now had meningitis. But they wouldn’t know what sort of meningitis and how severe until the results had come back from the lab. She ended by saying: ‘Once we have pinned down exactly which bacteria it is causing this, then we can talk about how we might treat it.’
Early in the afternoon, I was sitting with Poppy and Mum. The registrar came in with a piece of paper in his hands. He seemed in real distress.
‘We’ve identified the bacteria that has infected Poppy. It’s a gamma delta.’
‘Well, that’s good, surely? That they’ve identified it—?’
‘No, I’m sorry. If the bacteria had been something else maybe she would have a chance, but it’s the very worst bacteria there is. We need special drugs which we haven’t got. We’re ringing around the local hospitals at the moment and there may well be some, but Poppy’s only chance is to have them injected straight into her brain – you’re looking at six operations in the next week, if she survives at all. And then even if we manage to cure the infection, we can’t reverse the damage it has already inflicted on her brain.’
Before I could think, the words came out of my mouth: ‘Don’t keep her alive just for the sake of it. Don’t you dare keep her alive just because you can.’
At that moment I felt it with every core of my being. Visions of pulling out ventilator plugs flashed through my head.
The poor doctor looked haggard. ‘I’m glad you brought it up, because we need to talk. When your husband comes back we should have a meeting with Dr Martin. I’m going to give her the news now.’
He walked out. I turned round to my mum.
‘Mum? I hope we can stop this. It’s madness. I think that’s what he meant, didn’t he? We don’t have to go on with this?’
‘I’m sure that’s what he meant,’ she said. And then she added: ‘You know, whatever you decide, I’m right behind you. I know you will know the right thing to do.’ I felt the bond and the wall of strength between us. I so needed it at that moment.
I was not surprised that Mum was behind me, but I was not at all sure my husband would be.
I found him and all in a rush told him what the doctor had said and that I did not want to continue treatment. It was madness and wrong and I wanted Poppy to be allowed to die in peace. Of course it was a decision for both of us, but I really hoped he felt the same way.
It occurred to me that even though we had been together so long, I had no idea what he might think: we had such radically different views of the universe. This had never been a problem – we used to tease each other and have friendly disagreements over too many drinks in the pub. Now I saw it might matter very much indeed.
He surprised me with his calmness. ‘Let’s hear what Dr Martin has to say. I’m not saying you’re not right but I want to hear some statistics before I can come even close to making a decision.’
I was relieved. And of course he was right: we shouldn’t make a decision until we had heard everything the doctors had to say.
As we went back into the unit there was a motorcycle courier standing at the desk delivering a bag of medicine. The registrar walked past. ‘It’s Poppy’s medicine. We found it at a nearby hospital, they’ve sent it straight over.’
‘You haven’t started treating her, have you?’ I cried out. ‘Please don’t.’
Everyone turned to look at me. Even I was alarmed at the sound of desperation in my voice.
‘No, we haven’t. Don’t worry, we’re not going to do anything until we’ve had a chance to discuss all the options.’ He squeezed my arm.
We were ushered into the visitors’ room. Dr Martin gave us a calm, clear, bordering on the brutal, breakdown of the situation. In her opinion Poppy’s chances of surviving the treatment were only around 10 per cent. Even if she did survive, she would be mentally and physically damaged. To what extent, it was impossible to say but in her opinion it was likely she would have cerebral palsy, probably quite severely. She confirmed that the treatment was very invasive, operating on the brain many times.
She said because of the severity of Poppy’s condition and the prognosis for her future, we, as Poppy’s parents, could choose not to go ahead with the treatment. Of course this would mean she would die. She apologised for putting us in this position, but ultimately only we, her parents, could make this choice. She stressed that whatever we decided all the staff in the unit would be behind us.
I said that I felt very strongly I did not want Poppy’s treatment to be continued.
‘And you?’ Dr Martin asked, turning to my husband.
I looked at him, saying a silent prayer.
‘If there is any chance at all that Poppy could survive this treatment and go on to live with a decent quality of life, then of course we must go ahead with the treatment. But from what you’ve said it sounds like there is no chance. Am I right?’
Dr Martin nodded her head.
‘Then I agree with Helen. I don’t want her to be treated.’
I think they looked relieved. I’m sure the registrar was. Dr Martin was good at giving nothing away, but I had the feeling she agreed too.
‘In that case I think you should take a couple of hours to really think carefully. You can still change your mind. Ring your family. There may be people you want to see Poppy before she passes away. Is there anything else you’d like to ask or need to say?’
‘Yes, thank you for giving us this opportunity,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much.’
They looked at me as if I was slightly unhinged. Maybe at that moment I was.
‘Believe me, if there was any chance that Poppy might come out of this with any quality of life we would not have had this conversation,’ Dr Martin said, and strode out of the room.
With Poppy still heavily sedated, we left Mum sitting with her and my husband and I went outside to talk. We walked around the streets at the back of the hospital. The sun was hot. We passed an ice cream van and found ourselves in the park. All around us there were children playing on the grass. It all seemed so cruel. We lay on the grass, my husband face down, sobbing. I held him. ‘It’s going to be OK. It’s going to be OK,’ I said.
‘It’s not OK. Poppy’s going to die.’
‘But we’ve still got each other. We still have the life that we had before. If we can just get through this afternoon, I don’t know how, but somehow we are just going to have to be strong. We have got to do this for her.’
Everything I said to my husband I meant, although deep down I knew it couldn’t be that simple. But, relative to what we knew we were going to have to face over the next few hours, the years ahead didn’t seem so bad. It was beyond comprehension what we were about to do and witness.
By the time we got back to the hospital I was desperate to see Poppy. I went over to her incubator. She opened her eyes wide and stared at me, wide awake. I took her hand and she squeezed my finger really tight. Yes, Poppy looked grey, yes, she had lost so much weight, but she seemed very much with us. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.
They wheeled Poppy into a side room; our favourite nurse was already in there. As the registrar took my husband and me into the room he said, ‘Poppy is very ill. She’ll slip away very quickly.’
Poppy was taken off the ventilator. Suddenly, I could see her face again, and I felt the bitter irony that now that she was most ill, this was the least medical intervention she had ever had – just one small line feeding her painkillers.
I sat in a chair and they handed her to me, wrapped in a blanket. I cradled Poppy in my right arm but it didn’t seem comfortable. I should have held her upright, close on my chest. It seems so cold, so impersonal now.
My husband sat with his arm a
round me and we waited for Poppy to die. We sang to her and talked to her and stroked her. I remember saying, with tears streaming down my face, ‘Poppy, come back soon, come back,’ and the nurse, crying too, gave me a strange look.
And Poppy just carried on breathing.
‘Sometimes they need permission to go,’ the registrar said. He stroked her forehead and said, ‘It’s OK, Poppy, you can go now.’
I said the same. It made no difference. My little girl didn’t want to go anywhere.
The nurse and the registrar left, and we were on our own. Eventually, Poppy’s breathing became less regular and she began to struggle. She stopped breathing and we looked at each other as if to say, ‘This is it’ and then she took another a deep breath, and we jumped. She was fighting all the way and I wondered whether it was too late to change my mind and whether my instinct was wrong and that Poppy was supposed to live and I was committing an act of murder.
And it also went through my mind that for all my brave words to my husband earlier, that actually our love might be dying along with Poppy. I wondered how we could ever come back from this.
And then she took one huge breath and didn’t take another.
We held our breath.
And then she took yet another huge gulp of air.
My husband ran out of the room and straight into the ward, shouting, ‘Help! You’ve got to come and help us. She’s still alive. She won’t die.’
The other parents, sitting with their babies, looked at him in horror.
The registrar came back in and with tears streaming down his cheeks he upped the level of morphine straight into her line and into her blood. ‘I have never known such a strong baby. It may not look like it but she is very, very sick. You have got to believe me,’ he said.
And then, within seconds, Poppy had gone.
People have asked me about the agony of the decision, but there was no decision really. I had no choice. I would have gone around pulling out the plugs myself if I hadn’t been given the option.
Years later, I met a woman who had also had to take this decision about her premature baby girl. ‘I knew it was time for her to go,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes. A mother always knows, doesn’t she?’
A very clear picture came into my head that day. There was a beautiful yellow butterfly in a white, sterile room with only a tiny window. She was flying around, banging her wings against the wall, but for one brief moment I had the opportunity to open the window and let the butterfly fly free into the blue sky. If I didn’t take that chance, Poppy would have been trapped in that room for ever. Just try and stop me. I would have fought tooth and nail, even against my husband. It was as if that day I had a sudden insight into the workings of the universe. And so I let the person die that I loved the most.
But that certainty didn’t stop me feeling guilty. Poppy’s final hour, where she didn’t want to leave, was like Charlie Junior’s tear for Clara. A mother knows best – or does she? It haunted me and it haunted my relationship with my husband. Years later, I asked him how he could have betrayed me after everything we had been through together; for me, Poppy’s life and death bound us closer. I felt if I treated him badly I would be letting her down. I could never leave him because he was the only other person who had known her. But he had just shrugged. ‘I felt completely the opposite. Because Poppy died, the universe owed me.’
It was a seminal moment for me.
So, yes, knowing how difficult it is to watch your child suffer and die and then to carry on and somehow pick up your life with everybody pretending that everything’s all right now, when it’s not at all, causes huge damage. For me, I found it difficult to love again. Something in you dies, with your child. And then you lose something more in the coping. I seemed to gain strength but lose softness. I found it hard to really feel love for anyone, most of all myself. My heart goes out to Clara and the series of real traumas she went through. How is it possible ever to be happy after that?
Having lunch with my mum and second cousin, Jean, that phrase cropped up again, this time uttered by Jean: ‘Of course she never got over it. And him the only boy.’
To which my mum nodded in agreement.
But what did that mean: ‘Never got over it’?
It also prompted another question. Driving home, I turned to Mum and asked, ‘Do you think I’ve ever got over Poppy’s death?’
There was a long silence. I could see Mum choosing her words very carefully. ‘Funnily enough, I was thinking that too. And I think you have, but it took a long time and it was hard. There was something about you having Daisy which seemed to make a difference.’
I knew what she meant. Daisy was the fourth child I gave birth to. In common with other mothers who have lost children, I was always a child missing. When I had one child, Amber, I felt I should have two; when I had Scarlett and therefore two children, I felt I should have three. But when I had Daisy, I felt as if I was only ever meant to have three children. I can’t explain it, except Daisy was a complete surprise. A little miracle, a gift. It was how I felt the universe had given back.
Of course, it was while I was pregnant with Daisy that my relationship with my husband abruptly deteriorated, as if something healed and something broke all at the same time.
Everyone asked whether I hoping to have a boy. But when I had the scan and once again I was told I was having a girl, I was overjoyed, as I had been with all my girls. I felt blessed.
She was angelic, beautiful and happy, very comfortable in her own skin – as she still is. We had the Daisy we were always supposed to have.
Of course I am not the same person I was before I had Poppy, and I wouldn’t want to be, but I do think that I have somehow managed to reclaim a bit of myself: the softer, funnier, more vulnerable bits. And I definitely feel love now – huge, overwhelming sometimes – for my daughters, and for other people too.
Which brings me to Mr D. I don’t talk about Poppy much; I know it upsets him. But, one day, after we had been knocking around together for quite some time, I felt compelled to start telling him a bit more. I got to the part where I saw Poppy’s face for the first time, and Mr D hung his head and looked very emotional.
‘This is really difficult for you, isn’t it?’ I said.
He sighed and nodded.
‘OK, I’ll stop.’ But then I said, ‘But you know, Poppy is a really important part of me. She’s an exotic piece of patchwork right at the centre of the quilt of my existence.’
At which classic piece of ‘Swainy’ hyperbole he couldn’t help but smile. ‘“Exotic piece of patchwork in your quilt of existence”, eh?’
‘Well, yes. She is part of my warp and weft, woven right into my psyche. I have had four daughters. She is real. It happened. Her existence changed me. Without Poppy I wouldn’t be who I am now.’ And then I said, slightly hesitatingly: ‘I just wonder, if you can’t handle this bit of my experience, is there a bit of me you can’t handle or accept too?’
And Mr D thought and nodded and he kissed me, and I felt us draw a little bit closer. And I went on to tell him some more, and he listened, even though I could see it was really difficult. But later on that evening, when we had moved on to all sorts of lighter, fluffier topics, we found ourselves reminiscing about the first night I went back to his flat, the night we went to that old ancestral haunt, the Gladstone. And I told him for the first time how, after he went to sleep, I was wide awake, lying next to him, super-aware that our bodies were touching, and I had been filled with literal, physical waves of emotion flowing through my body, so powerful they were almost unbearable. It wasn’t lust, it was like anticipation, like going over the top of a rollercoaster. I had felt extremely alive and glad to be alive. And I had known something significant had happened and was about to happen.
Which brought me back to the question I posed my mum – have I ever really got over Poppy’s death? Talking to Mr D, I realised that there was the answer: that first night we spent together was just one of many moments I’ve had
– not just with Mr D but with all sorts of people, especially my children and sometimes on my own – where I’ve felt truly happy and, yes, glad to be alive. And I think however Poppy is woven into my fabric, her existence no longer stops me from experiencing profound moments of love, joy and happiness.
Which is a roundabout way of saying I have or, at least, I have enough.
But what of Clara? Her loss was never mentioned – no support, no therapy, no opportunity to while away time scribbling out her grief, too busy just trying to make a living? Trapped with her grief, with nowhere for it to go but to lie inside, toxic, for a lifetime?
Then there’s the guilt. It never quite goes away. I went to see the film Philomena. It’s the true story of a woman who, as a young unmarried teenager in Ireland, got pregnant and was forced to give up her son for adoption. With the help of a journalist, she travelled to the States to find him. Apologies now if I’m about to spoil the film for anyone who has never watched it, but for me the most profound moment came when the journalist had to tell Philomena that he had found her son, but he was dead. The first thing she says is: ‘But I will never have the chance to tell him I’m sorry.’
I know exactly how she feels.
Did Clara just want to say sorry to Charlie Junior, like Philomena, like me? A deep, eternal desire for repentance and absolution. The first duty of a mother is to ensure her child’s survival and if they die, we have profoundly failed.
And then another pressing question – did Clara feel that losing Charlie Junior meant she lost Charlie Senior as well? I think I know the answer to that one too – or is that just my stuff? I’m beginning to get her story and mine mixed up. It all feels too familiar …
CHAPTER SIX
The Albatross
Clara was waiting on the platform of Marlow station. At her feet was a large suitcase, by her side, her eldest daughter. She was wringing the fingers of her gloves with impatience. Where was the train? She didn’t dare look at Alice’s face. Suddenly there was a distant rumble. People wandered to the edge of the platform and peered along the tracks. First came traces of smoke above the treetops, then a whistle, and finally the familiar chug of the engine.