Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  As I sat on the rocks above the pounding surf, I silently repeated to myself ‘I’m pregnant’ several times with the emphasis shifting from the first word to the second, back and forth: ‘I’m pregnant’ to ‘I’m pregnant!’

  Bizarrely, a naked man with a healthy expression of his manhood stood up from behind some nearby rocks, no doubt to shock me. I stared at him blankly and blurted, ‘I’m pregnant.’ It was amusing to see his subsequent deflation!

  Back at the flat, when I told Leo the news, he was instantly thrilled. He danced around like a large praying mantis—he was 195 centimetres tall—and then picked me up and held me close.

  It turned out I was already well past the first trimester. I was lucky to have had no morning sickness, only the overwhelming tiredness.

  ***

  Pregnancy, while welcome, changed our relationship as it does with all couples. We had been living very simply and concocting schemes that didn’t involve children.

  Recently we’d been learning about wild edible plants, and we’d made plans to walk to Queensland via the stock routes with a donkey to carry our meagre belongings. We’d already purchased the travel permits along with the donkey, Jenny, who was living with friends at Mulgoa.

  Leo drove to Paddy’s Markets twice a week to pick up and then deliver fresh produce for Jenny, which she devoured enthusiastically. On weekends, Leo and I brought her a bonanza of cabbage, lettuce, other leafy greens, fruit and whatever vegetables we could pick up freely from the city markets. Leo had a great relationship with the Chinese market gardeners, and they kept leaves especially for Jenny. On days when we couldn’t get out to feed her, our friends gave her hay.

  A note for anyone contemplating such an adventure: donkeys eat voraciously. By the time we unloaded the many boxes of produce from the car, dumped their contents into Jenny’s enclosure, and attended to the cleaning of her water trough and stable, she had eaten every last morsel of this mountain of vegetation.

  Now that I was pregnant, we realised our carefree dream of travelling with Jenny would have us resembling Mary and Joseph by Christmas. And so, Jenny had to go.

  ***

  As soon as Leo needed to earn a better income with a family on the near horizon, he found that his knack for picking penny dreadfuls wasn’t so good. It had been easier when he hadn’t wanted or needed the money; he didn’t respond well to pressure. His heart was also no longer in being a chef—he didn’t want to return to the stressful kitchen environment. I understood and supported his decision.

  Like everyone who has experienced childhood trauma, Leo had been affected by the suffering he’d endured as a young boy. The behavioural patterns we develop to cope with childhood trauma become habitual ways of dealing with stressful situations as we grow into adulthood. Leo and I had both developed coping strategies to compensate for the individual stresses we had experienced in our younger years but these weren’t always useful or compatible with each other.

  Whenever there was upset or the potential for conflict, my tendency was to disappear—if not physically, then emotionally. My pattern as a child had been to freeze, mainly because I never knew how to respond to the unpredictable behaviours of Geoff and Brenden. Fighting or fleeing obviously weren’t options for me, so I vanished as if into a submarine, battening down the hatches, waiting for the storm to pass.

  Leo’s reaction to conflict was the opposite. When he felt under pressure or threatened, he would use his size, volume and bluster to intimidate, dominate or bully his way through. But this only made me want to disappear further into the recesses of my being. Clearly, our strategies were a lethal combination.

  At the time, neither of us had enough awareness of ourselves to skilfully deal with the stress that’s inevitable in every relationship when the first glow of love loses its brilliance. Being in love only takes you so far—when pressures come on the scene, our maladaptive patterns surface and are played out. Trying to resolve the challenges of adulthood, let alone parenthood, with the reactive physiology and thinking of young children is unlikely to lead to a mature collaboration and a respectful outcome.

  If I’d understood then what I came to understand much later, perhaps things would have played out differently. But, as they say, it takes two to tango, and neither of us had a clue how to deal with stress in more mature or creative ways. While I was keen to ensure that the little one growing within me would only be bathed in an atmosphere of love, on several occasions Leo’s temper flared to the point of violence.

  The first time I felt the back of his hand against my cheek, it propelled me across the room to where I landed in a heap. I was shattered, of course, but my focus had to remain on bringing this precious being into the world as safely and lovingly as I could.

  When Leo’s storm passed, he was apologetic and assured me it would never happen again. But it happened again. And again.

  It’s a strange thing when a woman keeps quiet about violence occurring behind closed doors. I didn’t want my parents to know, so I played out their expected scenario of ‘everything’s fine’. That might have been as much to reassure myself as it was to protect Leo from their disapproval. Making excuses to explain my injuries compounded my sense of shame, guilt and embarrassment. This was meant to be a happy time, and everyone’s focus was on the imminent arrival of new life into our midst.

  I didn’t mention to anyone what was happening at home—upholding the facade of the happy family was easier than dealing with the consequences of disclosure. Perhaps the lessons learned in watching Rae tolerate a different kind of abuse from Geoff had laid the foundation for my own inability to address the situation. Our family had always maintained appearances regardless of how things felt and I had perfected the art of not complaining about anything.

  ***

  My parents had given Leo work in their publishing business, although it wasn’t a natural fit for him. We rented a two-bedroom duplex in Fairlight to be closer to my parents’ business in Frenchs Forest.

  Leo had strong and definite ideas about my preparation for the birth. He insisted on daily exercise and a rigid diet. As he became increasingly controlling of my behaviour, I still had no voice to object. The old patterns of not speaking up, of not being a bother, of believing that others knew best continued to undermine my ability to have an opinion, let alone express one.

  I’m embarrassed to admit that Leo’s regimen included my running the entire length of Manly Beach each day. The stupidity of this activity after all the difficulties with my legs was tantamount to sabotage. While my legs were functioning quite well in my mid-twenties, anyone should have known that with my history such an activity was unwise. But Leo would encourage me to keep going, and I didn’t want to let him down, so I kept doing it literally until the day of the birth.

  Along with Leo, I had developed a scepticism about doctors and their advice, and I’d avoided consulting them given I was keen to have as natural a birth as possible. Leo didn’t want me to see a doctor at all, but I saw our family physician in Mosman from time to time without Leo’s knowledge. We intended to have a home birth with an experienced midwife, and my physician was supportive if not enthusiastic.

  Leo and I studied and diligently practised the Lamaze techniques for natural birth, and I practised yoga for a minimum of two hours a day along with my regular practices of meditation, calligraphy and the sounding of Sanskrit.

  Leo had me on a strict eating regimen that I followed obediently. Some years later, my parents and Ross told me that they were singularly unimpressed when they saw him gorging himself on chips and burgers at a cafe near their office. The fact that he couldn’t control his urges probably made him more determined to control mine.

  Despite Leo’s severity, I gained much pleasure from preparing for our first child. I sewed and stitched, painted and decorated, and generally feathered our nest. We had no accurate due date, as we had no idea when conception had occurred. My physician’s best guess was February, though I couldn’t share that with Leo.r />
  ***

  On a balmy Saturday evening, we went into the city and ate at our favourite vegetarian restaurant. Then, leaving our car parked, we walked up through Kings Cross. We were about to walk down William Street to collect the car when I went into a hotel for the inevitable pee. Someone had just smoked a joint in one of the cubicles; moments after I smelled it, my waters broke. By the time I joined Leo outside on the pavement, my contractions had begun in earnest and I couldn’t make it back to our car. We hailed a cab and returned home to continue our well-rehearsed routine of breathing through the contractions.

  Leo called the midwife, who arrived from the other side of Sydney four hours after my waters had broken. By then I was desperate to push this baby out! She gave me the go-ahead, and for the next five and a half hours I pushed with every ounce of my strength.

  I’m forever grateful that Leo finally said ‘enough’. He telephoned and then took me to the nearest hospital, whose staff were exceedingly unhappy to meet me. The midwife didn’t want us to go and certainly wasn’t going to accompany us, which is just as well as they may have eaten her alive. Arriving relatively unannounced at six on a Sunday morning via Emergency to give birth is not recommended, especially when the hospital has no record of your pregnancy. The staff clearly thought—quite rightly, from their perspective—that I was a stupid young woman for trying to give birth at home.

  The doctor could barely control his disgust with me and only said, ‘Hold her down and keep the mask on her face until the baby’s out.’

  Though they confirmed that my baby wasn’t showing any signs of foetal distress, they didn’t wait for a contraction before dragging her unceremoniously out of my exhausted body with forceps, into the light of day.

  The dearest little baby girl was finally reunited with me as they placed her in my waiting arms. I was still shaking inside from the trauma and brutality of the birth, but she was here. My dream of a natural birth in a quiet and loving environment was shattered by the nightmare of her arrival, but she was perfect.

  Leo and I hadn’t discussed names because we thought the baby might bring a name with him or her on arrival. Names were now the last thing on my mind—as I was terribly shaken and tried to stay focused on learning how to feed this beautiful infant.

  On the third day, Leo stood in the doorway to my hospital room and announced with indisputable confidence and enthusiasm, ‘Her name is Ada!’

  My shaking stomach lurched and turned, and my heart shrank to meet it, but I was in no state to argue with Leo, so Ada became her name.

  Soon afterwards, I was grateful to go home where we could rest, recover from the trauma and get to know our gorgeous baby. Leo adored her as much as I did, and we felt so blessed to have her with us. She was generally happy, though she suffered badly with colic, so the usual exhaustion of parenthood in that first year was compounded by the endless walking of her up and down for hours at a time, day and night. Leo was a wonderful support and did more than his share of the walking, rocking and cradling.

  But although little Ada was alive and kicking, I had dreadful nightmares about her birth for more than three years.

  ***

  When Ada was just five months old, my beloved Granny became very unwell and uncharacteristically tired. When Granny didn’t sound well on the phone, my mother flew to Brisbane and brought her—and Jacqui, her precious cat—back to Mosman, where our family physician conducted some tests. They confirmed the diagnosis of advanced breast cancer, so Granny underwent surgery.

  When we visited her in hospital, the sound of raucous laughter usually greeted us long before we entered her room. The nurses, other patients and doctors loved her humour and waggish ways. Rae feared that her mother hadn’t fully absorbed the impact of her prognosis, though the doctor assured her that he’d given Granny all the facts. She began but immediately stopped chemotherapy, as she didn’t like the side effects and was quite a pragmatist, preferring to let nature take its course.

  One day, while still in hospital, Granny said to Rae, ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’ That was the first and last time she mentioned her impending fate. When Rae asked Granny if she wanted anything, her response was, of course, ‘A party.’

  Granny’s sister Edna arrived from Brisbane to spend time with her, and Jacqui would only leave her for the bare necessities, immediately returning to her side or lap.

  I visited as often as I could, and Granny looked the picture of contentment when she nursed young Ada. It was lovely to see them cuddling quietly together and I know it brought her great joy to cradle new life as her own seeped away.

  Leo, of course, had some strange ideas about babies and their environment. When he visited Granny with us, he wouldn’t let her hold Ada, and I saw the look of hurt and sadness in her eyes. I was helpless against his determination—and, the truth was, I feared his anger and had taken to avoiding anything that might provoke it. The way that I was repeating the pattern developed with my father wasn’t lost on me, but recognising these deeply entrenched patterns doesn’t necessarily equip us to change them.

  Although her home was in Queensland, Granny was much loved by many, many people in Sydney, and her party was a very happy occasion. It was meant to just be drinks in the early evening so as not to exhaust her, but people were still there at 10 pm, while Granny made all the jokes and entertained everyone with her wit and charm. The photo we have of her on that joyous but poignant night shows a beautiful woman with no evidence of illness, dressed in her favourite lilac frock, radiating life and happiness.

  The following week Geoff left for business in the United States, having been assured by Granny’s doctors that she probably had about six months to live. Early the next morning, Granny started struggling for breath. Edna sat with her while Rae called the doctor, who didn’t come soon enough. Everything unravelled so quickly, and unfortunately Rae sat with her beloved mother all alone as she died.

  I weep more now in the writing of this than I did at the time, as tears seemed taboo in our family. After Granny’s death, Rae continued to maintain her veneer of normalcy. Through traumas and tragedies, she protected her children from her own deep grief, and I have never seen her break under pressure. I had certainly learned well from her.

  Geoff returned immediately, composing the eulogy on his miserable flight home. At Granny’s funeral we were all in shock, unable to take in how swiftly events had unfolded. We still frequently recount stories of her life and use her favourite expressions, and it’s a rare day that some memory of her doesn’t cheer my heart.

  ***

  The next couple of years passed happily enough as Ada brought me and Leo great joy.

  But something was bothering her. The first sentence I remember her stringing together is, ‘I hate the name Ada.’ While I completely sympathised with her and would have happily let her change it, Leo wouldn’t hear of it and that was that.

  When Ada was about three, we were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast when she gave me a fixed stare and her face clouded.

  She said, ‘I get up, I have breakfast. I go outside and play. I eat lunch and have a nap. I get up and play. I have dinner. I have a bath and I go to bed and sleep. I get up, I have breakfast. I go outside and play. I eat lunch and have a nap. I get up and play. I have dinner. I have a bath and I go to bed and sleep.’ She repeated it for a third time and then looked plaintively at me as she concluded, ‘On and on until I die?’

  In less than two minutes, she had postulated a somewhat defeatist view of existence.

  ***

  We saved diligently for a home, and soon we moved to a tiny house in nearby Manly Vale. It was a small fibro and stone cottage with two bedrooms and a large garden, and it had plenty of room for play. As a newly graduated naturopath I sometimes saw clients in the sunroom, but my main focus was on caring for Ada and Leo.

  Enough time had passed since the traumatic birth that I felt able to face the idea of having another child. After a disappointing miscarriage, I f
ell pregnant with Simon. I vacillated between having a home or hospital birth, until Leo and I finally decided upon another attempt at a home birth given my reluctance to be in hospital.

  But this time I was under the care of an obstetrician, as I’d been damaged by those long hours of pushing and by Ada’s rough arrival. Fortunately the obstetrician was a kind and gentle man who supported either a home or hospital birth, and he took on the role of guiding me through my pregnancy. He respected my choices, telling me he would only interfere if he felt any concern for my safety or the baby’s.

  Because I’d fallen pregnant quite quickly after the miscarriage, the obstetrician put a stitch into my cervix to ensure the baby stayed put until fully developed. After nine months, the stitch was removed and the doctor thought this would stimulate labour—but no, the baby wasn’t ready to make an appearance. When my waters broke, we alerted the midwife and waited until contractions began, but another ten days passed before he eventually made his entrance.

  Simon’s birth was uncomplicated and easy, and he slipped into the world with a gurgle and a smile in front of the open fire at home. The midwife gently placed him on my abdomen while Leo woke three-year-old Ada. She sleepily knelt by my side and touched her new little brother with great tenderness, wonder and love.

  Simon was an easy and good-natured baby who flourished under our delighted adoration. From the moment he arrived, he was a tactile junkie—quite different from Ada, who resisted cuddles and preferred her independence. I wonder if the roughness of her birth influenced her ability to bond with me, though she breastfed happily until she was up and walking. She would often study the way Simon nestled in for a snuggle and then have a go, though cuddling never seemed to come easily to her.

  Simon had arrived two days before my birthday in October 1979, and our little family was complete.

  CHAPTER 12

  Helping, fixing or serving

  I’d loved my four years of naturopathic studies, yet they had left me with a desire to explore more deeply the impact our minds have on our bodies through our beliefs and attitudes. There didn’t seem to be anywhere that taught about the integrated whole of a human being, and the deeper teachings of yoga held the only written knowledge that connected the mind with the body. I continued my private studies through the School of Philosophy, and through my own reading and practice of the subtle and more in-depth techniques contained in Indian writings on meditation techniques and yogic principles.