But I found this hard to reconcile within myself. How could we enjoy ourselves freely without Dov and Lev, without two of our three children? It didn’t feel right.
For days I agonised over whether we should cancel our plans or go without them. This decision came to symbolise much more than a trip. I imagined relatives, friends and colleagues all talking about me unfavourably. ‘Did you hear that Ondine is leaving Dov and Lev behind and going on holiday?’‘I know! I just can’t believe she would do that.’
Getting through this guilt and fear of judgment was extremely difficult. I knew that taking Dov and Lev would be of no real benefit to them and make our trip exceedingly hard. However, the thought of leaving them behind filled me with anxiety. I called Emile. He was in the midst of his own 7 pm family chaos. I heard his two children, Milo and Zachy, hungry and tired, shouting in the background. Amid the noise Emile seemed to sense the lump in my throat as I asked him what I should do.
‘Leave them behind,’ he said slowly but confidently. ‘There’s no shame in it. Tell Dror to take Jasmine first and then meet him for a week at the end.’
The relief was immediate, huge. I emailed the travel agent and we rearranged plans. Friends and family nodded their approval and wondered out loud how we could have thought to do anything different. I marvelled at the projected judgment and stress I had created for myself.
So Dror and Jasmine flew to Israel. I would join them a week later for eight days. This would give me some holiday time with Dov and Lev and reduce the amount of time they were left at home with Rachel.
Dov and Lev’s daily therapy appointment schedule was on hold as all the therapists were away on summer holiday, and since the Voiceless office was closed, the flashing red light of my BlackBerry had stopped. Unexpected days of quiet suddenly descended: no rushing, no demands. Dov and Lev and I had time for guiltless cuddles, copious tickles, splashing games in their shower and long walks.
They were both different in subtle ways. Lev loved butterflies. I knew this because I always gave him two books to choose from when he sat on my lap for story time and he inevitably chose the one that had a butterfly in it; even if it was a minor illustration on a page full of animals, he would remember the butterfly was there. As we turned the pages, his index finger, which had improved in control, would point to the butterfly. They shared mostly the same taste in food, but while Lev loved sweet desserts, Dov was always ready for fruit, especially mango, which he would eat with noticeable relish, juice flowing down his smiling face. Every evening I put on the Sesame Street CD and when it came to the song ‘C Is for Cookie’, I would try to imitate the Cookie Monster’s low voice. If I didn’t sing straightaway, Dov would look for me and catch my eye, indicating he wanted me to start the comic routine. I savoured all their idiosyncrasies. Like late at night when I woke them to give them their medicine, I would always find Dov’s foot wiggled out from under his blanket, sticking up in the air, exposed.
On the day I was to fly to Israel, my stomach churned with anxiety and regret as the taxi made its way to the airport. I tried to imagine the joy of seeing Jasmine, but despair had taken over. I no longer wanted to go. Dov wouldn’t find me when ‘C Is for Cookie’ played on the CD; Rachel wouldn’t know to allow Lev’s finger to linger luxuriously over the butterflies or not to cover Dov’s right foot with the blanket. My parents promised to visit them every day and Louise had offered to check in on them too. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Rachel, just that Dov and Lev were so very vulnerable.You just never knew.
Twenty-seven hours alone on a plane, two glasses of red to ease my mind, and I fell into a strange kind of bliss. I watched four romantic comedies. Back to back. Laughed and cried. Then I took out my journal, unfolded my tray table and turned to a new page.
With a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I drew a mind map that took over both pages. I drew me in the centre, complete with dark circles under my eyes, downturned lips, bloodshot eyes and frazzled hair. With arrows, I pointed to all the things in my life that were important to me. The page was dense with lines and words. It didn’t look possible to negotiate them all successfully. I turned the page. White and blank. What did I want? The words wrote themselves: I need to slow down, ground myself. I couldn’t take a break from the demands of my children, they were my priority, so it was work I had to sacrifice.
I was flooded with guilt. I had to give up my first baby, Voiceless. Shirk my responsibility to the animals—suffering, captive, in pain—when they had few others to be their voice. Let it sit, I placated myself, no need to make a rash decision. At the end of the trip I might feel different, I argued.
I spent the holiday gorging on hummus and enjoying the freedom to be just Jasmine’s mum. I hung out with Efrat and enjoyed her company as a friend. I was reminded how much Dror loved Israel, revelling in the land and culture. I found I missed Dov and Lev as if I had a little less oxygen in my day, and knowing how much I missed them made me feel relieved. I wanted them. Wanted us. Wanted our family to work. Not only to work, but to thrive. I contemplated life and how I could make it better.
What would my Gran have done? Have said?
I saw her broad wrinkled face, felt her rough hand on my back, and missed her. Where does one find wisdom? I gambled on God again, spending hours in a bookstore opposite the Wailing Wall stocking up on religious texts. Move over, Dalai Lama, I thought. From the window I could see the Temple Mount, the place where the Divine Presence of God was meant to rest. Perhaps the divine hand would point me in the right direction, show me the way. I bought armfuls of books and started to read them one by one: Torah Lights, To Kindle a Soul, The Book of Blessings and Living Inspired. I devoured them all with a hint of desperation, hoping that the answer, the answer to everything, would lie within.
It didn’t, of course.
What I did realise, however, was that I had no choice. A return to work would have me continuing to compartmentalise my life and put my emotions into a vault: a facsimile of my mother. If I had to give up my career, so be it. At least I would be a relaxed, happier person.
The day after we flew back into Sydney, I went into the office. The news was met with unusual silence by my three senior staff.
I had barely been offline since Voiceless had started. Even when I was on maternity leave with the children, I had kept up with emails and was available to my staff.
‘What should we tell people?’ the communications manager eventually asked.
‘Let’s just call it a sabbatical,’ I said.
‘What’s that anyway? A six-month break?’
Someone checked the dictionary to be sure.
‘I’m going on sabbatical,’ I concluded. ‘But call if you need me to speak at an event,’ I offered. ‘I also want to be included in meetings with our VIPs, politicians and advocacy partners, and of course consulted in any strategy decision.’
‘So, you will be back in six months?’ said Elaine, unsmiling, clearly upset at the news.
I left the office feeling sad, defeated and humiliated—the antithesis of superwoman.
TWENTY-ONE
It was the second week of my break and I had a morning to myself. In my first week I’d had around-the-clock time with Dov, Lev and Jasmine; I’d drunk in their sweet smells, played with and cuddled them, pretend-eating each part of their growing bodies with great appetite. I’d drawn mermaids at Jasmine’s instruction and played Snap with cards of fairies. I’d spoken to each therapist in detail about Dov and Lev’s progress, caught up on Rachel’s personal life and loitered at Jasmine’s classroom door before the bell, chit-chatting to other mothers.
Find a yoga class was the first item on my long to-do list. I had been planning to start yoga for the past ten years for a range of reasons: my scoliosis led to chronic backaches, I had inherited my mother’s inflexibility, and twenty years of undiagnosed lactose intolerance had caused bloating and weak stomach muscles. All in all, my body felt like it was eighty years old.Yoga had been on every new year’
s resolutions list I’d made in the last decade, yet somehow I had never got around to it.
For the previous eight months I had managed to maintain a twice-weekly commitment to personal training. Louise and I had both found ourselves whining about our weight gain. After an unusually honest discussion about our negative body images she had taken immediate and enthusiastic steps to find us a trainer. We met before or after work in the park.
I hadn’t exercised for years and, truth be told, had never been a big fan of exercising. It was on the bottom of my long to-do list even at the best of times, and recently, times not being the best, it had simply fallen off. But since arriving back in Sydney, thanks to Thai takeaway and those fried noodles I had so missed in Israel, I had put on six kilograms. I had a double chin. I was not only overweight but disproportionately so, my stomach billowing over my pants and causing me acute embarrassment even when I was dressed. I couldn’t even wear my favourite green giraffe T-shirt any more, my belly was so big. My relationship with my body had become sour and every day I would berate and criticise myself in the mirror. But I wasn’t responding to self-discipline. If I told myself to consume less, cut down on my calorie intake, I ate more. ‘Don’t order Thai,’ I vowed but the phone appeared in my hand and the doorbell soon rang, boxes wafting delicious odours. If I determined to stop the cakes and chocolates, I would rebel and bliss out on a caramel slice. What was life about if you couldn’t even enjoy a treat?
The personal training was a way to regain some control, lose weight and tighten up my waistline. However, I would angrily watch my belly wobble as I jogged across the grass, back and forth, the trainer shouting at me.
I’m so fat, I told myself as motivation. Go faster. Don’t stop. So fat.
Every session I hoped it would rain so I didn’t have to go, and when it didn’t, I waited anxiously for the ordeal to finish.
I used to love taking my dogs for long walks along the beach cliffs and I wondered now whether, if I did that regularly and fast enough, I would achieve the same weight-loss results. I could couple it with yoga to increase strength, manage my backaches and improve my flexibility. I was holding so much tension in my shoulders I had started to look like an American football player. I had to try.
‘I can’t do the training any more, I’m sorry,’ I told Louise nervously as we stood in my kitchen giving her son, Jacob, and Jasmine dinner. They sat on the red kitchen stools, hair wet after swimming. Dov and Lev were sitting in their high chairs, being fed by Rachel. Lev was holding on to a long piece of broccoli, struggling to get it to his mouth; Dov threw his purposefully on the floor and smiled.
‘Can you find another person for the group?’ I asked as Louise drained the spaghetti and I took out grated cheese and two plastic bowls.
I heard Dov whining and looked over to see him staring at me, beckoning me over Rachel’s shoulder as she concentrated on spooning lasagne into Lev’s mouth. I dragged over another red stool and sat down in front of him.
‘Do you want some water?’ I asked. ‘Drink? Water? Yes or no?’ I held out his ‘yes’ and ‘no’ communication cards. He looked at both pictures but his eyes didn’t settle on either. I put the plastic cup in front of him and he stuck out his tongue, a gesture I knew meant yes.
‘Yes!’ I said, pointing to the picture of the green smiley face. I squeezed the cup and the water spurted into his mouth, some dribbling down his chin into the bib below. His lip closure was getting better, but his bottom lip still didn’t meet the top to form proper suction. Neither he nor Lev could use a sippy cup, let alone drink from a straw. Oh, a straw. What feats of muscular complexity and breath control that entailed.
‘I don’t want to leave you stranded with the personal trainer, she’s so expensive,’ I said to Louise over my shoulder.
‘Fine,’ she said, banging the colander in the sink, ‘just abandon me. I guess I’ll never get to see you now.’ She was joking, but I could hear hurt too.
I swivelled my stool and Dov’s high chair so I could see her properly. I had worried about this conversation and wanted to get it right.
‘I need to slow down a little . . . have some time to myself,’ I explained between wedging pieces of avocado in Dov’s mouth and licking the green goo from under my fingernails.
‘Yeah yeah . . .’ she said as she turned away to check messages on her iPhone.
I had a rush of anger. Fucking hell, couldn’t she see how hard it was for me? Could anyone? ‘Look!’ I felt like shouting, pointing to Dov and Lev. ‘You have no idea what I’m dealing with here. How can you be so blind? My boys may never . . . Never, never, never . . .’ I couldn’t allow myself to think any further.
But the anger subsided. It wasn’t Louise’s fault. She worked very hard and, like many mums, struggled to find time for herself. She probably thought I was being self-indulgent, wanting to slow down.
Louise’s life had accelerated with increased stress but mine felt as if it had been turned on its head. The ‘me’ she wanted to spend time with no longer existed. Couldn’t she tell? Put down the colander, I silently urged Louise. Look at me. See my pain. I can’t tell you but please notice. Tell me I’m doing a good job. That you understand, that you’re here for me.
She didn’t look up from her phone. But when she left with Jacob an hour later her smile and hug were as loving as ever and we made plans for the following weekend.
I am the worst in the class, I thought, sneaking a look around the dim room. Fifty women and a few bare-chested men sat bent forward. I squinted; without my glasses their details were blurred. But I didn’t have to look too hard to know I was surrounded by young, pretty, thin, flexible women in specialised yoga outfits. This was Bondi Beach after all. The women bent forward like ragdolls, chests resting easily on their thighs. I struggled to straighten my legs in front of me. I was supposed to be doing a forward bend; the only problem was I couldn’t bend. I groaned quietly, straightening my back, and then, for a moment of relief, put my hands behind me to ease my aching spine. My hamstrings, tight as the highest string on a guitar, would surely snap if I pushed any more.
Focus on you, I breathed. Don’t look around, whatever you do, don’t look. You might turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife, who looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah.
I could see my ankles, far away and out of reach. Hairy. Really need a wax.
‘Five more breaths,’ the yoga teacher said quietly as she walked around the room adjusting positions.
She’s not going to bother coming to me, I thought a little too bitterly; some hands on my back would be nice, but you couldn’t really adjust someone who was sitting perpendicular to the floor.
I drew a long deep breath and closed my eyes. My mind drifted off. The previous night I had read a book called A Mother Like Alex. Since starting my break I had quit my fiction habit and, along with books on religion and spirituality, had started reading biographies. My bedside table now had towers of books that balanced precariously, competing for space with my lamp and small yellow earplugs. Some were about disability, others motherhood or divorce. I read broadly about unexpected turns in people’s lives. They all chronicled sorrows, grief and pain. What better way to keep things in perspective, I told myself.
I’d picked up A Mother Like Alex from the local library’s disability area: a shelf heavy with sadness.
The story was about a woman who had felt a calling since she was a child to work with special-needs children and who went on to pioneer adoption for special-needs kids in the UK. A single mother, she had fostered and then adopted nine children, all with different disabilities: Down syndrome, autism, cerebral palsy . . . I was astonished that someone would choose to have kids with disabilities. Choosing an imperfect family and a life of dependency. Imagine that! I thought as I tried hard to do just that, imagine . . .
For her oldest, a twenty-year-old man with Down syndrome, she dreamed that one day he would live in a separate but adjoined house so he could be partially independent and get married.
That sounded like a good plan: dependent but independent.
‘Ten more breaths,’ the yoga teacher said. ‘Breathe into any tightness.’
Any tightness? There was only tightness.
I knew I was supposed to be an ‘observer’ of my thoughts and not an active participant, but the silence allowed my mind to wander.
Thoughts circled about Dov and Lev’s future. Thoughts that I didn’t usually allow but which Alex’s story had brought to the surface. What did the future hold? What did an imperfect family look like? What would Dov and Lev do when they grew up? While other parents grappled with ‘empty nest syndrome’, what did parents do if their child never grew up?
How independent would Dov and Lev be when they were twenty? Maybe we could build a granny flat for them to live in. But would they be able to feed themselves? Would they walk, talk, read or write? It wasn’t looking good. They would be heavy. They would be big men. Who would bathe them? Get them to bed? Would they need a full-time carer? Two carers? Where would they live?
I had stopped breathing.
Stop it! I inhaled. Don’t think about the future, you know you can’t afford to think about the future, I scolded myself. If only, I thought, despite myself, if only I could hang on to an image of the future that would combat this debilitating fear of a life with dependent grown-up children. But such an image was too hard to grasp, only leading me in circles of anxiety like a dog chasing its tail.
Whatever happens, I told myself sternly, you will be okay, you will manage, you will survive, and you will find joy and happiness. Just remember, whatever happens, you are a strong woman. I took another deep breath.
Pulled out of my reverie, I noticed that everyone else was already in the downward-dog position: feet and hands on the floor and bum in the air. Ouch, soon my arms were shaking visibly with the strain. Again I thought of Dov and Lev, but this time to draw inspiration from them. I pictured them in their physiotherapy, working so courageously to sit and stand. They are so brave, each day they achieve feats of mental endurance and coordination. I have it so easy, I thought.
The Miracle of Love Page 18