of calico. I cut the letters of our names out of red felt and
sewed them onto the bags, then spent whole days creating
surprises to go into them—a photo frame made from fabric
sewn over wire, a bookmark made from coloured strips of
fabric with a photo of Benny and his mate fishing stitched
onto it, foot-rub vouchers (no more than twenty minutes)
and a poem (written by me for Benny and performed by
me with Mum on back-ups). Mum contributed wasabi peas,
pistachio nougat and a Russian doll keyring.
When Ben came home, I would raise my stiff body from
the couch, move gingerly to the bathroom for a nervously
short cool shower, and put on mascara and a clean, loose
dress. Ben and I would follow Mum out the front, carrying
snacks, sandalwood incense, drinks and lucky dips. I walked
slowly, fearfully, with my hand on my stomach. We tied rags
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to the grapevine—each rag represented a down day—and
we all clinked glasses: ‘To another day down . . . twenty-
four weeks and six days.’ Hang in, baby girl.
Benny told us about his day on the sixteenth floor and
we opened Lucky Dip bags. The sun went down and the
heat receded.
My body temperature was already high when the stinking
summer months rolled in. With the air-conditioning cranked
up (the no-aircon policy no longer applied), Benny watched
TV in jumpers with his arms folded while I lay spread over
an armchair sweating, with wet face washers on my forehead
and around my neck. At twenty-eight weeks, my confidence
buoyed, I ventured slowly to a café a block away.
‘Is it your first, love?’ asked a woman standing beside
me at the counter.
I wanted to hiss and tell her it was none of her business.
‘No . . . well . . . yes . . .’ I hated the feeling of disloyalty,
but what could I say in a three-word sentence? ‘Yes, yes it
is.’ I smiled fakely and ordered a coffee. I’ve become bitter,
I thought. So that’s how it happens.
Jordan’s unused wooden cot and change table had been
disassembled and—together with his dresser, books, blankets
and clothes—stacked into a shed at a friend’s house in the
Adelaide Hills. Now Benny and I drove out there to bring
them home.
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Josie came over from Melbourne, and I sat against the wall
while she and Benny set up the room. Benny reassembled
the cot and the change table, and pushed the unmarked
white wooden dresser into a corner next to the window. It
felt both very good and very sad to see all Jordan’s things
again—to revisit all those dreams of dressing him on that
change table, laying him down in that cot, wrapping him
in those blankets.
I could not believe I was having another baby; but here
we were, setting up the room. Benny hung Jordan and
Leo’s tractor and airplane paintings back on the walls. Josie
washed, ironed and folded the blankets and clothes, and the
room shone in readiness.
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Epilogue
We made it.
I made it, Benny made it, and yes—Mia made it. The
doctor held her up for us—the prettiest face we’d ever seen,
and perfectly ready for the world. We beamed with joy
until our faces hurt and tears rolled down our cheeks. As I
write, she is a feisty, delicious twenty-two-month-old baby
girl—a robust and demanding affirmation of life. She has
Benny’s dark curly hair, a mouth like Jordan’s and the most
perfect dimpled bottom. Mia is the centre of our world and
we are utterly besotted.
‘What doin’, Mamma?’ she asks.
‘I’m writing a story, my darling. It’s about your brothers
and it’s about you, little doll.’
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Would I do it all again if I had the choice? I’ve been
pulled back to the moment of Jordan and Leo’s birth lots
of times—racked with guilt, my face twisted and drenched
with tears. Did we do the right thing? Jordan and Leo
did it tough. And babies as premature as ours can develop
crippling disabilities—commonly cerebral palsy—and spend
their lives dependent on carers. They can be blind or deaf
or have learning difficulties. Mums and dads can have their
hearts pummelled caring for their children, battling to
give them a life and protect them from the sting of being
different, or racing them into intensive care, with fear in
their veins, every time they get a cold.
I still grieve as if my boys died yesterday. The passing of
time only makes me mad because, with time, the memories
fade. I can’t remember the feel of their skin or the weight
of their small bodies any more. Their faces are becoming
blurred and replaced by photo images. Given an empty
paddock or beach, I could wail my guts out on any given day.
And I am an anxious and over-protective mother. When
Mia gets sick, I am nerve-racked and go without sleep for
days—I just lie there, listening to her breathing. For me, it
is not a big leap from a cough to a life-threatening illness,
and I am tempted to keep every piece of paper she scribbles
on. Other mums say, ‘Oh, I wish they didn’t grow up so
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fast . . .’ but not me—I’m keen to see Mia grow big and
strong, just to know she will get there.
But our time with Jordan and Leo was gold, and I know
in my bones that their being in the world could not have
been more right. We were asked to let them go, and we did,
and it will forever be my greatest personal challenge. Because
only by taking the pressure off myself, by learning to be
gentle, can I live peacefully without them and still accept
that they are gone. Only if I stop running, stop blaming
myself, can I let the grief just be sadness without anguish.
Only by accepting the path of life, instead of clinging to it
and trying hard to force its direction, can I live peacefully
without them.
I’m at the end of my story and the sun is finally making
an appearance after days of rain and fog. Looking back over
everything, I’m glad it’s over. I miss my boys deeply and I’m
grateful I was their mum—they made me who I am. I’m
glad it’s over, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
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Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Mum for her honest editing, for being my
greatest advocate, and for her endless support of Benny and
me on our journey. An extra special thanks to Benny—my
shining light of a husband. You are the ants’ pants, my love.
Thank you to Richard Walsh for believing in my
manuscript, to Catherine Milne for her editing wisdom,
and to all at Allen & Unwin.
Thank you to Pat Mitchell for being an insightful and
encouraging mentor, and to Peter Bishop for his guidance,
&nbs
p; support and inspiration. Thank you to Varuna Writers’
Retreat—my time at Varuna enabled me to dig deep into
my story—and to Wojciech Dabrowski for the beautiful title.
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Benny and I would sincerely like to thank the staff at
the Adelaide Women’s & Children’s Hospital, in particular
Professor Ross Haslam. We are eternally grateful.
Acknowledgements to Jim and Angelina at the Tynte St
Café—oh the hours spent on that little couch in the corner.
Most of all, thank you to my beloved children, Jordan,
Leo and Mia, for the privilege of being your mum, and for
being my inspiration to write.
This is for you, my darlings.
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Document Outline
About the author
Title page
Part One 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part Two 10
11
12
13
14
15
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Serenade for a Small Family Page 21