Serenade for a Small Family

by Ingrid Laguna

  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

  243

  I N G R I D L A G U N A

  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.

  244

  Serenade for a Small Family

  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.

  245

  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.’

  246

  Serenade for a Small Family

  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

  247

  I N G R I D L A G U N A

  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.

  248

  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.

  249

  I N G R I D L A G U N A

  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.

  250

  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