Let me open a window for you. It is a window into Then. My mother’s hair is not yet grey; mine will not be grey, for decades to come. I am trying to understand something – so, I ask her: why would any woman actively want to put herself through the pain of childbirth? She answers: it’s true, at the time, there is a lot of pain and distress. But … then, your brain forgets all that very quickly, and what you have left is happiness, the joy of having a lovely baby. I am unconvinced, but moved. In the decades that follow, I remember her words and hold them close to my heart.
Let me open a new window for you. It is a window into Now. I am sitting in my comfortable living room near the fireplace, enjoying the warmth of its embers. It is dark outside and my husband is still sleeping in our king size bed, which I left a few minutes ago, taking my sleek laptop with me as I crept along the corridor, to avoid waking him. There is plenty of grey in my hair now, but I’ve grown comfortable with that. My body still works pretty well, even though it has developed a few niggles over time. I think back on my mother’s words. I smile – I am not a mother, and I am content with that. But … I will always have my mother’s words, and her love.
I’ve been finding it difficult to sleep since I left the hospital, just over a day ago. It wasn’t a planned visit: my screaming had woken both me and my husband on Friday morning, as I alternately writhed and froze in indescribable pain. One ambulance and two intravenous doses of morphine later, I had been admitted to the gynaecology ward. In the following days, various tests were hastily arranged and numerous further doses of morphine were administered. As my pain gradually subsided, my nausea increased. I vomited, more than I ever thought possible. On Day 3, I began refusing the morphine. It’s still in my system though – I can feel it in my sluggish insides, in the crawling of my skin and at the edges of my mind. The GP said I must be sensitive to morphine and told me that it would take another day or so to clear.
I was privileged to share a room on the ward with two other women: I’ll call them M and N. With the help of these two wonderful people, I will open two more windows for you.
M’s window looks about fifteen years into the future. She has a warm heart that is at least as big as her blue eyes and her wide smile. She’s been flown to the hospital from one of Scotland’s small islands. She misses her husband, her home and her wheelchair, that would enable her to travel back to the island on a commercial flight. As it is, she has to wait for the air ambulance to transport her back. She speaks of her excitement at going home again at last, and of enjoying her specially adapted bath. Oh, she longs for that bath! Even so, she is cheerful. She is cheerful that she has no pain, cheerful that she’s on the mend, cheerful about the good things in life – she’s a joy to be with. In the event that my future holds what M’s present does; I will be proud to be even a little like her.
N’s window looks about fifteen years further into the future, beyond the one where we’ve just left M. Whilst M is loquacious, N is silent. The warmth of her heart is there to be seen, but it’s behind something else in her eyes – sorrow, perhaps? She smiles back at me whenever I smile at her. Occasionally, she rolls her eyes as she smiles and shakes her head gently, causing the tubes in her nose, arms and abdomen to rattle a little, as they collide with each other and the bed frame. Her face is pale and yellowish, her nose pinched and her cheeks drawn. I’ve seen faces like hers before; faces that very quickly faded into the irretrievable realms of memory. When my time comes, I hope I can muster some of her dignity and strength.
I was discharged from hospital the day before M. As I was leaving, we wished each other well and each said we would think of each other. I sincerely hope that she is now happily at home and that her specially adapted bath is her own slice of paradise. As I walked (walked! – such a joy!) out of the ward, I smiled at N and she smiled back, silently projecting worlds of emotion with her eyes.
It’s not just sleep that I’ve been finding difficult since I left the hospital; it’s a few things. One of these has been the sudden grip of fear: fear of the physical pain still so recent in my memory, fear of ever needing to be back in hospital, fear of the overwhelming inevitability that I had glimpsed through those two windows into the future. I think my fear is at last partly fuelled by morphine withdrawal. The drug still scratches at the insides of my skull and chills the back of my neck. I’m aching to be rid of the morphine; so I reach again for the fruit juice, trying to flush it out. More than anything, though, I want to be rid of the fear. I think back again, and my mother’s words return to comfort me: your brain forgets the pain and distress very quickly, and what you have left is happiness and joy.
I stand. I turn and look all around me, marvelling at the joy in every corner of the room, in every space inside and outside the house, in every part of my lucky, wonderful life. I decide: I will live life with joy, not with fear – because, to do anything less is a terrible waste.
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