Friday 13 August 2010

In Search of Lost Time

August finds me, unprepared. I am not ready for this time of year to be here so quickly, once again.
It is the tail end of the summer here in England.
The dregs of the pale, sharp sunlight.
The evenings darken. 
The weather chills.
It is raining here this morning and the sky is grey.
It suits me.

The dates loom on the horizon, sometimes welcome, sometimes ominous.
The 26th.
The 29th. 
The time in-between. 
When two years ago, Georgina existed. Breathed. Had a chance.
A voice murmurs in my ear, "She lived, she lived. It could have been."
The world was shot through with gold. Briefly.
As it has been by many brief lives before it. Many brief lives since.
Those pure golden veins of possibility, potential. 
Glimmer.
Closed off before they became sluggish and tired. 

Increasingly, I scurry about. Trying to remember those days.
Because how can those important hours, the only hours I will ever spend in the company of my eldest daughter, be so very lost to me?

My imagination tries to patch up those flapping holes. Conjuring up memories from photographs, from wishes. Memories which are not real, are not true.
Trying to sort out what actually happened over those three and a bit days is difficult.
It becomes increasingly so as I am irresistibly drawn further and further away. 
A different person from that woman in 2008.

I am still shocked when I look up and see that things have changed.
The change of shops in the high street.
The Wool.worths where I bought the twin's first outfits, an empty shell, then filled in by a pound shop.
The news stories that are seared into my mind. 
My husband bought a newspaper every day that we stayed at the hospital. Something that we do not usually buy.
The opening of the large Hadron collider.
The US presidential election.
These events have grown smaller, duller. They are part of the past now.
I can scarcely believe it. 

I remember.
I remember sitting outside the hospital with my husband.
We were both sitting on the kerb, at the front door of the hospital.
It was late evening, the sun was setting.
We were drinking cans of fizzy drink.
We were so stupid, we didn't understand.
We were trying to cheer one another up. 
We kept saying, "She'll pull through, she's been so strong. We can't lose her now. Surely she would have died last night if she was going to. The doctors are saying that there is still a chance. Our daughter won't die."
I think we simply couldn't believe that something so terrible had happened to us.
We walked back into the hospital. 
I felt stronger. I felt sure.
I would like to go back and give myself a good, bone clattering shake. Tell myself to wake up. 
Because time is pressing.

There was a single, solitary decoration in the lobby of the NICU.
A Mr. Daydream hung from a string dangling from the ceiling.
We used to reach up and touch Mr. Daydream for luck before we went in.
After Georgina died, we stopped doing this.

I remember when Georgina opened her eyes for the first time.
They were so blue. She looked so wise.
I felt as though I knew her a little. I hope I was right.

Her movements looked so strong to start with.
Then they became spasmodic. 
After her brain was damaged. 
She had beautiful little feet.
I remember that her skin was slightly hairy, as it often is in premature babies.
She had a sweet chin.
Her profile was like her sister's.
I'll always wonder how alike they would have looked.

I remember talking to one of the consultants in the family room.
It was the middle of the night.
He was kind. He looked tired. His hair looked pulled about, as though he had been running his fingers through it in exasperation.
I was crying.
I was asking if there was any point to any of this. Because I couldn't bear it.
To see them so exposed. Like tiny open wounds being poked.
With needles and lines puncturing their skins. Their small eyelids flickering.
Was there any chance of a life?
A life with any understanding, a life with a chance of happiness.
Because, in the dark hours of that night, the whole endeavour seemed futile.

I remember holding Georgina for the first time.
I felt such joy, happiness, peace.
I can't really explain why.
We were something other than ourselves at that time.
Or, perhaps, we were the most like Georgina and her mother that we are ever likely to be.
I was glad to be with her.
To finally touch her.
I very much wanted to feed her. I remember that. The last desperate instincts of a mother not ready to face the truth. Not ready to let go.
I held her.
My husband held her.
The ventilator was removed but I'm not sure how. I can't remember that part.
I seem to remember Georgina trying to take some breaths in my husband's arms. I have written that in my diary. But I am no longer certain that it is true.

We left the ward. 
The medical staff did something to Georgina. I think they gave her morphine and they took her lines out.
I remember being worried that she would not have enough morphine. 
I think I asked. I hope I asked.
I think they reassured me that she would not hurt.
We went to another room. I think that the curtains were green. Or perhaps I am confusing it with the green of the memory box that the hospital gave us.
We sat in two chairs opposite one another.
I held Georgina, or possibly Georgina's body.
As she turned from one to the other.
It felt like quite a long time.
Or possibly, no time at all.
We seemed to be operating outside of time somehow.

A nurse came in periodically to check if her heart was still beating.
When it had stopped we unwrapped her.
I washed her body.
I wish I could remember doing this but all I am certain of is that the water was cold and I was upset by that.
I dressed her.
The clothes were the hospital's.
They were too big.
She had a very thick, woollen cardigan. I think it was white with a pale pattern.
A pointed hat with a pom pom.
I thought she was beautiful.

The family came in.
I gave Georgina's body to my sister.
I took it back.
The family left.

We put Georgina's body in a crib left by the hospital.
As my hands left her body, I experienced a lurch in perspective.
Blood dribbled from her mouth.
The clothes seemed innocuous and wrong.
The hat too jaunty.
The cardigan overwhelming. Its wool, irritating.
I wanted to snatch her up and take her with me.
She looked suddenly purple and alone.

But I couldn't take her.
Yet I didn't want to leave her.
But I knew I had to.
I felt as though I was about to rip off a plaster. Enlarged to a massive scale. A plaster stuck to every inch of skin I possess.

I looked at her.
I looked at my husband.
We walked out of the room.

I never saw her again.

I have another memory but it is a false one.
I am holding Georgina in a 'kangaroo care' hold, upright, as you are taught to do with premature babies.
I never held her that way round. I'm fairly sure.
Her hand is moving across my chest. Patting.
I think that the memory of that tiny hand is actually a muddle of wishful thinking, a dream and an actual encounter with Jessica, some weeks later.
I don't think Georgina was capable of that patting motion by the time I held her.
But my brain has determined that the baby should be Georgina.

'A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.'

This time in my life will never completely unhappen. I don't believe that it will ever stop.
Some times in our life, perhaps, just carry on happening. In another room. Parallel.
Times which are shocking, altering. Which send heart racing up throats. They cannot just fall away. 
Like my memories of brushing my teeth yesterday morning or what I ate for lunch one afternoon in 1995 have fallen away. 
Some things remain. Because there is nothing else to do with them. 
They cannot vanish. They cannot happen again, they can never take centre stage again. 
So they are pushed to the sides, where they continue.

I go forward, in a seemingly linear fashion.
But next to me, just out of reach. She lives and dies. 
Georgina does not completely unhappen.
Perhaps there is a strange comfort in that.
These are what I search for. 
Those strange, comfortable places where I can rest myself for a few moments.
With my memories of that sweet girl who was so nearly my daughter.
She was such a lovely baby. Truly.
It might have been hard to see underneath all the illness and equipment.
But I saw her. She was lovely.

****

Our trip to the fertility clinic resulted in pretty much what I had expected.
Husband dearest, nary a problem.
Me, slightly more complicated.

My previous pregnancies and surgeries introduced a mild infection which has damaged the structure of my womb. One of my ovaries is wandering around where it should not be.
Releasing eggs into the wild blue yonder of my abdominal cavity.

So I guess that explains a lot.

On the plus side, we are good candidates for IVF. Just need to locate the money.
On the negative side, this feels like a bit of a kick to the ribs whilst I was already on the floor.

But, as my husband says, "Catherine, it is nothing personal. Shit happens."

My predominant feeling is actually relief. It seems that the Gods do not smile kindly on my efforts to reproduce myself. Perhaps with good reason. 

But somehow, unlikely as it was, one snuck past them.
And for that, I rejoice.

More tests await. 

25 comments:

  1. "We seemed to be operating outside of time somehow."

    This is how it was for me as well. Perfectly put.

    I have a post of random memories like this in my drafts folder. You have inspired me to dig it out and hit publish.

    Because memories are all that we have left, so I may as well share them to try and keep them alive.

    Amazing post. Thinking of you and both of your babies so much this month.

    (And thanks for the fertility update.)

    xo

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  2. Your words took me there so vividly Catherine. Sweet Georgina, I am so sorry she is not with you.

    It's hard when you get to that point when you realise that the intervention is just hurting them, not helping them. It is crushing. And yet there is such sweetness in the holding of them at the end, without the gismos and gadgets, just you and them and their daddy.

    Sending you much love.
    xx

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  3. Oh Catherine, Sophie is right your words took me there too. I'm holding you close in my thoughts this month.x

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  4. Thinking of you and holding you close to my heart. As Sophie said, your words took me right there. XO

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  5. Sending love and support your way...remembering beautiful Georgina with you..

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  6. Thinking of you and your sweet little baby, Georgina. Love what your husband said. So true, and yet, we still beat ourselves up don't we?

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  7. It made me smile when you wrote, "I felt like I knew her a little." You sure did, mama. More than anyone else, you did. I am thinking of you today and in the days and weeks to come. I have been thru IVF twice, and I'm on my third, so if you want to write me, you have my e mail address. Big hugs to you, sweetheart.

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  8. This post just knocked me over.

    Thinking of you and your girls and hoping August is kind as it can be.

    Sending love.

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  9. I sit here crying as I try to read your post. I have so few memories of my daughter's 20hours here on earth. I am so glad you shared yours.

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  10. Your trip down memory lane wrenched my heart. Thank you for sharing these bittersweet memories... ((hugs)) and so much love.

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  11. crying with you... hoping for you... sending love. (hugs)

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  12. Shit happens, but it still doesn't make it okay, fair, or any less exquisitely painful. My heart breaks for you, Catherine. I pray your upcoming tests bring encouraging news.

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  13. Sometimes I can read your writing without crying, Catherine, but not often. I only have one side of your story, but then another one on top, and well, I'm not making sense, but I'm so there with you. So, so there with you. I'm just crying with the eloquence of your words.
    I am enraged about the fact that you must now go through IVF. Stupid, stupid crap our bodies put us through. And what caused this? GRRRRRRR. I'm angry for you.
    But hopeful. I'm so hopeful, Catherine.
    All my love to you, my friend.

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  14. We share a date, you and I. My dates are looming too. Memories which are still too painful are pushed far away.

    ((hugs)) Catherine. August sucks.

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  15. Thinking of you Catherine, and remembering Georgina with you... XO

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  16. Oh, Catherine-- it is so very hard to remember those days, isn't it? I am only three months out from my sweet girl's sudden death, and I still live those four days in the hospital multiple times every day. It is so very difficult to let go of those images and yet part of me doesn't want to let go, either, because those are my last memories of Hudson. I worry a lot about whether she was in any pain before she went into a coma-- but I have no way of knowing, and I was so totally freaked out at the time, it didn't even occur to me to ask.

    Thank you so much for visiting and commenting on my blog. I am thinking of you and your Georgina over these next weeks, and will keep visiting and bearing witness to your grief.

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  17. Your words are so familiar, as if they came from my own heart- only so much more poetically written.

    I am thinking of you and your baby girl. You have been such a comfort through everything with Connor and I only hope that I can provide some degree of comfort to you as well.

    Best of luck with your tests. Thinking of you. xox

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  18. Thanks for sharing those precious memories with us. As usual your words have touched me deeply. I love that quote: 'A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.'

    Totally there with you, wishing August would be over. Much love & strength your way! xoxo

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  19. Very, very beautiful. Your mind is beautiful Catherine..

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  20. There were so many moments in this post that made me cry because, although our stories are different, I understood so much of this ... and your memories of Georgina. I felt very privileged to bear witness to them.

    And this - "The world was shot through with gold. Briefly." made me howl. That's how it was. Absolutely how it was

    And I am so sad and angry that you have fertility stuff going on. I don't know what else to add about that. It's just not fair.

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  21. thank you....for sharing your journey. poignant...touching...your words comfort me in knowing I'm not alone. Wishing I were though...for your sake. (hug)

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  22. you and he weren't stupid. it's just impossible to accept that these things can happen, that babies can die, before they actually do. you shouldn't have lost her.

    you carried her for weeks and weeks. you did know her. no doubt about it.

    i still hope that you'll be pregnant again soon with a baby who is born uneventfully and alive at 40 weeks.

    you, and me too.

    i kind of hope that we can go through it together.

    my fingers are crossed.

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  23. Oh, Catherine, I cry for you, with you, as I realize it is that time between the 26th and the 29th...
    Thinking of your sweet eldest daughter, and you.

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  24. What a beautiful, heartbreaking post. I am so sorry that you had to endure this, and that you keep having to endure this, and that you will for the rest of your life, just as you have written. It is horrible. I cannot even begin to imagine your pain.

    I know what you mean about feeling like the Gods do not smile on you trying to reproduce yourself, and that one snuck by. That is exactly how I feel, and you put it perfectly into words.

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  25. Beautiful and heart wrenching and desperately sad. I'm glad you got to hold her - even just for a moment - but I'm so sorry that she has gone.

    Leaving her that last time... I know... I wish I didn't, I wish none of us did.

    xx

    p.s. I'm slowly reading through your archives so I realise that these comments are way late, but sometimes I just feel compelled to leave them anyway...

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