* * *
I remembered seeing Kate holding Reef for the very first time, clasping his tiny little hand in hers when he was newborn. A look of incredible love filled her face, like a maternal light had been switched on. She looked radiant and fulfilled, and it was a look that became wonderfully familiar.
“Singe, isn’t he beautiful?” she cooed. “I can’t believe he’s ours.”
I could scarcely believe it either. We had first tried for a baby four or five years earlier, a couple of years after we married, but Kate suffered a miscarriage. It was absolutely awful, something I would rather forget. She was scared and she cried when she had to go into hospital because it reminded her of being a child, having operations to have her tonsils and adenoids removed. I wanted to protect her, like she was a little girl all over again.
If I’m honest, I was in no rush to try again for a baby after that experience, but when Kate didn’t get pregnant month after month she began to worry.
“Singe, what if that was our only chance to have a baby? What if I can’t get pregnant again?” she fretted.
“I just know we’ll have kids together one day,” I always soothed. “It will happen, we just have to be patient. Don’t worry.”
Kate couldn’t help but worry. I found it quite difficult to get my head around her reaction, because she was certainly not what you might describe as the “maternal type” back then, far from it. First and foremost Kate was an action girl and an adrenaline junkie. Even though I was very sad and sorry about the miscarriage, it didn’t make me panic. I knew Kate would make a brilliant mum one day, when the time was right.
“We’ve got plenty of time before we need to worry,” I reasoned. “And we’ve got plenty of things we want to do together in the meantime. Perhaps it’s just not the right time yet. Let nature take its course.”
Kate wasn’t at all convinced by my words. The miscarriage had made her anxious, and she felt she was somehow letting the side down, not providing me with children, or her parents with grandchildren. We went for tests, and Kate was diagnosed with the fairly common condition of polycystic ovaries, which we learned makes it more difficult to get pregnant but by no means makes it impossible.
Kate was only just into her thirties by this point, and we had years and years stretching ahead of us, or so we thought. The diagnosis reassured her, up to a point. We both agreed not to obsess about pregnancy every month, but to use the extra time to tick a few more things off our “to-do” list before we settled into parenthood.
A year went by, and we went on holiday to Tobago. Looking back, I can’t believe how simple life was in those days. Apart from the miscarriage, nothing bad ever happened to us. We sailed through life, seizing opportunities, always planning the next big adventure. Kate wasn’t pregnant, so we went on holiday. Life was that straightforward, though I must admit she was getting steadily more broody, month by month.
During that holiday, I remember sitting on a pontoon together, soaking up the sun after a dive in the Caribbean Sea. We’d just swapped smiley glances after we heard a dad making his little boy giggle like mad.
“What an amazing giggle,” Kate said. “I wonder what our children’s giggles will sound like?”
“Have you heard yourself?” I teased. “You were talking about booking up to dive the Blue Hole yesterday.”
“Blue Hole, Belize, when the boys are good enough divers.” The Blue Hole—one of the most astounding dive sites on the planet—was on my and Kate’s wish list long before it was on Mum’s List. We’d started looking into flights and hotels, hoping to make it our latest big “hurrah” as “DINKYs”—the acronym for a couple with “Dual Income No Kids Yet.”
“We can do both,” she grinned. “Kids won’t change us. I want to do everything with you.”
The ringing of the children’s laughter mixed with Kate’s romantic words was incredibly alluring. Kate was looking very sexy in a skimpy black bikini. The sun was warming our bodies as we watched the dive boat disappear, and I kissed her passionately. I wanted to father Kate’s children, and I felt so blessed that such an awesome woman wanted my babies, our babies. We made a pact to seek more medical help when we got home, and also to book the holiday to Belize and the Blue Hole.
Without hesitation our doctor prescribed the fertility drug Clomid to boost Kate’s chances of conceiving, but he warned it could still take years to get pregnant because of the polycystic ovaries. We discussed the possibility of IVF if the fertility drug failed, and Kate and I both agreed we should look into starting treatment once we returned from the Blue Hole.
Kate wanted to upgrade her scuba-diving qualifications before such a major dive holiday, and we decided to book a trip to Tenerife so she could do an intensive scuba instructor’s course in the sunshine. In the meantime, Kate was very keen we should keep “practicing” for a baby. I could be wearing rubber gloves, up to my armpits in washing up, or packing up life jackets in the garage when she’d pounce without warning.
“No time like the present,” she would purr, eyes glinting saucily, already pulling at my clothing.
Making love with Kate was always amazing, and making babies was absolutely mind-blowing.
“This won’t take long, with all this practicing,” I joked, but still Kate didn’t fall pregnant.
We went to Tenerife in November 2003. I remember two events very clearly during that holiday. England won the Rugby World Cup, and Kate uttered the life-changing words: “I’m late. I think I’m pregnant.”
“Shut up!” I replied, stunned. “Don’t be stupid!”
She was only halfway through her scuba course, and this wasn’t what I expected to hear at all. I think I’d conditioned myself to believe the baby would arrive as ordered, after the Blue Hole and before we had to go down the road of IVF.
Kate’s instinct was true, of course. She was actually pregnant, and when the test confirmed it once we returned home we both cried buckets.
“Are you crying because we can’t do the Blue Hole right now or because you’re going to be a daddy?” Kate mocked.
“The Blue Hole will still be there when the baby is old enough to come with us,” I said. “I thought you said kids wouldn’t change our lifestyle. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, we’ll all go together,” she beamed. “You, me and our children.”
“Steady on, how many are we having?”
“I’d like three,” she said.
“Three?!” I spluttered.
“Yes, three,” she said, rolling her eyes and planting a kiss on my lips that made my heart melt. “You know I’ve always wanted three!”
“Let’s have the first one, and take it from there.” I smiled.
We chose the name Coral for a girl and Reef if we had a boy, derived from Tenerife as well as from the coral reefs we loved to explore.
A few months on I videoed one of Kate’s baby scans at the hospital, even though you’re not meant to, and there was no mistaking we had a little boy on the way.
“Hello, Reef.” Kate waved ecstatically at the ultrasound screen.
I can remember our excitement, the sheer thrill of having our baby growing inside Kate, and seeing his outline on the screen. It gave me the biggest adrenaline rush of my life, and that’s saying something.
* * *
Now here I was, taking Reef for an MRI scan without his mummy. Our tiny little miracle had grown into a lively five-year-old boy, against so many odds.
Reef turned the music back on in the car as I drove on to the hospital, and I was surprised when he selected OPM’s “Brighter Side.” I’d forgotten the track was even on my iPod, but Reef found it that day as we headed into Bristol.
“Listen to this,” he said. “It reminds me of Mummy.”
He whacked up the volume, and the words hit me like an avalanche. I bit my lip t
o stop the tears falling, but it was no use. I’d heard the song countless times before, but now every line sounded like it was written for Kate. I imagined her as the song said, a beautiful soul in a brighter place, yet still always a part of us, as the moon is always a part of the sea. Just as the lyrics said, every moment she lived was a blessing to us. Now that she had flown away we had to carry on without her, but everything was going to be all right.
“Does it remind you of Mummy too?” Reef asked innocently, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, Reef,” I said in a cracked voice, failing to hide my emotions. “Sorry, Reef, you really got me there,” I added, sniffing and wiping my eyes. “That really does remind me of Mummy.”
“Are you all right, Daddy?”
“Yes, Reef. Are you?”
“Everything’s gonna be all right.” He nodded, mimicking the song and smiling.
Kate’s mum met me at the hospital.
“Thought you might be glad of some help,” Christine said kindly.
“I’m always glad of help with little Mike Tyson here,” I joked, reminiscing about the time Reef got so fed up with the anesthetist he clocked him one right under the chin.
Now that Reef was five I hoped he might be able to manage going in the scanner without a fight, and without being unconscious. To my relief he agreed to give it a go.
“Do I get a present afterward?” he asked cheekily.
“Yes,” Christine and I replied in unison.
The scanner makes a horrible drumming and clicking sound, and I put some headphones on Reef so he could listen to music instead. I also managed to stand in a position where I could hold his hand and he could see me while the machine did its work. He had to stay still for more than twenty minutes, which was a heck of a big ask, but he did it.
“Well done, you did amazingly well, Reef,” I told him afterward.
“Can I have the remote-controlled car, the one with lasers on?”
“Yes you can,” I agreed.
“You have to get one for Finn too so we can do battles. If I knock out three of his lights he’s OUT!” he told me, clearly reciting something he’d heard on an advert.
After the scan Reef had to go through the usual routine of giving blood samples and being weighed, prodded and poked by doctors and nurses.
“Everything looks as it should be,” a doctor said eventually. “We should get the MRI results back in three to four days’ time.”
The waiting was torturous, despite the doctor’s positive attitude, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. The following evening I sat alone on the sofa, watching the boys do battle with their laser cars. They were completely enthralled, which was just as well, as the cars Reef chose had set me back about £70, which was a lot more than I had bargained for, the cheeky monkey.
I thought back to when Reef was a baby, and Kate sat with him in the same spot on this sofa, worrying about his high temperature.
“It’s not normal, Singe,” she fretted. “He’s got a temperature of one hundred and two degrees.”
Reef was nine months old and had recently had his MMR shot, which we were warned could cause a fever and make him unsettled. Up until this point he had been a lively bundle of trouble, already able to walk, which was incredibly early. Now, though, he was as white as a ghost and floppy in the evenings, and he was so hot you could feel the heat radiating through his baby-grow. We gave him Calpol at first, and when that didn’t work we took him back to the doctor, again and again. Eventually, when Reef showed no improvement, and days stretched into weeks, it was suggested he could have reactive arthritis, a possible side effect of the MMR shot. It was explained to us that this can cause temporary pain and swelling in the joints, which would hopefully disappear without treatment. Kate was horrified; we both were.
“So we just have to wait and see?” Kate said, incredulous that giving her baby a routine immunization might have had such a devastating effect. “Singe, this is a nightmare.”
I remember Kate’s words clearly, because we really had walked into a nightmare, although we had absolutely no idea just how hideous that nightmare was. Now, five years on, I was still worrying and waiting, and I was doing it on my own. It was incredibly tough, despite the fact Reef was doing so well, and the worst of the nightmare was over.
* * *
The phone rang in the living room, making me jump.
“How did you get on at the hospital?” Ruth asked.
“No news yet, we’ve got clinic on Thursday.”
“What? You have to wait two more days for the results?”
“’Fraid so, you know how it is.”
“How was Reef?”
“Awesome! We didn’t have to gas him.”
“That’s great, Singe, well done you! Let me know as soon as you know?”
I promised I would, and I was very grateful for Ruth’s call. She made me focus on what an achievement it had been to get Reef though the MRI not only without his mum, but without the anesthetic. He’d done brilliantly, and deep down I had a good feeling about the results. Still, as Finn would say, I had two more sleeps to get through before I knew for certain, and they weren’t peaceful.
I felt exhausted when I finally walked into the clinic on the Thursday, and I could scarcely believe my ears when the doctor delivered the news.
“The scan is all clear,” he told me with a smile.
I have to say, I felt more relieved than jubilant. Perhaps I was just too tired to do celebratory cartwheels down the corridor, or perhaps my self-preservation instinct had kicked in. We thought Kate’s cancer had gone, but then it came back. I’d learned not to get carried away with cancer results, because you never really know what’s around the corner. The words “all clear” were undoubtedly encouraging, but we were only four years on from the start of Reef’s treatment. He was not officially in remission, and I knew all too well that receiving an “all clear” after the all-important five-year check would be far more significant. I also felt lonely, I realized, not having Kate with me to share this good news.
“It’s a great result,” I told Ruth later.
“Singe! You must be so delighted,” she replied.
“Yes, it’s absolutely brilliant news,” I said, though I was not feeling 100 percent brilliant in myself. I was delighted with Reef’s news, of course, but I missed Kate so much. I wanted her to scoop our little boy in her arms and kiss him and tell him how brave he was. I wanted her to see how we were moving further away from the nightmare that had started more than five years earlier, but I couldn’t. Kate wasn’t even on the wardrobe now. I was well and truly on my own, and she had missed out on this heartening step forward.
The next day we were going on our Easter holiday. I’d agreed to take the boys camping to Ruda Holiday Park in Croyde Bay, Devon, with about twenty-odd members of Kate’s side of the family. Kate loved that sort of holiday, because it’s what she did as a child, and it brought back happy memories.
I hate camping. I never could see the point of sleeping in a box in a field when you could go home to your own comfortable bed. To me holidays are all about spoiling yourself and being waited on hand and foot. Camping reminded me of work; I’d organized countless camping trips for Duke of Edinburgh Award students and always enjoyed them, but roughing it was not something I wanted to do in my leisure time.
I remembered the last time I went camping with Kate’s extended family. It was Easter 2008, and we were completely worn out after nursing Reef through his chemo and radiation treatment for practically three years. Finn was an extremely boisterous two-year-old by then. I remember feeling absolutely shattered as we packed up the car with a ridiculous amount of stuff. It was bad enough packing for a camping trip at the best of times, but with two very young children we needed everything from a travel cot, bottles and diapers for Finn to
wipes, toys and a mind-boggling collection of medicines for Reef. Both boys began acting up the minute I started the engine, kicking the back of our seats, wailing and asking for drinks.
“I don’t know why I ever agreed to this,” I snapped at Kate. “I must be completely insane!”
Kate looked upset and tried to calm me down.
“We’ll enjoy it once we’re there,” she soothed. “The break will do us all good. I do appreciate the effort you’re making, Singe.”
“OK, but this is the very last time I’m doing this!” I huffed.
The boys eventually fell asleep, and Kate and I ignored each other. After a while the frosty silence was replaced with the extremely noisy sound of the engine straining up Telegraph Hill, less than halfway into our journey. I’d burned out about three clutches on that steep hill, and I suddenly recognized the warning sounds. Moments later we clunked to an abrupt halt, and smoke started billowing from the engine.
“I don’t believe it!” I bellowed. “That’s all we need! We’ve broken down!”
Both boys woke up and stared crying. We had to call for help, and by the time the rescue vehicle arrived I think I had more steam coming out of my ears than the car did from its hood.
“You just don’t want to spend any time with my family,” Kate accused hotly. “You’ve been difficult about this whole trip right from the start!”
“I wish I’d never agreed to this in the first place,” I retorted. “I go along with it and all I get is a load of earache and criticism. I don’t know why I bother.”
We continued to row the whole way there and were still absolutely furious with each other when we arrived at the campsite. It was obvious to everyone what foul tempers we were in. Kate was embarrassed in front of her family, and I was not in the mood to make an effort and keep the peace, so the atmosphere was tense and visibly hostile.
“There is no way I’m sleeping in a camper after the day I’ve had,” I shouted as soon as the car was unpacked.
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