I was glad of the opportunity to ask questions and be reassured about so many worrying things. The nettle rash faded into insignificance, and yet I realised that, in some way, my mind had signalled to my body that I needed help, and my body had reacted in a physical way to summon that help.
A week or so later, I received a reply from the British Guild for Sudden Infant Death Study. The Secretary, a Dr. Knight, who had an impressive string of letters after his name, including something to do with pathology, had written briefly, thanking me for my donation, enclosing some more literature from his own and another larger fund-raising organisation, The Foundation for the Study of Infant Deaths, and suggesting that I mention the existence of these organisations to those who might also be in need of support. His second line ran:
‘I have no other details apart from the fact that you unfortunately have suffered from the tragic “cot death” syndrome in your own family.’
I needed no second invitation to pour out details, and I described the death and all the other relevant information I could think of—the times and dates of events, the weather of that period, Amanda’s diet, her premature weight; Robert’s cold, and so on, and within days, a reply came, full of reassurance, as long and detailed as my own.
I felt as if I had been released from a glass prison. Certainly, I had been reassured many times by those that loved me, but that was not enough; at last I was in touch with someone who understood, and who had dealt specifically with this problem many times before.
I was also struck by a couple of unlinked sentences, which seemed to be saying something that was nothing to do with Amanda’s death.
Dr. Knight had started his letter by saying, ‘Thank you for your very detailed and clear letter….’ and later, he had stated: ‘We get so many letters like yours, though perhaps not so precise….’ Although I was not sure that it was very important that he had bothered to mention the actual quality of the writing of my letter twice, it stayed in the back of my mind, to be remembered later.
I read his letter and attached literature over and over again, hungry for every scrap of information. The fund-raising organisation, The Foundation had so many influential and reputable names backing it that all my worries on that score were put behind me. However, I was concerned that I was perhaps taking an obsessional interest in the disease (or syndrome, as it was described) that was responsible for my daughter’s death. I was a little apprehensive about showing the leaflets to my parents—I felt that their reaction would certainly be that I should put it all into the past, not dwell on it any longer. Yet my instinct told me that I could not do that. It was a wound that must be allowed to bleed freely, before being closed up. If all my emotions were bottled up inside me unexpressed, then surely they would fester. Of course, I did not think as logically as that; I merely followed my inclination, and my feelings were aired by conversation about Amanda with those good friends who would allow it, by interest in the whole problem of ‘cot death’ and by many tears.
But the time came for ‘pulling my socks up’—putting my life in order.
The catalogue, so full of spring bulbs which I had so carefully studied, had been discarded. It was too much effort to make such a choice. Instead, still with thoughts of spring in mind, I ordered three azaleas from a local nursery. Perhaps, when they flowered in May or June, my sadness would have lessened and I would appreciate some new delight in the garden.
I had already dealt with the small amount of paperwork necessitated by Amanda’s death. I had returned my family allowance book and written to the Inland Revenue. In addition, I had cashed in a one-pound Premium Bond in Amanda’s name, bitterly resenting the long form I had to complete for the trivial amount I was claiming. Yet I could not neglect this task. Unlikely though it was, I dreaded the possibility of receiving a prize addressed to her.
However demoralising, this tying up of loose ends, I recognise now, was part of the process of acceptance of her death.
In the spare room, which would have become Amanda’s bedroom in time, was the carry-cot—practically brand new—and the still serviceable baby bath, painful reminders of the might-have-beens. I longed to be rid of them, but dared not offer them to Philippa—how would she feel about putting her new baby in the carry-cot where another child had died? My mother-in-law, on hearing that Philippa was preparing to buy a new carry-cot, became the go-between, discovering that Philippa had no objections to the new baby, when it arrived, using the equipment, and that for my part, I was eager to be rid of it all.
When the things were finally removed, I felt a sense of relief, and indeed pleasure, that they would be used by another child of the family. When they were returned to me, they would be cleansed of the taint of tragedy.
I also had to make a decision about Amanda’s pretty little dresses. So many relatives and friends had sent beautiful things for her, and I didn’t know what to do with them.
I tried to remember any books that had described the death of a baby and, in desperation, I thumbed through a sequel to ‘Anne of Green Gables’ (one of my teenage favourites) where Anne loses a baby, to see what she had done with her baby’s clothes, but it only said that they put all the little garments away.
I too packed the clothes carefully away in a high cupboard. I was not, after all, pregnant yet, and it was too early to hope for another daughter. When I had another child, that would be time enough to decide. If I had a boy, then I would have to think of giving the dresses away, and I could not yet allow myself the luxury of dreaming that another little girl might wear them.
Once I asked Michael if he thought I ought to throw away the photographs of Amanda. He was such a practical person, I had no doubt he would give me the right answer.
‘Throw them away!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course not; she was part of our family wasn’t she?’
I was tremendously relieved by his reply and it reaffirmed my decision that there was no reason for us to write Amanda out of our lives as if she had never existed, no reason to try and forget her—and nothing unhealthy in thinking about her.
Nevertheless, once he said to me, ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but we had a very happy home before. Will you make it so again.’
For all our sakes, then, I tried to put the torturing thoughts of that unforgettable night out of my mind for at least part of the time. And guilt too, had to be dismissed. I was fully aware of its destructive powers.
‘Snap out of it,’ I would tell myself, whenever I felt the familiar waves wash over me. ‘No good can come out of that.’
I listened almost unceasingly to the radio—plays, gardening, news programmes, current events—and became much better-informed than I had been before, but if I listened to music, my mind wandered and the tears would soon flow; once I found myself weeping as I drove to collect Robert from playschool and had to sharply pull myself together.
Robert’s life had resumed its normal pattern; we visited relations and friends, and other than having a subdued and often weepy mother, it must have seemed to him more or less like old times, before Amanda—his rival, no doubt, during those first weeks of her life—was born.
Once when I was lying on my bed, he asked me to sing to him like I used to; and I tried, but I found myself singing, ‘My Bonny lies over the ocean,’ and I had to stop when I came to the words ‘…I dreamed that my Bonny was dead.’ Another time he asked me to play a very special game where we used to go out to the pram and say, ‘My goodness, what have we got here?…. It’s a baby,’ and so on, and I wondered aggressively why he couldn’t understand that I didn’t want to play those sorts of games any more. It was difficult not to be bad-tempered with him and I was guiltily aware of my inability to respond to his love.
On a practical level, I was rather conscious of the fact that he had missed out on his fourth birthday party—an important social occasion in his life. He had had no previous parties, but at four, I felt he was ready for one. In any case, parties are a good way of consolidating tentative friendships and
Robert still needed a little help in that direction. Despite the fact that several weeks had passed since his birthday, I decided that it was not too late to hold a party, and I issued the invitations.
For the first time we had some young neighbours, living in our Colonel’s old residence. One of their children—although three years older than Robert—had occasionally called to play, but since Amanda’s death, she had not come to us. I invited her and her brother, as well as Robert’s friends from playschool, of which the two sons of Carol and Jill topped the list.
When the day came, I found myself preparing for it as if it were a major social occasion. The house was vacuumed and tidied (though everyone knows that that should be done after a party, not before), the balloons were blown up and hung up; vast quantities of food were prepared; sausages, sandwiches, jelly and cake and parcels were hastily prepared (for ‘pass the parcel’), before the first miniature V.I.P. walked through the door.
I don’t know whether it was an important day for Robert; but it was a very important day for me. It was more than just a tea party—it was a declaration that I was ready to rejoin the world.
18. Reaching Out
The dying splendour of autumn had given way to the dark evenings and bleak empty days of winter, but in spite of my efforts, sadness hung over me like a damp November mist. There are those who love the autumn and those who love the spring. I was and still am one of those who would happily exchange each bronzed or scarlet leaf for a golden daffodil, and the gloom of winter only served to accentuate my sorrow.
Now, as in past winters, I threw crumbs for the birds and, as I watched the tiny bluetits pecking daintily at the morsels, I was reminded of Amanda, delicately taking her first mouthfuls from a spoon.
Philippa’s second child was born in December—another boy—and I was disappointed both for her and for myself. With five boys now in the family, it seemed even more unlikely that I would bring a second girl into this masculine stronghold. Ironically, almost everyone else seemed to be producing daughters. Even the plumber, who had been my office companion in the old days, had recently fathered a daughter after having three sons.
One day he called at our house, and I forced myself through tight lips to congratulate him, as I would have done if no tragedy had occurred in my life.
As the turn of the year approached, I sent out and received Christmas cards full of cheerful greetings that I did not feel. My own religion decreed that greetings should not be sent out in the year of mourning. I could see the logic of that ruling for I felt bitter and resentful at having to express a gaiety which I did not feel, even on paper. But three months had passed. Apart from those friends in whom I had always been able to confide, to most of my acquaintances, it was long enough to have forgotten about Amanda. They had almost certainly forgotten, and even if they had not, they must surely have imagined that my feelings of pain had passed. How easy it is to believe, when a person looks and behaves the same as ever, that they are over their bereavement. How should they know, who have never experienced it, of the charade it is necessary to act out and the sore heart hidden, so well hidden, underneath.
Even the knowledge that I had become pregnant again held no joy for me, only a feeling of relief that there had been no difficulty in conception. And instead of the happiness of a year ago, there was resentment that I must now face another pregnancy, and the questions still revolved around my head, ‘Why, God? Why the wasted year? Why the pointless birth? What did I do to deserve such a punishment.’
Once again I sought medical help, and without delay I was given another course of hormone tablets to prevent a miscarriage. I began to feel conscious-stricken about smoking and, from January onwards, I counted every single cigarette I had smoked, and noted it in my diary in an effort to smoke less. By the end of January, my average had been cut to two cigarettes a day.
I had written once again to the Guild, expressing a desire to help in some way; I knew there was nothing further they could do for me, and it seemed a natural progression to offer my help, but the thought of holding fund-raising functions was abhorrent to me. I could not expect people to attend a party or coffee morning with a mournful manner, and I was not ready for the casual chitchat and small talk that was bound to occur.
But the Guild, it seemed, did not necessarily require such endeavours. In his reply, Dr. Knight mentioned publicity—letters and articles, and immediately I knew I had been waiting for—even expecting—this suggestion. Yes, I could write. But in spite of my recognition that this was the right thing for me to do, I felt an unreasonable resentment that I, who had lost so much, must now give more.
However, the first opportunity to help came about unexpectedly. We had been staying with my parents for the weekend and I was browsing through their local paper, when I saw a short report on the sudden death of a baby. I didn’t mention it in front of my parents, knowing that a familiar look of concern would cover my father’s face, as if he thought I was dwelling too much on Amanda’s death. However, I took that section of the paper home that night, and shyly broached the subject to Michael later.
‘Do you want to telephone them?’ he asked.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,’ I replied, for I only talk to intimates with ease on the telephone, and an unsolicited call to a stranger would be an enormous embarrassment to me.
‘Would you like me to do it then?’ asked Michael unworriedly.
I was delighted that he was prepared to do that, and Michael then ingeniously obtained the telephone number from Directory Enquiries from the little information available in the paper.
It turned out that the number he rang was that of the grandfather of the dead child, and it was to him that Michael spoke, of our own bereavement and of the help we had received from the Guild and the Foundation. The next morning we posted off the leaflets for him to show to his son and daughter-in-law, together with a brief letter from me. Within a few days, a reply arrived from both grandparents, thanking us, and telling how welcome the literature had been.
It was a fairly simple letter, but I read it over and over again, warmed by it, almost elated by it. I had not realised how much I had needed that letter of thanks, indicating that the little help we had given had been appreciated. For the first time a minute grain of good had come out of our own tragedy.
Very much affected by these new emotions, I realised that each time I could help someone because of my own experience, my anger at the purposelessness of Amanda’s death would diminish. I even told one of Robert’s nursery school teachers about it.
‘Do you intend to dedicate yourself to helping others in the same position?’ she asked.
I thought about that for a moment. I was not idealistic enough to want to dedicate my life to any one thing. It sounded a bit obsessional and I hope my reply didn’t sound too squashing.
‘No, I intend to dedicate myself to making my family happy, but I will try to spend some time helping others as well.’
It had all begun to seem very clear now; I had no intention of becoming a crank—the road ahead led to several destinations: recreating a happy home; having another baby; but in addition, helping others in the same position and making some use of my possible talent for writing. I recognised, however, that whatever I tried to do in the future, I would derive my strength from my home base, and my reply to Robert’s teacher merely put that feeling into words.
Michael had acted as a signpost, never pushing me in any one direction, but guiding me when I needed help. Never once had he let slip a word of criticism about any of my dealings with Amanda, and when my doubts overcame me, as they often did, he used to say, ‘I always knew you would be a good mother, and my opinion hasn’t changed.’
He must have had to repeat those words many times, and I was always reassured by his complete faith in me. But in addition, I was aware of his expectation that, in due course, I would stand on my own feet, and cease to lean so heavily on those around me.
My friends still rallied round me, and t
heir company and support helped me through the passing days. There came a time, however, when I recognised that I had reached a milestone, and, despite my sorrow, could release my friends from the burden of succouring me; I even made an embarrassed little speech of thanks to Carol for the help she and her sister Jill had given me.
Towards the end of January 1972, Jill asked if we would like to buy her mother’s car, which was due to go on the market, as her parents were introducing a new car into the family. I didn’t think we could afford to become a two-car family, but Michael was all for the idea. It was sometimes very inconvenient for him to be without the car for two days a week, as he often carried heavy materials with him.
Sometimes our pre-arranged telephone signals meaning, ‘I’ll be home in twenty minutes,’ had been misinterpreted as ‘Meet me at the station,’ and vice versa, and had involved us in misunderstandings and arguments.
So the purchase of the car was arranged, and, in due course, I picked up a dark green Cortina, which although around six years old, was certainly the smartest and cleanest car we had possessed since we were engaged. The seat adjusted forward easily, and the steering was light after the heavy Vauxhall.
The following morning I took the car out twice, first to deliver and later to collect Robert from nursery school. On the second journey, whilst driving up the lane towards the main road, I glanced down at the petrol gauge—I had been caught out without petrol twice before, and was not going to let that happen again. As I took my eyes off the road, the car drifted over to the left, and to my horror I heard a dreadful grating sound as the side of the Cortina scraped against a short, distorted tree on the very edge of the lane. The noise was so awful, I didn’t dare look, until I had arrived at school, and when I did look, the moment of truth had not been improved by the delay.
The Fruit of the Tree Page 15
