Six
AS PROMISED, THEY kept me in the hospital for another five days. During this time, I was allowed constant visits with Jack in Paediatric ICU. They had decided to keep him ‘under continued observation’ in the unit for a few more days.
‘Do understand,’ Dr Reynolds said, ‘there’s nothing at all sinister about this. We’re just erring on the side of caution.’
Did he really expect me to believe that? Still, I said nothing. Because I knew it was best if I tried to say nothing.
At times, I found myself observing Jack as if he was a strange, hyper-real piece of modern sculpture – an infant medical still life, enshrouded by tubes, on permanent display in a big plastic case. Or I was reminded of that famous eight-hour Andy Warhol film – Empire – which was one long static shot of the Empire State Building. Watching Jack was the same. He’d lie there, motionless, rarely moving a muscle (though, from time-to-time, there’d be the tiniest flex of his hand). And I’d find myself projecting all sorts of stuff on to him. Such as: how I hoped he’d like the bouncy chair I’d bought for him. Whether his diapers would be as disgusting as I imagined. Would he go for Warner Brothers cartoons or Disney (please may he be a smartass Bugs Bunny kid). And would his acne be as horrible as mine had been when I was thirteen …?
All right, I was getting way ahead of myself. But an infant is like a tabula rasa, upon which an entire story will be written. And now, staring at Jack in that Plexiglas bowl, all I could think was: he might not have a life … or one that is substantially diminished, and all because of the way his body moved a few wrong inches in the womb. Something over which neither of us had any control – but which could completely change everything that happened to both of us from now on. Even if Reynolds was right – and Jack had managed to walk away unscathed from this accident – would this early brush with catastrophe so haunt me that I’d become one of those fiendishly overprotective mothers who would worry every time her ten-year-old negotiated a flight of stairs? Or would I become so convinced that doom was lurking right around the corner that I’d never really rest easy again, and would live life now with an omnipresent sense of dread?
The ICU duty nurse was now at my side – a young woman in her early twenties. Irish. Exceptionally calm.
‘He’s a beauty’ she said, looking in on him. ‘Do you want to hold him?’
‘Sure,’ I said tentatively.
She unhooked a few of his tubes, then lifted him up and placed him in my arms. I attempted to cradle him – but still found myself worried about unsettling all the medical paraphernalia attached to him … even though the nurse assured me that I wouldn’t be disturbing anything vital. But though I pasted a caring smile on my face, I knew I was wearing a mask. Because, like the last time, I couldn’t muster a single maternal feeling towards this baby. All I wanted to do was hand him back again.
‘You’re grand,’ the nurse said when I lifted him up towards her. ‘No hurry.’
I reluctantly cradled him again. And asked, ‘Is he really doing all right?’
‘Just grand.’
‘But you’re sure that he didn’t suffer any damage during birth?’
‘Hasn’t Dr Reynolds spoken to you about this?’
Oh, yes he had – and oh, what an idiot I had made of myself. Just as I was making an idiot of myself right now – asking the same damn questions again. Voicing the same obsessive worries … while simultaneously being unable to hold him.
‘Dr Reynolds said he sensed there was no brain damage.’
‘Well, there you go then,’ she said, relieving me of Jack. ‘Unlike a lot of the babies in here, there’s no doubt that your fella’s going to be fine.’
I held on to that prognosis – using it as a sort of mantra whenever I felt myself getting shaky (which, truth be told, was very often), or fatalistic, or edging into borderline despair. I knew I needed to show a positive, improved face to the world – because I was now being watched for any signs of disarray … especially by my husband and by Mr Hughes.
Both men dropped by to see me regularly. Hughes would show up on his morning rounds. He would spend a good ten minutes looking me over, inspecting my war wounds, studying my chart, and briskly interrogating me about my mental well-being, while casting the occasional sidelong glance at the ward sister to make certain that I wasn’t fabricating my improved personal state.
‘Sleeping well then?’ he asked me on the third day after Jack’s birth.
‘Six hours last night.’
He wrote this down, then looked at the sister for verification. She supplied it with a rapid nod of the head. He asked, ‘And the, uh, episodes of emotional discomfort – these have lessened?’
‘I haven’t cried in days.’
‘Glad to hear it. Nor should you, because your boy is on the way to a complete recovery. As you are. Two more nights here and we can send you home.’
‘With my son?’
‘You’ll have to speak with Dr Reynolds about that. That’s his domain. Now, anything else we need to speak about?’
‘My breasts …’ I said in a semi-whisper.
‘What about them?’ he asked.
‘Well, they’ve become a bit … hard.’
‘Haven’t you been expressing milk since the birth?’ he asked.
‘Of course. But in the last forty-eight hours, they’ve started feeling rock solid.’
In truth, they felt as if they had been filled with fast-drying reinforced concrete.
‘That’s a perfectly common postnatal syndrome,’ Hughes said, still not looking up from my chart. ‘The milk ducts tend to constrict, and the breasts begin to feel somewhat leaden …’
He cleared his throat, then added, ‘Or, at least, that’s what I’ve been told.’
The unit sister masked a smile.
‘However,’ Hughes continued, ‘there is a way of ameliorating the condition. You’ll show Mrs Goodchild what to do, won’t you Sister?’
The unit sister nodded.
‘And it’s very good to hear that you are in such improved form, Mrs Goodchild.’
It’s Ms, buster. But, of course, I didn’t articulate this sentiment, for fear of sending up warning flags yet again. Especially as I was determined to walk out of here the day after tomorrow in a chemical-free state. So I simply smiled at Mr Hughes and said, ‘I really feel like I’m on the mend.’
But when Tony arrived that night, I was on the verge of screaming. This had nothing to do with my fragile emotional state – rather, with the instrument of torture that was currently attached to my left breast. It looked like a clear aerosol can with a horn-like aperture at one end and a reservoir at the bottom. It was attached to an electric power pack. Once turned on, it acted like a vacuum cleaner, sucking all the milk out of the breast.
I had been using this charming device ever since Jack’s birth – as they needed my milk to give to Jack up in Paediatric ICU. Initially, extracting milk via this hoover was only moderately uncomfortable. But then my breasts grew hard, and suddenly the breast pump became my nemesis. When I first used it to unblock a milk duct I let out a howl, which made the unit sister cross with me.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ she asked me, sounding decidedly peevish.
‘It hurts like fuck,’ I shouted, then immediately cursed myself for roaring without thinking. So I collected myself and said in a suitably contrite voice, ‘I’m so sorry.’
The unit sister ignored my apology, and instead took the pump and repositioned it on my right breast. Then, placing her spare hand on my left shoulder, she turned on the juice. Within ten seconds, the pain was outrageous – and I bit down hard against my lip, shutting my eyes tightly.
‘Steady on,’ the unit sister said. ‘The thing is to build up enough pressure so that the milk duct has no choice but to clear.’
This took another dreadful minute – during which time the solidified breast felt as if it was being squeezed with vindictive force. Don’t scream, don’t scream, I kept telling mys
elf. But each pressurizing squeeze of the horn made such self-restraint increasingly improbable – until, suddenly, there was this rupture-like spurt, and I could feel a warm liquid enveloping the nipple.
‘There we are,’ the unit sister said, sounding pleased with herself. ‘One unblocked breast. Now you’ll need to let it keep pumping for a good ten minutes to completely clear the ducts of milk … and then you can start on the other one.’
Tony walked in when I was working on the left breast – and in the final throes of pain meltdown. This tit appeared to be twice as blocked as its counterpart – and having started the extraction process, I knew I couldn’t stop, as the leaden feeling intensified fourfold, to the point where it was just as unbearable as this torture-by-suction. Tony’s eyes grew immediately wide when he found me gripping the mattress with one hand, while using the other to clutch the dreaded breast pump. My face was screwed up into (judging from my husband’s shocked expression) a mask of near-dementia.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Shut up,’ I said, sensing that, any moment …
I let out a little cry, as the duct cleared and watery liquid came jetting forth. Tony said nothing. He just watched me as I continued to drain out the breast. When I was finished, I dropped the pump into a bowl on the bedside table, closed up my dressing gown, put my head in my hands, and thanked God, Allah, the Angel Moroni, whomever, that my stint on the rack was over (or, at least, for today anyway – as the unit sister warned me that I’d have to repeat this charming bit of plumbing several times a day if I wanted to keep my milk ducts cleared).
‘You okay now?’ Tony asked, sitting down on the bed.
‘I have been better,’ I said, then explained exactly why I had been engaged in such a masochistic endeavour.
‘Lucky you,’ Tony said. ‘How’s our chap?’
I gave him an update on my visit this morning, and then told him that I was still waiting to hear from Reynolds this evening about when he’d be moved out of Paediatric ICU.
‘The nurse hinted to me it could be as early as tomorrow – as they really think he’s doing just fine. Anyway, they want to discharge me in two days’ time – so you might have us both at home before you know it.’
‘Oh … great,’ Tony said.
‘Hey – thanks for the enthusiastic response,’ I said.
‘I am pleased, really. It’s just – I only heard today that the editor wanted me to pop over to Geneva later on in the week. Some UN conference on …’
‘Forget it,’ I said.
‘Of course, now that I know you’re coming home …’
‘That’s right – you’ll just have to get someone else to cover for you.’
‘No problem,’ Tony said quickly. Which was a relief – because I had never told Tony before that he couldn’t do something (having both agreed from the start that we’d keep the word no out of our domestic vocabulary … within reason, of course). But I certainly wasn’t spending my first night home from hospital by myself with Jack. Though my husband seemed a little thrown by my vehemence, he slipped into reassurance mode.
‘I’ll call His Lordship tonight, tell him it’s out of the question. And I promise you a great homecoming meal, courtesy of Marks and Spencer. But the champagne will come from elsewhere.’
‘Like Tesco?’
He laughed. ‘Very witty’ he said. ‘But, then again, you can’t drink, can you?’
‘I think I’ll manage a glass.’
We looked in on Jack that night. He was sleeping soundly and seemed content. And the nurse on duty told us that Dr Reynolds had okayed his move to my room tomorrow morning – a prospect which terrified me. Because he would be my responsibility now.
But the next morning, I was paid a visit by Dr Reynolds in my room.
‘Now I don’t want to upset you,’ he began, ‘but it seems that Jack has developed jaundice.’
‘He what?’
‘It’s a common postnatal condition which affects almost fifty per cent of all newborn babies – and it usually clears up in ten days.’
‘But how did he get it?’
‘Well, to give you the proper textbook definition: jaundice occurs when there is a breakdown of red blood cells and you get a build-up of a yellow pigment called bilirubin.’
‘But what causes this build-up up of … what was it again?’
‘Bilirubin. Generally, it comes from breast milk.’
‘You mean, I have made him jaundiced?’
‘Ms Goodchild …’
‘What you’re telling me is that I’ve poisoned him.’
That dangerous edge had crept into my voice – and though I was aware of its ominous presence, there was nothing I could do to curb it. Because I really didn’t understand what it was doing here in the first place.
Dr Reynolds spoke slowly and with great care.
‘Ms Goodchild, you simply must not blame yourself. Because there’s nothing you could have done to prevent this, and also because – as I said before – it is such a typical ailment in new babies.’
‘Can jaundice be dangerous?’
‘Only if the levels of bilirubin get too high.’
‘Then what happens?’
I could see Dr Reynolds shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Then,’ he finally said, ‘it can prove toxic to the brain. But – and I must emphasize this – such levels are extremely rare. And so far, your son is not showing any signs of …’
But I wasn’t listening to him any more. Instead, another voice had taken up residency inside my head. A voice which kept repeating, ‘You’ve poisoned him … and now he’s going to be even more brain damaged. And there’s no one to blame but you…’
‘Ms Goodchild?’
I looked up and could see Dr Reynolds eyeing me with concern.
‘Are you all right?’
‘What?’
‘I seemed to have lost you for a moment.’
‘I’m … all right,’ I said.
‘Did you hear what I said – about not holding yourself accountable for your son’s jaundice?’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘And it will clear up in around ten days. During that time, we will have to keep him in the ICU. But, once again, there’s nothing particularly ominous about that – it’s just standard procedure for any newborn with jaundice. Is that understood?’
I nodded.
‘Would you like to go up and see him?’
‘All right,’ I said – but my voice sounded flat, devoid of emotion. Once again, I could see Reynolds studying me with concern.
The blue light of the ICU masked the yellowish tint that now characterized Jack’s skin. Nor could I discern the discolouration around my son’s pupils which Reynolds told me was another feature of jaundice. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see the actual physical evidence of his illness. I knew how sick he was. And I knew that, despite Reynolds’s protestations, it was my fault.
Afterwards, I called Tony at work and broke the news to him. When I mentioned that Jack had become jaundiced because of my breast milk, my husband said, ‘Are you sure that you weren’t a Catholic in another life? Because you certainly love to wallow in guilt.’
‘I am not wallowing in guilt. I am simply admitting the truth of the matter: his illness is my doing.’
‘Sally, you’re talking rubbish.’
‘Don’t accuse me of …’
‘It’s jaundice, not AIDS. And if the doctor says that it will clear up in a few days …’
‘You’re not listening to me,’ I shouted.
‘That’s because you’re being preposterous.’
By the time Tony arrived at the hospital that night, I had managed to pull myself out of my self-flagellation jag – and immediately apologized to him for shouting on the phone.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said tersely.
We went up to the ICU together. Again, the blue fluorescent tubes cast the ward in a spectral lig
ht and also bleached out the yellowed pigment of our son’s skin. When Tony asked the attending nurse just how bad the jaundice was, she reassured us that his was a very standard case and that (as Reynolds had told me) it would be cleared up in a matter of days.
‘So there’s nothing to worry about?’ Tony asked, giving his question a certain for-my-benefit pointedness.
‘He should make a full recovery, with no lasting side effects,’ the nurse said.
‘See?’ Tony said, patting my arm. ‘All is well.’
I nodded in agreement – even though I didn’t believe it. I knew the truth. Just as that nurse knew the truth. After all, she didn’t say he will make a full recovery; she used the conditional verb should. Because she wasn’t at all certain that Jack would get better and she knew that my milk had poisoned him.
But I wouldn’t dare articulate any of this right now. No way was I going to open my big mouth and blurt out the reality of the situation. Especially given that everyone was now watching me for signs of stress and strain.
For the next thirty-six hours, I maintained this calm-and-collected front, showing a sane, rational face to the doctors and nurses of the Mattingly, visiting Jack several times a day at the ICU, and always nodding in agreement when they kept feeding me optimistic falsehoods about his progress.
Then, as expected, I was given the all-clear to go home. It was something of a wrench to leave Jack behind in the ICU – but I was glad for his sake that he was still sequestered from me, in a place where I could do him no harm. And every time a strange rational voice inside my brain admonished me for beating myself up over Jack’s illness, another more forceful, prosecutorial voice reminded me just how culpable I was.
Getting out of the hospital was, therefore, something of a relief. Especially as Tony not only had dinner waiting for me when I came home, but (as promised) he’d also drafted in Margaret’s cleaner, Cha, to give the place a thorough going-over … which meant that it now looked like a moderately tidy building site. And yes, he did have a bottle of Laurent Perrier in the fridge. But when he handed me a glass, all I could think was: this is not exactly a triumphant homecoming, now is it?
A Special Relationship Page 14
