forty or fifty people who milled around our reception rooms. I recognized two or three of the women from some outings I had endured in the distant past, and I wondered who had invited them all. The wives of Andrew’s former colleagues filled our freezer with stupid, useless casseroles and pies, all labelled neatly. They marvelled at the size of our home. A few boys from Laurence’s old school came, and that girl Helen was there, clinging on to Laurence every chance she got, but Laurence was taking care of me. A wizened priest wanted me to pray with him, but I couldn’t bear to be in the room with him, and Laurence led him away towards Eleanor, who was more accepting of his condolences.
In the wake of Andrew’s death, I found it impossible to climb out of the fog. I spent most of my days in bed, and when I ventured downstairs I stared at the television, trying to ignore the empty armchair beside me. I simply could not stop crying. Laurence would bring food on a tray and feed me like I was a baby, and I would eat mechanically, without tasting.
When my mother-in-law and Finn and Andrew’s friends telephoned to see how I was coping, I did not go to the phone but asked Laurence to take messages. I let the condolence cards pile up without opening them. I swallowedtranquillizers to blot out the pain, but really they just took the edge off it and stopped the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm me. I was forty-eight years old. Laurence was all I had now – my boy who was growing up way too fast. And I was terrified he would not want to be my baby for much longer.
After Laurence was born, I had nine miscarriages. They devastated me, every one of them, the pain and the loss and ultimately the fear. I carried one as far as four months, and we really thought we were safe then. I’d never held on longer than ten weeks before that. It was the glorious summer of 1977. We celebrated by having dinner in our favourite restaurant, Andrew, Laurence and I. And then, right after our dinner plates were removed, I felt that dreadful and familiar tearing in my womb and I doubled over in agony. Within seconds, pools of blood seeped on to the velvet-upholstered seat beneath me. Andrew realized quickly what was happening and carried me out to the car, leaving a dribbled trail of my insides on their plush carpet as we went. Fourteen-year-old Laurence was white-faced and crying, but even he knew. ‘Is it the baby, Mum? Is it?’
Usually, after the miscarriages, it took me a week or two to return from the dead place I occupied with my lost foetuses, but that time it was much longer.
Doctors could do nothing to help me. Three different adoption agencies turned us down. I assumed it would be a matter of making a generous donation, but there were all sorts of interviews where Andrew and I were grilled separately and then together. The questions were deeply intrusive. I told Andrew to use his status, but it didn’t seem to do any good. He pulled every string available to us, and although the first two agencies were not prepared to give their reasonsfor denying us a child, the third agency gave us a written report. They said that they thought I had not dealt properly with issues in my childhood, and they regretted that I might not be able to meet the needs of a new baby. They said it was strange that I had no close friendships and that I rarely left my family home. When I got that report in the post, I went straight into the agency and screamed blue murder at the woman on reception until she called security. Andrew came to take me home, and after that he insisted we couldn’t apply to any more agencies.
We had never given up on trying for our own baby, even when we had planned that Andrew would get that girl pregnant and pay her for the child. He had been supposed to find a young healthy girl who was poor enough to go along with it. The plan was that once she was pregnant he would visit the girl once a month and pay £200 per month of
In the wake of Andrew’s death, I found it impossible to climb out of the fog. I spent most of my days in bed, and when I ventured downstairs I stared at the television, trying to ignore the empty armchair beside me. I simply could not stop crying. Laurence would bring food on a tray and feed me like I was a baby, and I would eat mechanically, without tasting.
When my mother-in-law and Finn and Andrew’s friends telephoned to see how I was coping, I did not go to the phone but asked Laurence to take messages. I let the condolence cards pile up without opening them. I swallowedtranquillizers to blot out the pain, but really they just took the edge off it and stopped the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm me. I was forty-eight years old. Laurence was all I had now – my boy who was growing up way too fast. And I was terrified he would not want to be my baby for much longer.
After Laurence was born, I had nine miscarriages. They devastated me, every one of them, the pain and the loss and ultimately the fear. I carried one as far as four months, and we really thought we were safe then. I’d never held on longer than ten weeks before that. It was the glorious summer of 1977. We celebrated by having dinner in our favourite restaurant, Andrew, Laurence and I. And then, right after our dinner plates were removed, I felt that dreadful and familiar tearing in my womb and I doubled over in agony. Within seconds, pools of blood seeped on to the velvet-upholstered seat beneath me. Andrew realized quickly what was happening and carried me out to the car, leaving a dribbled trail of my insides on their plush carpet as we went. Fourteen-year-old Laurence was white-faced and crying, but even he knew. ‘Is it the baby, Mum? Is it?’
Usually, after the miscarriages, it took me a week or two to return from the dead place I occupied with my lost foetuses, but that time it was much longer.
Doctors could do nothing to help me. Three different adoption agencies turned us down. I assumed it would be a matter of making a generous donation, but there were all sorts of interviews where Andrew and I were grilled separately and then together. The questions were deeply intrusive. I told Andrew to use his status, but it didn’t seem to do any good. He pulled every string available to us, and although the first two agencies were not prepared to give their reasonsfor denying us a child, the third agency gave us a written report. They said that they thought I had not dealt properly with issues in my childhood, and they regretted that I might not be able to meet the needs of a new baby. They said it was strange that I had no close friendships and that I rarely left my family home. When I got that report in the post, I went straight into the agency and screamed blue murder at the woman on reception until she called security. Andrew came to take me home, and after that he insisted we couldn’t apply to any more agencies.
We had never given up on trying for our own baby, even when we had planned that Andrew would get that girl pregnant and pay her for the child. He had been supposed to find a young healthy girl who was poor enough to go along with it. The plan was that once she was pregnant he would visit the girl once a month and pay £200 per month of
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