a heart that’s full up like a landfill

Bexinwonderland

firstly

In a sonographer’s rooms, J is with me, so is Mum.

The sonographer sweeps the transducer across my belly.

“Is this a planned pregnancy?”

“No, not really but wanted. Why?”

“I can see two babies’ heartbeats instead of one”

I burst into tears.

J roars with laughter.

secondly

In the operating theatre, on the table. Epidural administered, stomach bare, waiting.

J at my side, holding my hand.

first baby is delivered, red & crying. Wrapped & held, brought to my side.

The obstetrician’s voice floats in the air.

“Rebecca, I can’t find your second baby.”

Minutes tick by. A strange emptiness surrounds me.

His voice again.

“Rebecca, your second baby is not alive.”

The room begins to buzz.

“Sorry?”

(in my head – He’s joking. He’s got to be joking. This is a trick.)

Again.

“Rebecca, your second baby is not alive.”

Buzzing in my ears.

Nothing.

A gap.

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when you have very big feelings
& by that I mean:
enormous, crushing, raucous,
crushing, loud –
what you want to do
is shut them down.

what this means is when i am with you,
i feel nothing,
i am not here,
& my heart hurts less
for now.

copyright: rebecca leathem 2016

82 / 83

In 1982
a boy called Alex
gave me a bracelet
& kissed me,
at the top of Mount Saint John.

In 1983
a girl called Jenni
sent me a letter
& signed off:
God Bless You
Love Jenni Crystal

With a heart to top the i.

 

copyright rebecca leathem 2016

asylum

I was the most precious angel

tho’ I felt more crazy than that.

 

I dumbed myself down

to the helpless girl –

those adult things aren’t for me.

 

the grief had the strangest

character,

it slowed time to

the point of incapacitation.

 

my self: crushed & broken,

not forever –

just for now.

 

copyright rebecca leathem 2016

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I stand here –

but the real presence

of me

is near the ceiling,

looking down.

 

I don’t have

the words for

this  –

i’m too busy trying

not to,

to work it

out.

 

copyright rebecca leathem 2016

post

from B
notes on a party
fancy dress, cross dressing
a house fire
parentals to stay
& aroha

from K
dated 1986
before she got sick
plans for university
news of a boyfriend
a holiday, sport, hope

from R
word that
women at IBM
aren’t allowed to wear
low backed dresses
or trousers.

 

copyright rebecca leathem 2016

In this place your body lies

i’m here, hundreds of miles from you. Eight years from your birth. Reaching out to you my precious little boy. Sometimes I can’t stop thinking of how things  would have been different if you had arrived safely and stayed with us. But that’s not where we are & you gave me other gifts, hard lessons but now I’m so grateful.

I’m grateful to have carried you, I’m grateful to have held you, to have named you and to have loved you. And my darling boy I will always love you. Angel baby.

a heart that’s full up like a landfill

firstly

In a sonographer’s rooms, J is with me, so is Mum.

The sonographer sweeps the transducer across my belly.

“Is this a planned pregnancy?”

“No, not really but wanted. Why?”

“I can see two babies’ heartbeats instead of one”

I burst into tears.

J roars with laughter.

secondly

In the operating theatre, on the table. Epidural administered, stomach bare, waiting.

J at my side, holding my hand.

first baby is delivered, red & crying. Wrapped & held, brought to my side.

The obstetrician’s voice floats in the air.

“Rebecca, I can’t find your second baby.”

Minutes tick by. A strange emptiness surrounds me.

His voice again.

“Rebecca, your second baby is not alive.”

The room begins to buzz.

“Sorry?”

(in my head – He’s joking. He’s got to be joking. This is a trick.)

Again.

“Rebecca, your second baby is not alive.”

Buzzing in my ears.

Nothing.

A gap.

J is panicking. He’s trying to ask me what to do.

“Shall I stay with you? Shall I go with our baby?”

The first baby, he needs weighing, measuring, suctioning.

I look up at the ceiling.

“Go with the baby.”

The midwife is holding our second baby.

He’s small and red and silent.

He’s wrapped.

I see his face.

The room is buzzing.

I am somewhere else.

a promise

I am waiting at the airport. I won’t greet you when you arrive. I’ll just stand here & let you walk by.

I’m wearing a dusky grey dress, black stockings & red heels.  My hair is a bed-head tousle of red.

I don’t need to tell you this.  I am wearing what you asked.

A plane arrives. Passengers flood the arrivals lounge.  I stand off to one side watching.

Yes, I am here.  No, I won’t speak to you.  I won’t touch you. I wanted to tell you of all the touches, the kisses, the moments I had planned. I wanted to be able to say “remember the time we…”

But I promised you no.

Policing the children

This afternoon I took my two sons down to the village for some afternoon tea and a short shopping expedition. We had been swimming at our school pool. The boys were excited. They were full of beans & chatting loudly.

Part way down the main street I noticed a woman who was muttering to herself and sneering at me. I caught some of her words. The boys were behind me. I guessed immediately that she was complaining about them.

I turned around and asked her politely, “Excuse me, are you complaining about my children? What have they done to you?”
“They are SO VERY LOUD! They’re deafening me!” she replied with a sourpuss face.
“Well my son has ADHD & an auditory processing issue so this is as quiet as it gets,” I responded.
“I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon,” she attempted to apologise.
I was so, so angry that all I could say was “You are so very, very rude. So rude.” and walked off.

And yes, this is true. One of my boys does have ADHD & most likely some auditory processing issues. Now I wish I just said that this is a main street and that boisterous children are allowed.

So lady, whoever you are, I can tell you that you & people like you are the reason I feel anxious in the street, in public with my children. They are not horrible children. They are not badly behaved (mostly). My sons are simply children. They are six and seven.