Fifty-Four: Eli
Acknowledgements
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As soon as I saw her I knew that she didn’t deserve to be a mother. She was squeezed in behind a table in the café, her face pale, drawn. She rubbed her stomach for the briefest of seconds, as if it were something she’d just remembered she was expected to do. Act the part of the happy mum-to-be; rub your expanding stomach, push it out, flaunt your fecundity to the world.
Everything about her body language screamed that this wasn’t a wanted or loved baby. That she didn’t appreciate what she had. What a gift she’d been given.
She looked like a woman who saw pregnancy as an ordeal. Something to be endured. If only she knew.
When it was me, I’d welcomed every pregnancy symptom. Every single one. The sickness. The sore and swollen breasts. The bleeding gums. The swollen ankles. The backache. Even the acid reflux. It was proof I was doing something miraculous. Making a new life and bringing a new soul into this world.
I’d gone to sleep every night with my hands on my bump, whispering stories and hopes and dreams to my baby. Telling him or her of the life they’d have. Of the love that would be showered down on them. God, I was never as happy as I was when I could feel my baby wriggle and kick. I felt more alive with every movement. The symbiosis of my child and me as we shared each breath.
I deserved to be a mother.
This woman, tired and worn out and miserable, didn’t. Not as much as I did, anyway.
Holding my breath, I watched her across the café as she pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, listened as she sighed loudly.
The thing is, babies don’t really need their mothers. Once they’re delivered, all they want is someone to see to their every need. To feed them, change them, pat them gently on the back to bring up their milky-scented burps. To bathe them and dress and rock them gently to sleep.
Other people could do that.
I could do that.
The crisp white envelope sticks out from where it’s been stuffed into my pigeonhole. I lift it, along with the rest of my post, and make my way to the staffroom.
It’s probably a note from one of my families. I both love and hate receiving them. A note or thank-you card of course means I’ve done my job well, but it also usually follows a death. One of my patients will have gone, and a thank-you note will mark part of the admin for a poor family to complete while they’re still shaken from grief.
My name’s printed neatly on the cover. Almost as if it’s been typed, but there’s a small smudge of ink that betrays its handwritten status.
Eli Hughes
Senior Staff Nurse
Cherrygreen Hospice
I don’t think much of it at first. I’m focusing on getting fifteen minutes to compose myself. To try to eat something before my hunger turns to nausea. Drink some coffee before my fatigue overwhelms me. Put my feet up before my ankles swell further. Yes, I’m at the
