Letter to Louis Read online

  Natalie has gone. She is standing by another incubator in the intensive care room. I almost run.

  ‘Natalie, why aren’t you by Louis?’

  ‘Alison, please.’ Her shadowed face is smiling; she takes my hand. ‘Do not be sad, this is good news. Your son is no longer the most critical here, be glad.’

  There have been emotional phone calls in the evenings between Greg and my mother while I have been sleeping at the hospital. Now your grandparents, Spike and Mary, have come up from Sheffield to see you. I lead them down the corridor towards the intensive care room. As we get closer I notice Spike has fallen back. As we reach the double doors to the intensive care room I stop and demonstrate how we must carefully cleanse our hands and arms with antiseptic lotion. Spike’s hands stay down by his side and he tilts his body to lean against the glass-sectioned wall that looks into your room of incubators.

  ‘I’ll just stay here,’ he says quietly looking down.

  ‘But you won’t get to see him.’ There’s surprise in my voice.

  ‘We don’t want to overcrowd him right now.’

  ‘But Dad?’

  Spike’s face is pale. This is not like him. We leave him standing in the corridor and I take Mary into the room, over to your plastic bubble. We stare into your incubator and Mary’s eyes fill with tears. As we turn to leave Mary whispers, ‘Your father, he can’t cope with this.’

  Later as Spike pats my shoulder to say goodbye he says quickly, ‘I’m sorry, Ali. I don’t want to get close to him, in case he doesn’t make it.’

  Spike’s sister died at the age of fourteen; she dropped down dead in the street from a brain haemorrhage. It was Spike who had to tell his parents. I know those memories have engulfed him.

  Later you two will become peas in a pod. Later Spike will come up frequently to visit to help us to care for you. Later he will do anything, just anything, for you.

  Seven days have passed. I’ve stepped out of the hospital. Cold autumn air enters my lungs, I feel its cool presence swirl into my brain and it is as if I am waking from a dream. I stand in the hospital car park, my coat wrapped over my black pyjama bottoms. We need to get to the birth register office to register your name.

  The car is heading down a familiar street near the hospital. The tenements on each side are leaning in towards me, their red sandstone wrapping around the car. I grip the handle of the door tight. I feel like I’m in a time capsule passing a world I no longer know. I can feel the throbbing of my wound and I try not to panic. I close my eyes and I see you in your bubble under those harsh fluorescent lights, jumping, startled by the beeping, the triggering of the alarms.

  In the waiting room we sit on a hard varnished bench until we are called into an office. A stout, dark-haired woman is sitting behind a desk. She takes both of our names.

  ‘And your son, whose name is he to have?’

  ‘We were thinking of giving him a double barrelled name, both of ours.’

  She looks perturbed.

  ‘Oh no, no, no, you don’t want to go doing that, that’ll mean that you,’ she points at me, ‘are in one place,’ she swings her arm to point at Greg, ‘and you are in another and your son, your poor wee boy, will be somewhere entirely different.’

  We look at each other; Greg rolls his eyes.

  ‘Well, let’s have yours then,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll have your surname.’

  She overhears me.

  ‘Oh no, no, no, you don’t want to go doing that if you’re not married; I’d definitely recommend the mother’s name under these circumstances.’

  She says it as if these circumstances are rare, with a relish. I’m really not up to this right now. I just need to get back to the hospital. I can feel my breasts swelling with milk; I need to get onto that pump.

  Greg leans towards me. ‘Just do your name. I don’t mind, it really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Okay, put it in my name.’ I sigh as the words leave my mouth. Doesn’t she realise you are our son, both of ours?

  We pause outside on the steps; I’m holding your birth certificate in my hand.

  ‘She was a nutball, what was that all about?’

  ‘She didn’t seem to understand we’re together.’

  I face Greg.

  ‘Let’s get married.’

  Which of us said that?

  The tube is stuck with masking tape across your cheek. It pokes through your nostril and disappears. I know it is resting down in your stomach; it must feel strange. The nurse measured you carefully, your length from your stomach to your nose, cut a length of tube and pushed it down your nostril, down your throat as you gagged. Now she is back with a bottle of my milk in her hand, in the other a plastic syringe. She draws out some milk from the bottle with the syringe then attaches it to the end of the tube. She squirts it down into your stomach. Now she washes the milk that’s been left in the tube down there too, this time using sterilised water to push it through. It’s all in your stomach. She studies her watch. She doesn’t wait long before she sucks it all up again. She’s using the same syringe, attaches it back on the tube and pulls slowly back with the plunger as it sucks up the contents. I see milk appear, sliding up the tube; it’s tinged pink. Is that blood? At least it’s not green and pussy like last time. She squirts some onto a piece of litmus paper.

  ‘There now,’ she says, looking pleased, ‘he’s starting to digest his food; now his feeds can be gradually increased. This is a very good sign.’

  They’ve sent me home. It is ten days since you were born and they need my bed. I arrive back to a cold, quiet flat. I find a table and take it into our bedroom and place the milking machine on top. I put an armchair by its side; I’ll be sitting in this day and night. I can’t speak right now. I’ve lost the ability to speak to anyone but Greg and Len and the doctors and nurses up at the hospital. Greg fields the phone calls, he tells family and friends how you are doing each day. I can’t. I’ve become mute. A fear like a suffocating fog seems to expand in my lungs with each day of being away from you; I need to get back to the ward, be by your side.

  *

  Greg has compiled a soothing music tape for me to listen to. Greg has a gift with music, his own and sourcing others. While I’ve been sleeping at the hospital he has come home and made up a collection of songs that he thinks will help me. It does, it helps to calm me, unfreeze my fear, release me briefly from the terror of us falling, you leaving this world. My mind cannot concentrate on anything other than you. I cannot read, I cannot watch a film, I cannot write, but as the music seeps into my mind I find I can relax a little. I start to read poetry. I find this helps me too. Suddenly I don’t feel alone; I feel understood, as poets share their own pain.

  *

  We develop a routine that results in us being up at the hospital most of the day and evening with brief trips home to the pump. We start with a morning visit timed for after the doctors’ round, one in the afternoon, one in the evening, and one late at night just before going to sleep. Greg sings to you in your incubator then, he sings in a quiet deep voice, he sings, ‘I was born under a wand’rin star’, and I’m sure that your body relaxes, that you enjoy the deep vibrations.

  *

  The autumnal light is golden; the leaves are turning yellow, orange and red as I watch the squirrels gathering their nuts for the winter. I am filled with hope. One day, one day next autumn, you and I will be watching the squirrels hand in hand.

  It’s early morning and I’m carrying bottles of my breast milk over to the ward freezer: my day’s collection. I spot the male nurse with the goggly eyes. I’ve asked him for bottles before and he only gives me three at a time. That’s not going to get me very far. I keep having to ask for more. I wish I could help myself from the store and not keep having to ask. I try to time my visits for when one of the competent nurses is around but damn it’s him.

  ‘Ah, it’s Ermintrude.’

  Moron. Breathe.

  And now I’ve missed seeing you, I’m not allowed in. It
’s nine in the morning and the doctors’ round has started. Any parents in the intensive care room are asked to leave; we hover by the notice board waiting for news, watching the doctors through the glass pane in the wall, watching them move from one incubator to the next, picking up the clip board hanging on the end of each frame, studying the notes. They will be deciding the best course of action for you today. You are off the oscillating ventilator now and onto the CPAP ventilator. I can tell you don’t like it; you try to pull it out sometimes.

  I watch through the pane as a nurse is asked to lift you then places you back down. The feeding tube has coiled under your cheek. I can see you’re wriggling but no one has noticed. I know it is hurting. You are trying to lift the weight of your head, move it off the tube but you can’t and I can’t go to you.

  At last the round is over and I’m back by your side. I’ve scrubbed my hands, my arms; my reddened skin is becoming rough from the frequency but I mustn’t risk an infection. I gently take the weight of your head to lift and turn your face the other way. Your cheek is indented. You stop wriggling but your eyes remain closed, scrunched up tight. Is it the brightness of the fluorescent light overhead? I go to the store cupboard and find a white cotton sheet and place it over your incubator; it diffuses the light, lessens the glare. I see your face relax, your eyes unscrew, opening to show glistening black pools. You stare out to the side and I bend down, gazing in at you. Your eyes are glazed but your face looks calm. I feel calm flood through me too. There, that’s better for you. The light returns in a flash, your eyes scrunch shut.

  ‘It’s not night-time.’

  The junior doctor strides away, the sheet in her hand. We are starting to get to know the personalities of the doctors and nurses in here; I suppose this comes with time, you’ve been here for nearly a month now.

  Dr Thompson leads the team. He is calm, intelligent and thoughtful and he has my absolute respect; he appears to have everyone’s in here. The nurses mention him as they go about their work.

  ‘Och he saves so many of the sick babes in here.’

  ‘He’s just an amazing man.’

  ‘Here comes God,’ they whisper, keeping their heads lowered, becoming bashful if he stops and speaks.

  Often after the doctors’ round he pops back to speak with me while I’m sitting by your incubator.

  ‘And how does mother think Louis is today?’

  And I tell him.

  He values my opinion, not that I can tell the things that a doctor can see.

  ‘I always think it is best to ask the mother, she has been watching over her baby – she often notices the first signs.’

  He’s hovering.

  ‘We are concerned about Louis. His breathing is laboured; see how his chest is pulling up under his ribs? He has what is called a patent ductus, an open valve in his heart. All babies have this but they usually close during the birthing process. Because Louis was premature and delivered by caesarean section this hasn’t happened. Fluid is entering his lungs and I can see that he is struggling. It may be that he requires an operation but I’m reluctant to do this right now as he would only have a fifty-fifty chance of survival.’

  He stares me directly in the eye. I flinch. I look down into your incubator and see your chest sucking up under your ribs.

  ‘I need you to watch over him carefully. Come and tell me if you see any change.’

  A man in green scrubs appears behind the doctor.

  ‘Ah Bill. I’m glad you could get over here. This is the wee boy I’m concerned about.’

  The surgeon puts a stethoscope to your chest.

  ‘Yes, I think we should operate; I can fit him in. Do him first thing in the morning if you’d like?’

  ‘I’d like a little more time, thank you. Can I speak with you again shortly?’

  ‘No problem at all, let me know when you’ve decided and I’ll find a slot.’

  Dr Thompson explains. ‘You see, surgeons always like to operate. That is because they are surgeons. Some may call me conservative but I like to wait a little. Louis is under three pounds, he has low reserves and there is still the possibility the ductus may close. I would like to go for the conservative option: we are going to starve him of food, give the bare minimum of fluid to help protect his lungs from filling, and then we’ll wait for a few weeks in the hope it might spontaneously close itself. I think the odds of Louis’s survival would be better.’

  He has gone. How many things can happen to you? A crater has opened just when I thought you were through it all.

  You are four weeks old and we are explaining our situation to the vicar. Is he a vicar? We are inside the church across the road from our flat. He asks us a few questions and it’s quickly clear we don’t fit the church’s criteria: neither of us is religious.

  ‘Well, this will be my last marriage as I am leaving the church for another vocation. I think you will be the perfect couple to end with.’

  *

  We have to wait two weeks before the ceremony can be performed.

  Between the hospital and our flat is a section of street that contains an odd collection of small shops. Above the shops are flats that look down onto the busy main road; their windows are streaked with black dust and their net curtains are shabby.

  I’ve been walking along this street many times since I came out of hospital. Near the end of the street is a shop with a metal grille over its window, and in the centre of the window is a mannequin displaying a gold Chinese dress that I always stare at. Every time that I pass this shop I hope that it will be open but it is always in darkness. I’ve tried the door a number of times even though there was no point.

  Today on this autumn afternoon when I leave the hospital the sky is heavy and grey, its light has been squeezed away like a rag wrung free of water. But as I walk down the street with the shops I can feel my heart lift; in the distance, through the grille of the coveted shop, I can see a small bright ball of light. As I get closer the ball becomes a shining bare light bulb hanging down from the central ceiling rose. I try the shop door again but it is still locked, so I raise up my hand and knock hard on the door with my fist. A stooped Chinese man wearing steel-rimmed glasses opens the door.

  ‘Madam. I’m sorry, we are wholesale.’

  ‘It’s the dress …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘… in your window. I’m getting married next week and I wondered if I could try it on?’

  The man hesitates.

  ‘Ah, well, we don’t have a changing room. There is a toilet.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine. Can I see if it fits me?’

  He allows me to squeeze into his shop filled with cardboard boxes and I help him to take the dress off the mannequin.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not have a mirror,’ he says.

  I slip the dress on in the toilet and step out into the shop.

  ‘What do you think?’

  His kind face breaks into a smile.

  ‘It fits you.’

  Greg is going to wear his grandfather’s suit, so we are sorted except for the rings.

  *

  No one is coming to the wedding; we are having the ceremony between visits to see you. I’m still finding it difficult to speak to anyone outside of the hospital so it seems a sensible plan. Mary is tearful.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want anyone to come? I could get on a train?’

  ‘No, honestly, Mum, I need to be up at the hospital; we can celebrate another time.’

  Jamie, Greg’s musician friend, has also been asking to come to the wedding, offering to take some photographs for us.

  ‘No,’ Greg explains. ‘I’m sorry, Jamie, but no one’s coming – if I let one then how can we not let more?’

  I am sitting beside your incubator while you sleep. Dr Thompson comes into the room.

  ‘I hear you’re getting married on Friday, Alison?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ I smile.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been wondering about th
at heart operation for wee Louis. I don’t really think we can wait any longer for the valve to close. I’ve been discussing it with colleagues and we were thinking of going ahead with the operation on Friday, but the nurses have just told me your news.’ His face has creased into a smile. ‘So I think I’ll postpone it just a little bit longer.’

  I leap up. ‘Oh no, please don’t delay for this. Do what’s right for Louis. We don’t have to get married; it’s not as important as this.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to think about it some more.’

  A little while later he returns.

  ‘You know, I think I am going to wait just a little bit longer. Louis seems to be doing very well today.’

  Louis, Louis, you are?

  It’s Friday morning and we drive up to the hospital. The nurses crowd around us.

  ‘Let’s take a wee picture of you and Louis. Don’t you look smashing?’

  I hold you in my arms. Your eyes are closed and your oxygen tube is running into your nose. You look very well today.

  ‘Here you are, hen, a card for you.’

  I open the card. Inside it says, ‘To my Mummy and Daddy on your wedding day’, and there are your feet printed in gold.

  As we drive home, I speak aloud.

  ‘You know, maybe we should have a photo?’

  Greg’s on the telephone immediately, but Jamie doesn’t answer.

  ‘If you get this message we’re getting married at noon at the church opposite our flat. A photo would be good after all.’ We stand outside the church; it’s cold but the sky is clear. The vicar is wearing a bishop’s hat. I’m a little confused. What religion are we getting married into? I don’t dare to ask.

  ‘As you are on your own with no relatives, you may as well walk down the aisle together. Walk slowly down until you reach the altar and then I will take your vows. After that, maybe you can say a poem or a few words to each other if you wish.’