Read Online The Upside of Down by Susan Biggar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Biggar
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can I face? The wallpaper in our bedroom jumps out at me with its glaring floral pattern and slightly raised dusky pink swirls. I slowly reach out and run my fingers along it. I have always disliked this wallpaper but never gotten around to changing it. Yet it is terribly wrong all of a sudden, especially that raised texture, prancing around my walls as though itâs escaping from the ugly 1970s.
Itâs probably only five minutes before Darryl arrives home from work. He finds me still sitting on the edge of the bed next to the phone with tear-streaked cheeks, trying to determine the best way to remove the wallpaper. Scraper? Fingernails? Iâm so engrossed in these thoughts that I have forgotten about Aidan. I havenât heard anything from him so heâs either playing nicely where I left him or re-painting the living room with glue sticks and glitter.
âThe doctor called,â I say without looking at Darryl. He comes over immediately, sitting down beside me. Looking at me, he knows. I donât need to say anything more. But I continue anyway, speaking rapidly, as though tossing the news formally to him might relieve some of the weight pressing in, clouding my eyes, wringing the life from me. âThe baby has CF.â
We sit, mutely, like survivors of a shipwreck assessing the damage.
A few minutes later Aidan begins to grumble in the other room, probably because itâs about dinnertime and his tank is empty. Iâm unable to face the salmon that night or the next and in the end chuck it out.
The next few days we think and talk of nothing else. How can we worry about paying the phone bill, choosing between Cheerios and Sultana Bran, or discussing national politics (normally a favourite subject) when this profound decision is resting so squarely on us, squashing everything else that once mattered?
We search everywhere for wisdom and direction: the internet, close friends and family, the Bible; weâd probably try fortune cookies if we thought they would bring clarity. For all of the thinking, reading, talking, praying, searching we do, it still feels like a grey and miserably difficult decision. We are overwhelmed by the idea of a potentially dismal future for our baby, fighting this still-terrifying illness; the idea of going through the whole journey of this illness twice feels like more than we can bear.
Several days later we make the only decision we can manage right now: to terminate the pregnancy. We are in agreement, but devastated by it. The whole process has felt anything but clear-cut.
The day we return from the hospital, Kevin comes over to be with us. Talitha, our teenage babysitter, is generous with offers to take Aidan in the days that follow. Both of our families are distressed, but unequivocally supportive. We are fragile, so fragile.
Aidan is the light that pulls us through this dark period. He is walking and squawking and generally being a delight. Having undergone a radical transformation in recent months, he is now a burly toddler with fluffy strawberry blond hair. In fact, heâs such a far cry from the super scrawny bald baby he once was that I wonder if people will think I have pulled a little swaperoo at mothers group.
But the personality traits are the same: stubbornness and non-stop energy. Heâs like Robert Mugabe on Red Bull. He still walks all wobbly, a sort of John Wayne bow-legged swagger, yet is desperate to vacuum the house. We play tug-of-war with the vacuum until I finally relent. Within a few days he has cracked himself in the skull with the metal pipe, prompting an impressive egg to pop out of his forehead. Thereâs a pattern emerging with this child. I can only hope his stubbornness helps him to push through the trials he may face in the future.
***
We have now been in Wellington more than two years and involved with a small church community for most of that time. The denomination is not one we previously associated ourselves with; in
Itâs probably only five minutes before Darryl arrives home from work. He finds me still sitting on the edge of the bed next to the phone with tear-streaked cheeks, trying to determine the best way to remove the wallpaper. Scraper? Fingernails? Iâm so engrossed in these thoughts that I have forgotten about Aidan. I havenât heard anything from him so heâs either playing nicely where I left him or re-painting the living room with glue sticks and glitter.
âThe doctor called,â I say without looking at Darryl. He comes over immediately, sitting down beside me. Looking at me, he knows. I donât need to say anything more. But I continue anyway, speaking rapidly, as though tossing the news formally to him might relieve some of the weight pressing in, clouding my eyes, wringing the life from me. âThe baby has CF.â
We sit, mutely, like survivors of a shipwreck assessing the damage.
A few minutes later Aidan begins to grumble in the other room, probably because itâs about dinnertime and his tank is empty. Iâm unable to face the salmon that night or the next and in the end chuck it out.
The next few days we think and talk of nothing else. How can we worry about paying the phone bill, choosing between Cheerios and Sultana Bran, or discussing national politics (normally a favourite subject) when this profound decision is resting so squarely on us, squashing everything else that once mattered?
We search everywhere for wisdom and direction: the internet, close friends and family, the Bible; weâd probably try fortune cookies if we thought they would bring clarity. For all of the thinking, reading, talking, praying, searching we do, it still feels like a grey and miserably difficult decision. We are overwhelmed by the idea of a potentially dismal future for our baby, fighting this still-terrifying illness; the idea of going through the whole journey of this illness twice feels like more than we can bear.
Several days later we make the only decision we can manage right now: to terminate the pregnancy. We are in agreement, but devastated by it. The whole process has felt anything but clear-cut.
The day we return from the hospital, Kevin comes over to be with us. Talitha, our teenage babysitter, is generous with offers to take Aidan in the days that follow. Both of our families are distressed, but unequivocally supportive. We are fragile, so fragile.
Aidan is the light that pulls us through this dark period. He is walking and squawking and generally being a delight. Having undergone a radical transformation in recent months, he is now a burly toddler with fluffy strawberry blond hair. In fact, heâs such a far cry from the super scrawny bald baby he once was that I wonder if people will think I have pulled a little swaperoo at mothers group.
But the personality traits are the same: stubbornness and non-stop energy. Heâs like Robert Mugabe on Red Bull. He still walks all wobbly, a sort of John Wayne bow-legged swagger, yet is desperate to vacuum the house. We play tug-of-war with the vacuum until I finally relent. Within a few days he has cracked himself in the skull with the metal pipe, prompting an impressive egg to pop out of his forehead. Thereâs a pattern emerging with this child. I can only hope his stubbornness helps him to push through the trials he may face in the future.
***
We have now been in Wellington more than two years and involved with a small church community for most of that time. The denomination is not one we previously associated ourselves with; in
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