When Charlie first came down with a fever, he knew what was happening. He said to me, “Mum, I don’t understand, we haven’t gone anywhere,” and I didn’t know how to respond. I don’t know, my darling boys. I don’t know how this happened. I must have caught it when I went outside. I must be a host. I must have gotten too close to you. I’m so sorry.
Will is downstairs now, drinking tea. He cannot bear to be in this room and watch the consequences of what he thinks he has done. He’s convinced he’s responsible for the boys being sick even though I’ve told him, again and again, that we don’t know. We’ll never know. It might not have been him, but nothing I say makes a difference. He is overwhelmed by guilt. He’s not even the Catholic one of the two of us but then again, what do I have to feel guilty for? I did everything I could. Will went into the vipers’ nest of the hospital and who knows what he brought back?
No matter what I tell him, the times he left this house and went to the hospital he put our boys in danger. But it might also be me, and that uncertainty kills me a tiny bit more every day. I can see the beginnings of insanity from here. In the delirium of old age, I will forget lots of things, maybe my children’s names and Will’s face and that I used to be a doctor, but I won’t forget this. Was it me? Was it him? Who is to blame? You? Me? No one.
Charlie and Josh are dying in front of me and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. They look like twins. They practically are twins, only thirteen months apart. My lovely, clever, kind boys. They’re both now weaving in and out of consciousness. If I had morphine I would give it to them. It would speed things up but it would reduce the discomfort. They’re having occasional hallucinations from the fever, panting words about footballs and rabbits and the other nonsense the delirious come out with. I phoned my friend Ann and asked her, a few days ago when the symptoms began, what I could do treatment wise. “Oh, Amanda, I’m so—”
I cut her off.
“Ann, we can’t do this. I don’t need that. I just need to know what you did for Ian to make it easier.”
Ann is the finest palliative care doctor I know. She works in a hospice an hour away in Dumbarton. Her work is calm, contemplative and caring, everything mine is not. I’m used to high drama, urgency and the willingness to cause pain in the moment to prevent a problem down the road. I am not equipped for this. And yet, her advice was more for me than them. There is nothing for them; without morphine, it’s just cold washcloths to ease the fevers and spoonfuls of water to quench the raging thirst. Ann’s advice was for me to stay calm and in the present. She said being there for them is more important than anything. Don’t think about the future without them. Don’t reflect on what you could have done differently in the past. Treasure this time and be a soothing balm for their panicked, fractured minds riddled with pain.
I heard her and I listened but it is impossible for my mind to stay in this room. It’s too painful. I keep thinking back to their childhoods for some relief, taking myself back in a haze to the times when they were happy and safe and had so many more years ahead of them than behind them. Doubts creep in inevitably to ruin the daydream. Is there anything I would do differently? Should I have given up work? Was it worth it, all those hours away from them? I could have been with them every day, every night, I should have been. But how was I to know? I could never have known.
I want to go back and do it all over again. Seeing the lines on the pregnancy tests and screaming with joy. Feeling their kicks and movements as they stretched in my tummy at the beginning of the day. Waddling around Mothercare the first time, bewildered and panic-buying things that promised sleep. The second time, exhausted, carrying a toddler and panic-buying toys that promised peace. I want to go back and tell myself every day for all those years to enjoy every second. I thought it would be endless. I assumed the good fortune of seeing my children grow up.
I dropped them off at nursery every morning and some days I would be so relieved to have peace I would beam as I walked down the street. I’m off to work! I’d be so thrilled to be absolving myself of the responsibility of looking after tiny humans. I left them to look after other people, to care for other parents’ sick children. They’ve spent years at school, I’ve been calculating. Not just school years but actual years. They’ve spent thousands of hours away from me. All that time is gone. I want to do it again. I want it all back. Please God, let them come back from the brink. Give them back to me. Please.