Then their faces fall. Apparently the British stiff upper lip does not apply when your incredible son tells you he has an incurable brain disease. And nor should it.
I’m in the toilets at work only days after his diagnosis, staring at my reflection in the mirror, adding up pregnancy symptoms. Actually, it’s more that I’m adding up the number of symptoms I did have and now don’t.
Nausea? Gone.
Sore boobs? Gone.
Ligament twinges? Gone.
Exhaustion? Still exhausted, but as my husband has just been diagnosed with a terminal disease and I’m in the process of re-writing our entire future, I give myself a bit of leeway.
I had the first hint of a crampy, dragging feeling about an hour ago, and now I’m standing in here, scared to look. Surely the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to remove half of my little family in one week. Since the diagnosis, I’ve been struggling with the idea of raising Charlie and the baby on my own. I don’t know how to do parenting without Cam. He’s the composed one. The intuitive one. What if I brought this on myself?
I remember the day I got my first period on my thirteenth birthday, at my horse-riding party, being terrified to look, scared of the evidence, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. I’d have twice as many periods for the rest of my life if I could just avoid seeing evidence of bleeding this one time. I’m not religious but I find myself bargaining with whoever’s listening.
But I think I’ve used up all my favours. I’ve already spent a week bargaining about Cam. I started small. Save him and I’ll give up coffee for life. Spare my husband and I’ll never eat chocolate again. Never have wine. Never buy another book.
Then I ramped it up a notch. I’ll give up everything I own. I’ll live alone. Save Cam and I’ll give him up. I would do almost anything to keep him alive.
Save my baby, I think now. And you can have Cam.
I rush into a stall feeling sick, horrified at my own thoughts. Terrified that I’ve put some curse on Cam. Equally horrified that I’ve chosen this baby over the love of my life. An impossible choice, yet I’ve made it, in an instant. I didn’t even think too hard. I’m starting to wonder why it’s Cam or the baby at risk at all. Why not me? The type of woman who would sacrifice the devoted father of her one-year-old for a baby we haven’t even met yet. One I was initially terrified to have and now feel more connected to than to any other human, because it’s the only part of Cam’s future that’s still tracking on an upward curve. Or was.
Baby, please hold on.
I’m already crying when I brave the investigation that proves within seconds that all is lost. Huge, heaving sobs come from a place within me that I didn’t even know existed. So much grief, I can’t stand it. I can’t do this. It’s impossible to be alive and feel this wounded, and now the bargaining is all about me. End this. I can’t be here. This is beyond me.
‘Kate? Is that you?’ It’s Sophie’s voice, as she enters the bathroom. Bright. Young. Still-enchanted-with-the-world Sophie.
‘I’m okay,’ I explain quickly. With all the crying, the defence sounds weak, even to me. ‘Actually, Sophie, do you have a pad?’
‘Sorry, I use menstrual cups,’ she says. Of course she does. ‘But Kate, aren’t you—’
‘I need a pad, specifically. Otherwise, there’s a risk of infection.’
I hate that I know this without having to look it up. Hate that my encyclopaedic knowledge of all things infertility didn’t come from books, but from heartbreaking experience over several years.
‘I’ll find one,’ Sophie says. Her voice has lost its bubble. I feel bad to have flattened her effervescence.
After a minute or two, there’s a knock on the main door to the bathroom. ‘Kate?’ It’s Hugh’s voice, in the corridor.
Bloody Sophie!
‘Please leave me alone,’ I say, in a voice that can’t hide my agony. ‘I need to go home,’ I add, my voice shaking. ‘Via the doctor.’
I fold up a bunch of toilet paper to use in the interim, flush the toilet, unlatch the door and wash my hands. Then I close my eyes for a second, building the courage to open the door into a world without my baby. I pull the handle and step into the corridor, then stand there with Hugh, in a state that couldn’t feel more vulnerable if I was giving birth right in front of him.
His expression seems to echo my pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he offers.
Everyone is nothing but sorry, in every direction, and it makes no difference to how heinous everything is. People say, ‘I wish there was something I could do’ and ‘I don’t know what to say’ and that’s because this is The Impossible. This whole thing. Cam. The baby. Me facing a future without either of them. And now I feel guilty about Charlie. That he’s not enough. My innocent, darling child. Not enough to stop me wishing my own life away.
I’m thinking all of this and hoping none of it is being subliminally communicated. Hugh is standing there, looking traumatised on my behalf. The perfect man. Hot Coals Hugh.
‘How are you are so freaking together all the time?’ I find myself sniping at him, very unfairly. ‘You always know what to say. You’re constantly doing exactly what’s needed. You cope with everything, no matter how hard. Your life is just this shiny, untarnished, extraordinary, seamless, easy experience and I am envious as hell.’
I will myself to stop this verbal battering. But there’s a circuit misfiring in my brain. I actually want to throw something. No. What I really want is for the physical pain that’s about to ramp up in my body to escalate faster and overpower this impossible emotional agony. What is wrong with me, taking this out on innocent bystanders when they’re only trying to help? And here come hot, plentiful tears. About losing Cam. Losing the baby. Losing my job? Just losing . . . everything. This is all just so hopeless.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, anguished. ‘Please don’t sack me.’
If you have to be pathetic and place your fate in the hands of someone else, it’s a good move to pick Hugh Lancaster. He is still here. Still standing. Letting me pummel him with the anger I really want to direct inward. In this moment, it’s abundantly clear that I have lost my way. And yet I seem to have his full permission and support to be recklessly emotional and say all the things he knows I’ll regret, without any judgement at his end. And without the pity I’ve read on the faces of every single other person who’s been privy to the first half of our horrible news. I can’t bear the thought of the double helping of pity that will be incoming when people hear I’ve gone and lost the baby too.
‘Your job is safe,’ he confirms quietly.
Safe.
The very thing I do not feel.
I stare into his eyes for a second, though everything’s blurry through tears, and I hope he can read my apology and my thanks. Just having had this outburst has taken the edge off my rage. And I realise that’s exactly what Hugh is letting me do. I need to unleash the full force of my despair on someone other than my husband, because you don’t shout at a terminally ill person about losing his child.
‘“Losing” is such a stupid word for what happens when someone dies,’ I tell Hugh. ‘I haven’t misplaced my baby. Didn’t leave it lying around somewhere, or on the bus or in the trolley at the supermarket. I’m not absent-mindedly going to lose my husband . . .’