Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

Tony squeezed my hand tightly, and didn't seem to mind that it was a cold and clammy hand. It was only then that I realized I had my head bowed and my eyes tightly closed, like someone expecting a body blow. I opened them and asked, 'You just said that you sense there's been no brain damage. Doesn't the MRI offer conclusive evidence?'

Another sympathetic smile from Reynolds.

'The brain is a mysterious organism. And after a traumatic birth - in which there was initially a question about whether the brain was denied oxygen - you cannot be completely 100 per cent definitive that there was no damage. Having said that, however, all clinical evidence points to a positive outcome...'

'So there is something to worry about', I said, getting agitated.

'If I were you, I'd move forward optimistically'.

'But you're not me, Doctor. And because you're more than hinting that our son has been brain damaged' -

Tony cut me off.

'Sally, that is not what the doctor said'.

'I heard what he said. And what he said is that there is a chance our son was denied oxygen to the brain and is therefore...'

'Ms Goodchild, please', Reynolds said, his voice calm and still commiserative. 'Though I can fully appreciate your concerns, they are - with respect - somewhat overblown. As I said before, I really do think you have nothing to worry about'.

'How can you say that... how... when you yourself admit that you can't be 100 per cent certain that' -

Again, Tony intervened.

'That's enough, Sally'.

'Don't tell me' -

'Enough!

His vehement tone silenced me. And I suddenly felt appalled - both at the illogicality of my rant, and at the irrational anger I had shown this very decent and patient doctor.

'Doctor Reynolds, I am so sorry...'

He raised his hand.

'There's nothing to apologize about, Ms Goodchild. I do understand just how difficult things have been. And I'll be back here tomorrow if you have any further questions'.

Then he wished us a good evening and left. As soon as he was out of the room, Tony looked at me for a very long time. Then he asked, 'Would you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?'

I looked away. And said, 'I don't know'.

Six

AS PROMISED, THEY kept me in the hospital for another five days. During this time, I was allowed constant visits with Jack in Paediatric ICU. They had decided to keep him 'under continued observation' in the unit for a few more days.

'Do understand', Dr Reynolds said, 'there's nothing at all sinister about this. We're just erring on the side of caution'.

Did he really expect me to believe that? Still, I said nothing. Because I knew it was best if I tried to say nothing.

At times, I found myself observing Jack as if he was a strange, hyper-real piece of modern sculpture - an infant medical still life, enshrouded by tubes, on permanent display in a big plastic case. Or I was reminded of that famous eight-hour Andy Warhol film - Empire - which was one long static shot of the Empire State Building. Watching Jack was the same. He'd lie there, motionless, rarely moving a muscle (though, from time-to-time, there'd be the tiniest flex of his hand). And I'd find myself projecting all sorts of stuff on to him. Such as: how I hoped he'd like the bouncy chair I'd bought for him. Whether his diapers would be as disgusting as I imagined. Would he go for Warner Brothers cartoons or Disney (please may he be a smartass Bugs Bunny kid). And would his acne be as horrible as mine had been when I was thirteen...?

All right, I was getting way ahead of myself. But an infant is like a tabula rasa, upon which an entire story will be written. And now, staring at Jack in that Plexiglas bowl, all I could think was: he might not have a life... or one that is substantially diminished, and all because of the way his body moved a few wrong inches in the womb. Something over which neither of us had any control - but which could completely change everything that happened to both of us from now on. Even if Reynolds was right - and Jack had managed to walk away unscathed from this accident - would this early brush with catastrophe so haunt me that I'd become one of those fiendishly overprotective mothers who would worry every time her ten-year-old negotiated a flight of stairs? Or would I become so convinced that doom was lurking right around the corner that I'd never really rest easy again, and would live life now with an omnipresent sense of dread?

The ICU duty nurse was now at my side - a young woman in her early twenties. Irish. Exceptionally calm.

'He's a beauty' she said, looking in on him. 'Do you want to hold him?'

'Sure', I said tentatively.

She unhooked a few of his tubes, then lifted him up and placed him in my arms. I attempted to cradle him - but still found myself worried about unsettling all the medical paraphernalia attached to him... even though the nurse assured me that I wouldn't be disturbing anything vital. But though I pasted a caring smile on my face, I knew I was wearing a mask. Because, like the last time, I couldn't muster a single maternal feeling towards this baby. All I wanted to do was hand him back again.

'You're grand', the nurse said when I lifted him up towards her. 'No hurry'.

I reluctantly cradled him again. And asked, 'Is he really doing all right?'

'Just grand'.

'But you're sure that he didn't suffer any damage during birth?'

'Hasn't Dr Reynolds spoken to you about this?'

Oh, yes he had - and oh, what an idiot I had made of myself. Just as I was making an idiot of myself right now - asking the same damn questions again. Voicing the same obsessive worries... while simultaneously being unable to hold him.

'Dr Reynolds said he sensed there was no brain damage'.

'Well, there you go then', she said, relieving me of Jack. 'Unlike a lot of the babies in here, there's no doubt that your fella's going to be fine'.

I held on to that prognosis - using it as a sort of mantra whenever I felt myself getting shaky (which, truth be told, was very often), or fatalistic, or edging into borderline despair. I knew I needed to show a positive, improved face to the world - because I was now being watched for any signs of disarray... especially by my husband and by Mr Hughes.

Both men dropped by to see me regularly. Hughes would show up on his morning rounds. He would spend a good ten minutes looking me over, inspecting my war wounds, studying my chart, and briskly interrogating me about my mental well-being, while casting the occasional sidelong glance at the ward sister to make certain that I wasn't fabricating my improved personal state.

'Sleeping well then?' he asked me on the third day after Jack's birth.

'Six hours last night'.

He wrote this down, then looked at the sister for verification. She supplied it with a rapid nod of the head. He asked, 'And the, uh, episodes of emotional discomfort - these have lessened?'

'I haven't cried in days'.

'Glad to hear it. Nor should you, because your boy is on the way to a complete recovery. As you are. Two more nights here and we can send you home'.

'With my son?'

'You'll have to speak with Dr Reynolds about that. That's his domain. Now, anything else we need to speak about?'

'My breasts...' I said in a semi-whisper.

'What about them?' he asked.

'Well, they've become a bit... hard'.

'Haven't you been expressing milk since the birth?' he asked.

'Of course. But in the last forty-eight hours, they've started feeling rock solid'.

In truth, they felt as if they had been filled with fast-drying reinforced concrete.

'That's a perfectly common postnatal syndrome', Hughes said, still not looking up from my chart. 'The milk ducts tend to constrict, and the breasts begin to feel somewhat leaden...'

He cleared his throat, then added, 'Or, at least, that's what I've been told'.