Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Ready to take him?' the nurse asked.

No, I am not ready. I'm not ready for any of this. Because I can't cope. Because...

'Sure', I said, my smile tight.

She reached in, and gingerly gathered him up. He was very docile until he was put into my arms. At which point, he instantly began to cry. It wasn't a loud cry, but it was certainly persistent - like someone who felt instantly uncomfortable with the hands now holding him. And that admonishing voice inside my head told me, 'Well, of course he's crying. Because he knows it was you who did him harm'.

'Is he your first?' the nurse asked.

'Yes', I said, wondering if my nervousness was showing.

'Don't worry about the crying then. Believe me, he'll get to like it within a day'.

Why are you trying to humour me? It's so clear that Jack knows I meant him harm, knows I really was trying to hurt him, knows I'm incapable of being a mother. Which is why he can't stand this first physical contact with me. He knows.

'Can I get you a chair?' the nurse asked me.

'That would be good', I said, as my legs were suddenly feeling rubbery.

She found a straight-back plastic chair. I sat down, cradling Jack. He kept roaring - a true cry from someone who was terrified by the company they were now keeping.

'Maybe if you tried feeding him...' the nurse suggested. 'He's due a feed'.

'I've been having problems extracting milk', I said.

'Well, he'll clear that problem up straight away', she said with another of her amiable laughs which was supposed to put me at my ease, but just made me feel even more self-conscious. So, cradling the still-screaming Jack with one arm, I tried to lift up my teeshirt and bra with my spare hand. But Jack's cries made me hyper-nervous, with the result that, every time I attempted to yank up my shirt, I seemed to be losing my grip on him. Which made him even more disconcerted.

'Let me take him there for a moment while you sort yourself out', the nurse said.

I'm not going to sort myself out. Because I can't sort myself out.

'Thank you', I said. As soon as she relieved me of Jack, he stopped crying. I pulled up my teeshirt and freed my right breast from the nursing bra I was wearing. My hands were sweaty. I felt desperately tense - in part, because my milk ducts had been blocked again over the past few days. But also because I was holding my child and all I felt was terror.

You're not fit for this... you can't do this...

Once the breast was exposed, the nurse returned Jack to me. His reaction to my touch was almost Pavlovian: cry when you feel Mommy's hands. And cry he did. Profusely. Until his lips touched my nipple, at which point he started making the greedy suckling noises of someone who was desperately hungry.

'There he goes', the nurse said, nodding approvingly as he clamped his gums around my nipple and began to suck hard. Immediately, it felt as if a clothes pin had been applied to my breast. Though his mouth may have been toothless, his gums were steel-reinforced. And he clamped down so hard my initial reaction was a muffled, surprised scream.

'You all right there?' the nurse asked, still trying to be all-smiles - even though, with each passing moment, I was certain that she was writing me off as inadequate and completely unsuited for maternal duties.

'His gums are just a little...'

But I didn't get to finish the sentence as he bit down so hard that I actually shrieked. Worst yet, the pain had been so sudden, so intense, that I inadvertently yanked him off my breast - which sent him back into screaming mode.

'Oh, God, sorry, sorry, sorry' I said.

The nurse remained calm. She immediately collected Jack from me, settling him down moments after she had him in her arms. I sat there, my breast exposed and aching, feeling useless, stupid, and desperately guilty.

'Is he all right?' I asked, my voice thick with shock.

'Just got a little fright, that's all', she said. 'As did you'.

'I really didn't mean to...'

'You're grand, really. Happens all the time. Especially if you're having a little problem with the milk flow. Now hang on there a sec - I think I know how we can sort this problem out'.

Using her free hand, she reached for a phone. Around a minute later, another nurse arrived with the dreaded breast pump.

'Ever use one of these things before?' Nurse McGuire asked.

'I'm afraid so'.

'Off you go then', she said, handing it to me.

Once again, the pain was appalling - but, at least this time, shortlived. After a minute of vigorous pumping, the dam burst - and though I now had tears streaming down my face the relief was enormous too.

'You right now?' the nurse asked, all cheerful and no-nonsense.

I nodded. She handed Jack back to me. God, how he hated my touch. I moved him quickly to the now-leaking nipple. He was reluctant to go near it again, but when his lips tasted the milk, he was clamped on to it like a vice, sucking madly. I flinched at the renewed pain - but forced myself to stay silent. I didn't want to put on another show for this exceedingly tolerant nurse. But she sensed my distress.

'Hurts a bit, does it?' she asked.

'I'm afraid so'.

'You're not the first mother who's said that. But you'll get used to it so'.

God, why was she so damn nice? Especially when I didn't deserve it. I mean, I'd read all the damn books and magazine articles, extolling the life-enhancing pleasures of breastfeeding: the way it cements the relationship between mother-and-child, and fosters the deepest of maternal instincts. Breast is best ran the theme of all these pro-suckling diatribes - and they were quick to denounce non-believers as wantonly selfish, uncaring, and inadequate. All of which I felt right now. Because the one thing nobody ever told me about breastfeeding was: it hurts so fucking much.

'Well, of course it hurts', Sandy said when I phoned her around noon that day. 'Hell, I used to dread every moment of it'.

'Really?' I said, grabbing on to this revelation.

'Believe me, it didn't give me a big motherly buzz'.

I knew she was lying - for my benefit. Because I was often in and out of Sandy's house in the months right after the birth of her first son. And she didn't display the slightest sign of discomfort while breastfeeding. On the contrary, she was so damn adept at this business that I once saw her ironing a shirt while simultaneously suckling her son.

'It's just a bit of a shock at first, that's all', she said. 'When are you going back to the hospital?'

'Tonight', I said, hearing the dread in my voice.

'I bet he's beautiful', she said. 'Do you have a digital camera?'

'Uh, no'.

'Well, get one and you can start emailing me photos'.

'Right', I said, my voice so flat that Sandy immediately said, 'Sally... tell me'.

'Tell you what?'

'Tell me what's going on?'

'Nothing's going on'.

'You don't sound good'.

'Just a bad day, that's all'.

'Are you sure about that?'

'Yes', I lied. Because the truth was...

What?

I had no damn idea what the truth here was. Except that I didn't want to go back to the hospital that night. As soon as I hung up the phone I escaped from the workmen who were everywhere in the house, and took refuge in Tony's study. I sank down into his desk chair and stared at the pile of manuscript pages stacked face down to the left of his computer keyboard. There was the large black Moleskin notebook, underneath a circular pen holder. I always knew that Tony was an inveterate keeper of diaries. I found this out the first night we slept together at his shambolic Cairo flat - when I woke up around three to take a pee and discovered him in the living room, scribbling in a black-bound book.

'So what do I rate - a five, an eight?' I asked him, standing nude in the doorway.