A Mother's Goodbye

‘The first diapers—the first twenty diapers—just fell off.’

‘I think everyone feels that way about a newborn baby, especially their first. They’re so tiny and scrawny.’

‘Yes, he certainly was.’ I brought Isaac home when he was only five pounds, one ounce. I could have held him in one hand, if I’d been brave enough. I glance at Heather, whose expression is cautious and I feel compelled to include her in the memories. ‘Do you remember?’ I ask almost shyly. ‘How small he was?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Heather smiles faintly. ‘I remember. He was so tiny and red when he was born. Bright red and wrinkly and screaming.’ She looks away, and I feel a lurch, as if someone has pushed me off balance, because of course that is a memory I don’t have.

Impulsively, perhaps because I am so raw, I touch her hand. Squeeze. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for giving him to me.’

Heather’s face crumples briefly and she gulps a couple of times. I keep my hand on hers, so unlike me, but necessary in this moment. ‘You’re welcome,’ she whispers, and in that moment we are as connected as we were that night long ago when Heather put her hand over mine on her baby bump. We will always be joined by the son we share, no matter how we might have wanted to claim him solely for our own.

‘Grace Thomas?’ A nurse with a clipboard appears in the doorway. The smile she gives me is kind, too kind. My insides wobble.

‘That’s me.’ My voice sounds scratchy, like a pen on paper, one running out of ink. Heather stands with me, and together we walk toward the door and what awaits us beyond.

We are led to a small room, where there is a clean hospital gown draped over the examining table.

‘Change into that, no undergarments please,’ the nurse says. ‘I’ll come back to check your vitals before you’re prepped for surgery.’

Prepped, like a piece of meat, rubbed dry and seasoned. I am shaking.

‘Shall I give you some privacy?’ Heather murmurs and I nod jerkily.

‘Thanks.’

She steps out of the room and with hands that tremble I take off my cotton top and navy blue capris, clothes that suddenly seem to belong to another life. Another me.

In the hospital gown, with its gaping back, I feel as if I have been turned into someone anonymous. Patient. That’s all I am now. I take off my wig, because I suspect I’ll have to at some point, and lay it on top of my folded clothes. Now I am completely exposed, and yet I know there will be more to come.

There is no mirror in the room, and there is probably a good reason for that. I glance at my wavy reflection in the steel basin of the sink, but I can’t see much. I pat my hair and feel how wispy it has become. I have not gone completely bald, but I almost wish I had. The thinning strands and wisps with glaring bald patches feel worse, more depressing.

Taking a deep, even breath, I open the door and beckon Heather in. Her glance takes in my hair, or lack of it, with a flare of surprise; she hasn’t seen me without it. I manage a small, wobbly smile.

‘Yet another one of the perks of chemo.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice is soft, heartfelt. ‘It must be awful.’

‘It is.’ I perch on the edge of the table. ‘But hopefully I’m on my way up now.’ It’s just there is a long, long way to climb.

We sit in silence for about twenty minutes, but it’s not uncomfortable. I’m glad Heather doesn’t feel the need to fill the quiet with banter or meaningless chitchat, because I’m really not in the mood.

The nurse comes in to check my vitals, tick boxes on her chart. Then she tells me Dr. Stein will be here in a few minutes to talk to me before the surgery.

We wait some more, and I feel the tension tautening inside me, like a rope about to snap. Dr. Stein comes in, dressed in surgical scrubs, her manner professional but friendly as always.

‘Hello, Grace. How are you feeling this morning?’

‘A bit nervous.’

‘Understandable.’ Her ga

ze flicks to Heather.

‘This is…’ A quick breath. ‘My friend, Heather.’

‘Great. Heather, you can stay with Grace until we wheel her into the operating room, okay? Right up until the last minute.’ She flashes a quick smile before adopting a serious expression. She sits on a stool and wheels it closer to me.

‘I know we’ve talked about this before, but I just wanted to have a quick chat about what I’ll be doing while you’re in surgery.’