Bonding

Northumberland

*

My tale is one of connection with land, with sand and soil. It is a tale of immersion in water that burns me, in salt and seaweed. And it is a tale of inhaling the sky and breathing out fear.

*

For years I struggled with a strong sense of claustrophobia that I was somehow experiencing in the middle of nowhere. I missed the soot in my nostrils and grease on my face from packed tube trains. There was an anonymity in the city that could be lonely, but somehow I fitted in, wore the grime as a second skin. But moving into the wilderness, naively expecting the good life, was a different kind of isolation. There were visceral reminders that I was still alive: puckered lips around my breast, tiny nails jabbing my ribs under the duvet and gritty eyes staring with an exhaustion that has perhaps never really shifted. My sense of self was all wrapped up in many babies, and the rest of it was lost to a man who no longer lies next to me.

*

I would walk the Northumbrian beaches with the youngest strapped closely to my chest, a small girl in each hand and the oldest running ahead on legs that effortlessly pounded the waves as they rolled towards us. We were a tribe. Whilst the children might have felt an innocent freedom on that sand, I was bending down and clutching pieces of sea glass like talismans, desperately trying to find myself amongst the bladderwrack. I began to fill jars with smoky blue shards, rubbed smooth by the tides, translucent milk drops and bottle green nuggets that glowed in my kitchen.

*

After a long time, I could no longer smell the city on my body. My lips were being kissed only by sea spray, but I could lick them and recall myself in an instant. I started to lean in to the rhythm of the waves, listen to the curlew’s call hanging on the breeze, enjoy the sharp shells under my toes. I have exhaled this air so often, cried so many tears that the sand is soaked, my own salt mingling with the sea. Now I am not sure where the wilderness ends and I begin.

Caro fentiman

Old Saif

*

During the early eighties, I found myself working at the Penta Hotel Munich. I was a waitress in room service. We were Irish, English, French, many nationalities. My job was serving food and non-alcoholic beverages to the top two floors of the hotel which catered to citizens of The United Emirates. People from all walks of life — rich, poor, and the sick. They were there for certain medical treatments and surgeries that weren’t available in their country. The two floors were rented by their government for family members, carers, and patients recuperating. It was like another country, a service elevator up to the Middle East.

*

I loved the job and it was here that I bonded in an unexpected way with a person and a community. The smells of incense and fruit permeated those two floors. I remember bringing pineapples, Biryani Shrimp, rice and oodles of figs and dates — which to me, coming from a diet of stews, meat and four veg, was so exotic. When the lift doors opened, one was in an Arabic village alive with the smells and colours of the East. The sound of a language so foreign to my ears was loud and lively through the corridors I pushed my trolly along.

*

In room 102 lived Old Saif. He was a delightful and ancient man who had come with his grandson, who was the one having surgery. The trappings of modern day Germany and hotel interior decor were quite lost on him, a man of very modest means from a tiny village somewhere in Fujairah. It was a strange environment for him at first. We got that sorted, and over time, he found his comfort zone, routine, and most importantly, the direction to Mecca. He had no English or German — and I, only English — but we got on like a house on fire. I knew about his family, why he had come with his grandson, his deep faith, and his palpable homesickness. He knew I was not really married and advised me to wear a ring on my wedding finger.

*

The solidifying of the bond between Old Saif and I was came about after an unfortunate and rather jolting incident one morning when I was bringing breakfast to a footballer from Abu Dhabi. The wedding ring and “No thank you I am married“ did not have the desired effect. I managed to get out untouched and in one piece, but it had been a dance around the room holding a tray of hot tea and bread rolls. I flew from the floor and went to my supervisor, who was Tunisian. We knew if we reported the incident to hotel management it would come down very badly on the guests, so I agreed to a meeting of the elders in the village and the footballer was dealt with in-house! He was only there for another week. When I arrived on the floor, Old Saif and his neighbours would meet me at the lift doors and escort me on my rounds.

*

We then would leave and wander up the corridor babbling in our made-up language of signs, words, and gestures of kindness and humour. My wonderful Ancient Bodyguards. Yes, a wonderful bond.

 

Louise Newman

Mother & Not-Mother

*

There were strict instructions. He was to be handed first to her, skin to skin, mother to son. I was the watcher, encourager. Outside looking in. Birth partner, mother of mother-to-be, Grandma-to-be.

* 

Then suddenly trolleys, quick exchanges, gowns, masks, operating theatre, teams, screens, sweaty hands held tight, hearts held tighter. 

‘Can you give him to Mum, please. I’m going to be sick.’

And there you were, nothing to plan but everything in order. A tiny slippery bundle, wrapped and delivered. 

‘Would you like to cut his cord?’

Channel of life-flow, severed. Surgical scissors slicing through gristle and skin, so hard to break. Automony. Feather-light in my arms, his not-mother. His mother’s mother.

*

Then it came. Joy. Such joy. And I was in another city, another time, holding another tiny, slippery bundle, a girl. My daughter. And now I’m bonding again. Bonding to a mother, as I bonded back then. Everything to learn. How to live together as mother and not-mother. Son and grandson. 

‘I’m OK now,’ she says, and so I hand him back, as I will again and again. Joy twice over. 

Jean wilson

Arthur

*

He sat alone, one arm across his body while the fingers of his other hand tapped a rhythm on the hand held flush to his chest. He often strained to one side of the chair, pulling at the chest and groin restraints, legs stretched out and ridged, punctuated with a guttural yell of what? Displeasure? Pain? He wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants stained from lunch, and white tube socks. He mashed and gummed his tongue: tardive dyskinesia, a side effect of antipsychotics I’d later learn. I didn’t question his aloneness or the restraints because I was too young and new to the work. It took a year and various personnel changes before I attempted my own relationship with Arthur.

*

Each night I wheeled him into the dining room and I sat at the table writing my end of shift notes. As I wrote, I talked to him: It’s my turn to make dinner tomorrow night for everyone, Arthur. What should I make? Would you like to help me? I did this for months, writing and chatting to him and occasionally spooning him butterscotch pudding with his evening medications. Then I started playing music I brought from home—new age piano, Enya, Beatles, classical—even though it wasn’t clear how much he could hear. The right side of his face was perpetually red and his ear deformed, the cartilage mottled and bumpy, cauliflower ear it’s called—a result of him slapping the side of his face and ear. 

*

One night I pressed play for an Irish/Norwegian duo called A Secret Garden, violin and piano. Arthur stopped tapping his fingers, slowly leaned his body closer to the stereo. I wrote and watched him. When I finished writing and began to move away he grabbed my hand. He brought it to his red and mottled ear, and he tilted his head resting it on my hand. We stayed like that for minutes, music filling the space around us. He could hear enough to appreciate music, or at least feel it. And we had made a connection.

Amy Millios

Bonding With Emilio

The love I felt for my daughter when she was born was instant, earth shattering, the purest joy.

When I was pregnant with my son, he was diagnosed with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.

It was the worst day of my life.

Something inside me said: Don’t love this one too much, you won’t get to keep him.

I had spent my whole life protecting myself.

I didn’t want to hold back like that with my son.

But the thought of letting love take me over, and then losing it, was the scariest thing I had ever faced.

I knew that I wanted to love him wholly, for however long I had him.

I did everything I could not to hold anything back. I stayed with him every second.

It was still a great love, but it wasn’t the same as what I felt for my first born.

But here, it’s like making the distinction between stars, and the brightest north star. It was immense and immeasurable love. But I was also still blocked from that supernova that happened when Sofia was born.

Every time I felt a surge of happiness it was followed by a stab of fear in my gut.

After Emilio’s third open heart surgery, life became almost normal. We didn’t have any more terrifying surgeries coming up.

Best of all we didn’t have to go to hospital for every single cold. Wondering each time if this was the one that would kill him.

Gradually, I realised: I still had him.

I began to consider that I might actually get to keep him.

And then, there it was. That supernova love.

Not a blast all in one go, not a firework moment. But a stealthy blossoming in my chest. The iron fist that had been clutching my heart loosened, just a bit, just enough to let the light in.

I realised I loved Emilio as much as Sofia, I always had.

But I had been bracing for impact. Three and a half years.

It makes me wonder: What else am I holding back on? What else could I feel and achieve, if I was only brave enough to feel completely?

Emma

She used to link her parents’ hands after their quarrels.

Her dad’s – dry and cold; her mother’s – fleshy and limp. Their fingers momentarily connected. Later they’d resume talking – bills, prices, ailments, her school reports. She would feel safe.

Fifty years on, they still don’t talk much. They walk every day to the corner shop wrapped in their own bubbles of thought. The mother chooses their food and the father pays and carries it home. At home they wait silently. When she calls, they will talk, just long enough for the feeling of safety to return.

elena

The great green of early summer grasses in the field behind our house are gone, now sun-stripped to the lesser greens and sleepy golds. Pollen clinging, waiting, then wind whipped, set free, the cloud arises as a fecund murmuration, loose in the wind, disappears. Kids, too, like pollen, restless, loose in the wind. My mind, thick and full, a willow tree now, unfurling, tossing leaves when I feel overwrought and branching out when nourished. Time to follow sparks of whimsy while rooted in place, braided and twined in storms, strong, pliable, an easeful abandonment. Storm gone, pieces of branches cast downstream, a mother able to let go, to let children grow where they land. The willow stays, feeding bees in early spring, cradling the next nest, birthing new words.*

Sheila Knell

*This is written from the opposite end of parenting, now my kids are heading out on their own. Some of letting go was instinctual, but overall it has been a conscious effort to make sure they could head out on their journeys knowing that I was always here, but also enjoying this new period of my life.

Arriving in Lisbon and having to start anew again, I find myself on the periphery.

The veil of belonging glimmers, gently covering all those who surround me. It teases me with its glittery warmth as I stand awkwardly, unaccustomed to this new place and poorly-dressed for this warmer climate. I pull at my long sleeves, self-conscious of my very British outline and pale, freckled complexion.

The looks of recognition, nods of the heads, embraces with arms wide open and easy, comforting familiarity fills the school entrance. But I remain on the edge, unable to speak the language, unable to read the social cues and unprepared. Wanting so desperately for the sake of the children to find some way in, hoping some crack would open up just enough to accommodate my shadowy self.

Yet this feeling is not new. As I linger on the sidelines, I wonder how many times I have stood on the outside. How many times I have tried hard to catch an eye, exchange a smile or simply say hello in an unfamiliar setting. The multiple moves that have seen us trapeze across the UK, Germany and Portugal have worn away my confidence. Early motherhood has added its own patina to my being. I feel naked and exposed in this new setting. The beautiful warm weather is at odds with the loneliness that has followed me here from Cornwall.

The passage of time is a mother, embracing me and holding my hand. It’s not long till the warmth begins to touch my edges, the unfamiliar routes become more familiar and the light slowly creeps in. As I stand at the school gates one morning, a kind voice whispers in my ear.

‘You’re looking as lost as I feel.’
And so the start of a friendship is born.

lucy beckley

Akin to Love

She didn’t call me by my name, my mother’s big sister, my Auntie. I was just the baby, an intruder. I learnt a lot from Auntie, at an early age, I learnt that I was the object of jealousy and hatred, and I learned hatred and jealousy in return. I learnt that adults could lie and be believed whilst a small child’s truth was punished.
 
My Aunt had grey eyes. ‘Like the pavements’, I said once, swiftly rebuked for my unkindness. Small acts of meanness went unseen by my parents. The removal of my teddy, that miraculously re-appeared when the rest of my family returned, the whispered pin pricks of critical words.

As I grew older, Auntie accepted me. Maybe even grew to love me in her own way, but the damage was done. I had no love for her and no trust in her smiles. We moved away and I learnt about guilt. Poor Auntie left alone with no one. She followed. Each holiday, appearing on the doorstep for another indefinite and seemingly endless visit.

I grew up and with the passing of time, my mother, Auntie’s beloved little sister, died. I did my duty to my aunt with phone calls and weekend visits.

She tried. Breakfast in bed and specially cooked vegetarian food. Hours passed slowly, watching the comings and goings of the neighbours through the immaculate net curtains.

Dementia came next, and a nursing home.

My final visit saw Auntie sitting forlornly by her bed, her long grey hair released from its tight bun, flowing softly onto her shoulders. Her dignity compromised by the pile of adult nappies on the table.

As I kissed her goodbye, I felt something. More than pity, more than forgiveness. Maybe, too late, it was love?

rosemary kirkus