Whenever I read about mothers who have died and left young children behind, however tragic the circumstances, it's usually with the small saving grace that there is a loyal, wonderful husband and father who is determined to make sure the memory of his beloved wife lives on. And a raft of close family who will make sure that the children never forget who their mother was. Or maybe they are just the ones who make it into heartwarming online stories. There must be women who have died and left behind sub-standard replacements, but that's just too bleak for a facebook share I guess.
I don't know for sure that I am going to die soon, in fact I've been told that I most likely won't, but that "it is major surgery and there are always risks involved." There are risks in cutting someone open and doing surgery that has not been done before in Australia, in having to stop the blood supply to their liver and cut into a major vein, in making them the only one on the bill that day because the surgery is likely to take between 6 and 12 hours, in waking up in the ICU with a central line, two IVs and a naso-gastric tube. There are risks. And I am petrified about what becomes of my children without me.
There is a large gap between what I desperately hope Chris would do in the event of my death and what I suspect he would do based on my knowledge of his prior behaviour. Chris is a stoic, the original anti-sentimentalist. I am sure he loves the children, and would bring them up according to what he thought was right – which would involve food and shelter, and some hugs but also a large dose of harden the fuck up. It's his avoidant way of dealing with messy emotions – jump on a bike and ride the shit out of that thing (often for more than 200km at a stretch) until you don't feel anything any more. At all costs, avoid discussion or overt displays of affection. I worry that he will take an overly utlitarian approach to parenting motherless children and become convinced that ignoring the fact that I ever existed would be the most successful route to stable adulthood for them, or at least the most comfortable for him. I worry that he isn't equipped to deal with the trauma. I worry that he will escalate situations rapidly when things don't go his way. I worry that he will not tolerate defiance of any kind.
I worry that he won't repeatedly tell them how much I adored them, that he will throw away souvenirs and mementos of my love, all that detritus of motherly devotion that he will see as irritating clutter. I worry that he won't remember funny anecdotes and recount them with a sad twinkle in his eye. I worry that he will shout at them to stop whinging and go to bed. I picture them sad, scared, crying, huddled in bed clinging to each other and it breaks my heart. I worry that he will think that pretending everything is normal is the best way to get them (and himself) through this hurdle. I worry that he will erase me, not with malice but as an avoidant way of (not) dealing with the issue of my death. I worry that his helplessness and anxiety will erupt as anger and that he will push them away and react to their inevitable suffering by turning away, either unable or unwilling to deal with the fallout. What becomes of my children if I die is my worst fear. And it is something that is beyond my control. I worry that he doesn't have the emotional resources to deal with this. If it happens, I won't be around to find out but I've never hoped more fervently to be proven wrong.
I love Alex and Maya more than there are words to say it. When Alex was 6 or 7 he declared that it was absurd to use the word love to describe both your feelings for your mother and also, say, cheese. We decided that we needed a new word, a word that meant “love more than love”. Maya suggested rainbow, so now we say “I rainbow you” because love just doesn't cover it. I will always rainbow them. I feel, in my soul, and in my bones, that they are mine more than his, they came from me, we belong to each other in a way that never really included him, I am absolutely proprietary towards them, cast what aspersions you will. Maybe that was the problem all along, I didn't give Chris a chance. I edged him out from the moment of conception when I privileged my perfect relationship with them over my imperfect one with him. It's hard to say, was it an impulse of protection, knowing how volatile our relationship was, and what kind of dynamic I was bringing a child into? Did I put myself between them and him from the first out of a need to shield them, or did I selfishly just want them all to myself, to be loved uniquely? I want to believe that if he had been able to manage his anger better, to be less quick to rage, if he'd been more understanding, less controlling, then I would have been open to sharing the full depth of parenthood, I would have been more compromising over parenting strategies - I would have handed over the babies to his care more often. God knows, in the beginning, he tried. He bathed them and patted them and sat up with them and hated every minute. He let me bully him into co-sleeping just as he made me feel bad about it and remained convinced that the ensuing sleepless nights he endured, as well as any non-robotic behavioural trait of the children's, were all my fault. He in turn successfully bullied me into weaning Alex, resorting only to occasional complaints when I refused to wean Maya - by baby number two I had grown more insistent and he in his way had become more open to suggestion, or too exhausted to fight. Patriarchy also contributed- we fell so easily into traditional roles of breadwinner and carer. He did do his "fair share" of the cooking and cleaning, but never could quite manage even a sliver of the emotional labour. Not a sliver. All the emotional compromises, groundwork, therapeutic recovery, was instigated and followed through by me. I worry and I blame myself but then I remember that recently Maya had chicken pox and he didn't call. Then Alex had it and again, no call, no checking in, no words of reassurance.
He seems like a “nice dad” now, he makes them burgers and buys them books and takes them kayaking. I observe this with a mixture of happiness and resentment. I wonder whether they still hold anxiety deep inside when in his presence, anticipatory flinching against his harsh bad moods, or whether that's just me. He is certainly a better dad now than he has ever been, but it's more in the style of a fun uncle. And I'm still afraid that it's not enough, nowhere near enough, and that his tendency to fall apart when things get hard has not disappeared, it's simply out of view, because, at 8 and 10, what's hard about fortnightly weekend visits? No parent teacher interviews, no getting up for school on time, no packed lunches, no juggling work and illness, nothing but fun weekends with a 12 day break in between.
The fun scenes I hear about today are intermingled with memories of him shouting at Alex when he wet the bed, trying to force him to do another wee in the middle of the night when he had clearly just emptied his bladder; of him ranting about Alex 'faking it' as he was vomiting, of booming at them “there's nothing to be scared about” when they were afraid to go to sleep, of telling Alex the police were coming to get him and that he was going “smack the fucking shit out of that kid”. Of him dismissing me and telling me I take feminism too far, slamming doors and his constant criticism, his standing over us, of all of us tiptoeing around him for fear of setting him off.
Of his refrain of “suck it up” rather than compassion, of the rigidity of wanting things a certain way, of expecting way too much of the children, being unable to comprehend how his behaviour affected us, telling me I am “too sensitive” and complaining of me mollycoddling the children. In the three years we have been apart, he has had his own space, and he has enjoyed it, openly telling the children that he's happy to see them every couple of weeks, it suits him. He has also told me that you know what, our kids are actually great.
Those same children he was never satisfied with, who were always too noisy and left too many toys lying around, who lied and didn't sleep properly and faked illnesses and caused all manner of irritation (aided and abetted by my poor parenting) are now exemplary human beings full of emotional wisdom and compassion, and I'm not too modest to claim most of the credit for that. The same children he criticised, and criticised the way I was raising, are now kids he likes hanging around. How do you like them apples?
I have no time for bitterness, and yet, there it is. I am trying so hard to overcome this, have been trying for the past three years, to see how he has changed and grown. But I've fallen into the trap of over-estimating other people's empathy before - that's how I got here! So what do I do about what I can't control? Arm my children, try to rainbow them so much that they can never forget it, rage to my friends and hope that there are people who will carry the flag for me, who will tell my children who I was, when they are old enough to ask. They love their dad, as they must, and I want them to. I also want them to know that if they feel undervalued, that is not their fault, they should trust their own feelings. It's a hard and fine line for any divorced parents, but for me, having to accept the possibility that my children may be raised without me, in this way, is excruciating. And yet, there it is. A tiny part of me allows hope to soar, that maybe he would step up, maybe he will have an awakening, maybe without me there to do it all he will feel emboldened, empowered to support them in ways he hasn't been able to, or even hasn't been required to, before. Unfortunately this hope involves me endorsing the idea that it was me holding him back all of these years, and relies on the situation of my death to bring out the best in him. But if that's what it takes for my children to be ok, then I'm ok with that. I would much prefer that be true than to think this is all he is capable of. I am really scared.
Two years ago when we were moving from one apartment to another and I had keys to both, I went to kmart and bought a Chrismas tree, decorations and a large blow up Santa. I decorated the new unfurnished living room and set it up for the children to get their first glimpse of their new home looking festive.
This year Chris announced that he wasn't going to bother with a Christmas tree at all, even though he has the kids with him for the first time in three years. He said we aren't religious so there's no point. If the kids were disappointed they hid it well. Perhaps it didn't bother them but it bothered me. I like celebrating goodness, and rituals that mark togetherness. It would be ok if he replaced such traditions with something else but I'm not sure that he does. I can't make everyone be like me and maybe I'm making too big a deal of this but it's hard to let go of, it is symbolic and feels important. A Christmas without a Christmas tree just seems... mean.
Chris, your children need you. They need you to be kind, to hug them even when you think they don't deserve it, to sit with their tears no matter how many times they cry, to reach out to them, to keep reaching out. It's not enough for them to know you are there, and for you to assume they will do the reaching. You have to reach. You have to build that bridge, stay calm, do not withdraw, let them have their feelings!, be there. Be there. Please get them a dog. PLEASE.
Maya and Alex, I hope you carry that rainbow in your hearts for the rest of your lives. Life can be hard, and sad, but you have so much goodness in you, and you are smart, and kind, and you will be able to figure it out. You will. I have so much faith in you. Make sure you hold on to each other, always.
