The Straw

The Straw

Well this isn’t what I was expecting, she thought to herself as she teetered on the edge of her latest cliff of insanity, her thoughts whirling through her mind like a mid-western tornado. 'This' referring to her double life as a mother attempting to maintain some semblance of a career she’d once thought important. She’d envisaged her work life being a little different; flat whites sipped in trendy cafes, probably with a selection of vegan-friendly cakes on sale; chatting online to someone stateside about a forthcoming deal she was brokering with tenacity and a smile. Conquering everything in her path… Whatever.

The glossy kids and husband would work and play hard, displaying the requisite amounts of a mischievous disposition along with grit and determination when it mattered (which clearly encompassed both sporting and academic endeavours). The house would have a gorgeous, yet lived in feel, demonstrating the busy ease with which they all navigated the chaos. The bouncing Labrador (or similar family-friendly breed of designer pooch) would be ready to greet guests with an excitable bark and the half jump of a dog who knows that such behaviour will not be tolerated, however tempting. Sanity hanging by a thread as she juggles the house, the hectic sports club schedules, full time work; having it all isn’t everything it was cracked up to be.

She opened her eyes to survey the broken centre-console of her dilapidated second hand not-bought-on-finance vehicle, and remembered why she was here. Where exactly was she again? Ah yes, today was a Tuesday which meant football practice; almost time to collect the eldest and begin the next phase of the day’s schedule. The laptop softly closed on her knee, its overheated base at least providing some warmth to her thighs on the winter’s evening after abandoning an attempt at completing lesson planning ready for its sickening scrutiny.

How on earth did I get here? To this perpetual state of numb exhaustion, of indecision and of swirling sadness. There’s too much, too much… What would happen, if I weren't here anymore? The thought sat idly, and somewhat uncomfortably as she had a stern word with herself before hauling her aching limbs out of the car and encouraging them toward the recreation centre. Walking through the automatic sliding doors she squinted, her eyes protesting against the semi-flickering fluorescent tube light in the reception foyer.

Keeping her sigh internal, lest she should show a chink in the armour in front of the other parents here to collect their offspring she offered a smile to those she knew as well as those she didn't; a moral sense of needing to show the world a friendly face instilled in her since childhood walks along blustery coastal paths. It was wrong, she knew, to feel so unsatisfied when she had what so many others desired: house, husband, children, pets, career... Surely it was good to be busy? The thought trailed off for once and quiet invaded, as equally uncomfortable as the darker meditations of moments ago.

Adulting. Nobody had said it would be like this. Not one person. The education treadmill had almost defeated her and she knew it. The mortgage hung like a metaphorical noose around her neck and yet she resolved to think about things more clearly another time.

“Mum, you didn’t see me score at the end!” the accusatory glare of a disgruntled ten year old makes her bristle with annoyance and the immediate reality comes flooding back to greet her.

“I was doing that thing I do, you know, working. In the car, at my laptop and not in a cosy café.” She pauses, adding, “I am sorry I missed it. Honestly” (again, she thinks), “Good practice?” Must seem normal, she thinks.

“Was OK,” her daughter replies with the nonchalance achievable only by a child no cares, no worries in the world yet, and no idea of the differences life will offer when she takes her mother’s place on the career ladder. “You didn’t give me the training money. You forgot again. I told them you’ll pay double next week.”

Oh well, she thinks as they settle back into the car and join the line of vehicles taking children home after the evening’s activity, could be worse.

Could be worse, how? The mire was sucking her in, and it was difficult to see, to think, to hear. Too much to do and to remember to do. The washing was piling up again, emails pinging in, food on a timer in the oven. Nothing she did was enough, she was always found wanting somewhere, with someone.

Looking the other way for a gap in traffic to turn out on to the main road, she is startled as an evening jogger, dressed in neon and sporting an elasticated headtorch dashes in front just as she’s about to pull out.  The jogger shouts an obscenity and she returns the favour with equal venom before apologising again to her daughter, who is no longer shocked by such outbursts from her strung out parent. Crisis averted, and yet it was all too much.

It turned out the straw that broke this camel’s back was no more than a middle aged, smartwatch wearing fitness enthusiast whom she almost killed, well, hit at a ridiculously slow pace at the very least.

Head down on the steering wheel, she began to sob. Shoulder shaking, snot running down your upper lip, ugly crying that leaves others around you a little uncomfortable, unsure how to respond.

Eventually her daughter says, “Mum, you’ve got to move, cars are beeping.” She’s right of course.  Deep breath taken, snot-tears wiped on sleeve, she pulls herself together by a flimsy thread, and heads home.

“You’re not right, Mum. Not normal.  Just weird.” Her daughter is painfully embarrassed by a parental display of emotion in the usual way.

“I know,” is all she can manage by way of response.

The remainder of the two mile journey continues in silence, save for the odd jagged intake of breath, the remnant of the earlier sobs. The daughter feels aggrieved, annoyed that her Mom didn’t see her epic goal, embarrassed that she’s just witnessed so much (too much) emotion in the last few minutes and frankly, unsure what she’s supposed to do about any of it. Why should she, she’s ten?

Climbing out of the car the woman has made her decision. She goes in through the door, smiles benignly to her family, depositing her coat, bag and keys in the tidy manner she expects of them all then trudges upstairs to the medicine cabinet, then back to her handbag for the extra stash. She is the very picture of calm. She settles upstairs on the supersized bed in the newly decorated loft conversion, and takes all the pills she can find and waits to see what will happen next. Peace at last.

After a while, ten minutes, maybe twenty, the icy tendrils of panic begin wrapping themselves like ivy around her heart. Will it hurt? What will the children do without her (serious)? Will they eat enough fruit and veg (ridiculous)? Get to practice (does it matter)? What about their exams and future jobs and families? Has she ruined their lives?

What if? What if? What if?

Oh my God, she thinks. What have I done?

Snapping to what’s left of her sensibilities, she recognises this is actually for real, that she’s gone too far. Sailed way over the line of middle-class-working-parent-having-a-mini-meltdown and careened straight into total, utter, all-encompassing disaster zone territory., Head starting to spin, she berates herself again.

How fucking selfish, she thinks. I’m going to die, and there isn’t even anything wrong. What a total, fucking, ridiculous attention seeking disaster I am. And there it is, her inner critic. There’s comfort in hearing that familiar voice and she welcomes her back with open arms.

Frightening how fast one can sink into the abyss. Its siren song was pure, brief - granted, but pure. And she had followed. Poor move.

Crying out, she calls for her husband.

Flashing lights outside tell her the ambulance has arrived and kindly but brusque folk wearing the forest green of the paramedic are asking what she has taken. She gestures to the empty blister packs littering the bedside table, so they can assess the magnitude of this mistake. Her husband is frantic, bewildered, angry even.

Drifting out of consciousness, she’s aware of crying, is it her, him, children? Far in the distant recesses of her mind, she feels herself lifted and the stretcher makes its way to the waiting vehicle.

She doesn’t hear her husband reeling off lying platitudes to the children, “Mummy’s OK. She’s going to be fine. We can see her later.” He doesn’t know.

There’s a peculiar sensory experience that is being in a hospital that’s all of its own. The busy ward hums with the sounds of nursing staff and porters chattering to each other and to patients, going about their jobs with cheery smiles. Somewhere in the background someone whistles a tune she’s heard before but cannot place.  She feels the plastic-creak of the mattress, the too tight stretch of the linen over her feet as she wriggles her toes.

Unnatural light makes figuring out the time of day, or night, impossible. She gives up trying and shifts her position, jarring the bandage fastening the cannula in her left hand, an ache shooting up her wrist.  She’s aware of pain, nondescript yet all-consuming, everything hurts. The body, the mind. There’s a tube down in her throat, it feels alien and prevents her from forming words. Just as well really, as she isn’t sure she has any anymore.  Exhausted, she closes her eyes.

Familiar voices mingle with those from characters in strange dreams invading a sleep that provides no rest. Flickering open her eyes to half mast, she sees her husband and children. He raises himself from a sagged position in the uncomfortably upright visitor’s chair, relief writ large over his face. The children make a leap toward the bed, then hang back, frightened and unsure how to proceed. New territory for them all.  

“Daddy!” says the youngest, “Get someone, she’s here, she’s back!” His excitement gives way to lack of certainty as he approaches her tilted head and crouches, mirroring the angle of his own head to match hers. “I love you, Mummy.”

Her husband pulls back the privacy curtain and motions for a nearby nurse to come in.

She’s evidently busy but walks up to the bed, “Lucky girl, you’ll be sore for sure, you need plenty of fluids, and rest no doubt. I’ll be back to check your blood pressure later, the doctor should get to the ward around eight, and there’s someone from the psych team coming in later this morning.” With that, she marches off, cardboard bedpan in hand.

“Can you talk?” her husband asks.

She attempts a movement that is intended to show a negative shake of the head.

“That’s OK, I just need you to listen.” He’s trying to be kind, tiredness etched in the creases around his eyes. “Kids, find my wallet, take some change, and get yourselves a chocolate bar at the machine.” They don’t need to be told twice, rummaging in his coat pocket they locate their treasure and scamper off, narrowly avoiding collision with a patient being wheeled to theatre.  “Take a card too, might be contactless,” he adds, he wants the trip to be a success.

This is it, she thinks. Now’s the moment he tells me he’s leaving. I deserve it. There’s that self-talk again, nice to see she hasn’t killed that part of her off.

He takes a deep breath, unsure quite how to proceed. He tries a second time, then begins.

“First up, I love you. I made a promise to you twelve years ago that I would do so until death us do part. Yesterday was the worst day of my life, because I thought that day was coming far earlier than I’d ever dreamed. I don’t know what’s happened, and I don’t know why you did what you did. But I do know that I don’t want it to happen. Ever again. I won’t talk about what the children have been through right now, that’s for another day.  Right now the focus is you. We all just want you well again. For God’s sake you know when I cook my meals always go a little off piste. Remember when I added gravy to a curry because I didn’t think it looked the right colour? And I’ll get the washing mixed up, we’ll all be wearing the wrong underwear and that, my love, is a problem. You mentioned feeling overwhelmed before and I’ve dismissed it, told you we manage, that it’s good to be busy, but I was wrong. We need a rethink, and you are so, so important to us. Our family is everything and we need to do what we can to help you get better.”

Unused to delivering such a long speech, he pauses, unsure if she has even heard. Looking down at the bed, he sees her blinking back tears.

“It’s going to be OK. You’re not alone.”

The children return, squabbling over who should carry the wallet and which chocolate bar is the best. She raises her head slightly from the pillow and manages a wan smile. The sunlight pierces the blinds on the far side of the ward.