They say things happen in threes. I’m not sure why. I’m fairly sure when things go tits up I stop being able to count. Because clusterf*cks generally contain a billion issues going awry. Maybe if I took the time I’d realise that the minutiae break down to a multiple of three. I think it’s supposed to give you hope that if three shit things happen in a row that that’s you done. Just don’t cut your nails on a Sunday, or put new shoes on the table again.
But really there were three things. Three things that as I sat there on Mothering Sunday I tried to hold back the rising cold of sadness. Two babies gone, and one child’s health now showing signs of rapid decline. Those three things were the lynch pins. The crashed car, the missed train, the diverted flight just another trio of the week. A late school taxi, an officious security man on baggage check and the spillage of shower gel over the contents of said baggage another. Spirals within spirals.
I think only Pete Tong could understand just how bad it all got. Well if he then got the lurgy. Because I’m now also in my sick bed. I’m sure I could also group that with another two things but I’ve got major brain fog.
Sat in the hospital playroom on Sunday awaiting yet another set of blood tests for RD I thought back to before I was a mother. The naivety. Not just that this job would be hard and relentless. I mean, I could guess at that. Or how many people would call me Mum even though I’m pretty sure I didn’t grow medical professionals in my womb. But just how left of centre it could go. I wanted, I still in lots of ways, want three children. And I’ve created four, we’ve created four. 2 + 2. And now one is in danger.
We’ve known from 8 weeks that RD’s kidneys would go at some point. But as goalposts moved, and we were graced with far longer than anyone anticipated, you can’t help but wonder if actually it was true. And we’ve been lucky that whilst the extent of his disabilities unfurled, his kidney function was relatively static. But that luck has meant this has left us breathless. Trying to firefight his sky high urea. Filling in forms that ask me how much I drink a week. Knowing that from now on either the phone could ring with the news that a kidney is ready. Or in six months we’ll know whether one of mine is a good enough match.
I remember though that we are at this point because we have fought, and will continue to fight for RD. In the face of suggestions of palliative dialysis. Of firefighting until his time was up. Questions as to what makes up a quality of life. Living, that’s what. And that makes me proud to be the mother I am. A grafter and a fighter. A painter on of a lipstick smile.