People LIke Her(24)

It was during her pregnancy that Grace started to really spend a lot of time online. I can hardly blame her. In a lot of ways, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter—all of them—were an absolute lifesaver for her. When she first called me and told me she had an incompetent cervix, despite all the years I had spent working in a hospital I had to admit I had never heard of that before. The doctor had told her it was extremely uncommon. “And what does it mean?” I asked her, trying not to sound too obviously worried. “How are you feeling?” They had already been through so much, Jack and Grace, trying for a little one—had so many tests, such a long wait, so many disappointments and so much heartbreak. Everything this time had seemed to be going so well. Grace had not been suffering much from morning sickness so far. She was not as tired as she had been before. But until she went in for that scheduled checkup, she had no idea there was anything wrong with her cervix. It was just one of those things, the doctor had told her, a genetic quirk, that her cervix was shorter than usual, that as a result it might open too early, so she was at a heightened risk of giving birth prematurely. Did that explain . . . ? I asked her, trailing off. She said he thought it might have been a factor.

The doctor had told her there were a few things they could do. The usual procedure was a cervical cerclage, a stitch to prevent the cervix opening, to prevent her giving birth too soon. That was relatively straightforward, he told her, even if it sounded alarming. She told him she would do, would let them do, whatever it took. She had the operation at twelve weeks. It did not work—either her cervix was too short or it had already opened too far, or both—it was never entirely clear. She had already been warned that prolonged periods of time on her feet, any kind of even mildly strenuous activity, were to be avoided at all costs.

In the end, she spent almost the entire pregnancy lying down. Imagine. Just imagine. She was not allowed to walk anywhere. She was not allowed to drive. She was not even allowed to get up and make herself a cup of tea. The longest she was allowed to stand was five minutes, to have a shower in the morning.

Her work was very understanding, fortunately. Jack was brilliant. Even when she was at her lowest, her most frustrated, he could cheer her up, jolly her along. He was always thinking of nice little things to help her pass the time, picking up magazines, things for her to read and look at and do. He moved the TV upstairs so she could watch it, made sure the room looked nice, brought home flowers. He would cook the meals, do the cleaning, fetch her things. We used to joke about getting her a bell.

Of course, there were times when she got bored, fed up. There were times when she was bloody miserable. Her friends did call and email and send her little messages—but most of them were working all day or busy with their own kids and husbands and lives, and most of them were still living around here, which made it an hour’s drive or even longer to Jack and Grace’s, each way.

I do sometimes wonder how things might have been different if they had not moved out to the country after they got married, if they had not seen that fateful FOR SALE sign from the motorway that day, had not gone back at the weekend to investigate, decided that out among the fields and the farms and the fresh air was where they wanted their kids to grow up. It was a gorgeous house, don’t get me wrong. Beautiful views, massive great garden with a little stream at the end of it, and Grace and Jack did the whole place up something lovely. But it was not easy to get to. Not somewhere you could just pop around to the neighbors’ or down to the shops; not somewhere where anybody would ever just pop in on you. Even the postman used to complain about having to drive all that way up the lane for just one house, getting his van muddy. I used to go and see her as often as I could. We would sit and watch films, talk.

Most of the time, though, it was just her and the same four walls, the same cracks in the ceiling, the same door with the same dressing gown hanging off it, the same bit of tree and the same stretch of sky, which were all she could see out the window from her bed. Grace used to spend a lot of time on her phone. First she would check the Daily Mail, then Facebook, then Twitter, then Instagram, then her email—and then by that time there would be stuff she had not seen on the Daily Mail website and the cycle would repeat itself.

She always used to say that what appealed to her about the mums she followed on Instagram was how open they were, how honest about all the things they had been through, their struggles and disappointments and heartaches. It really made her feel less isolated, less alone, she told me. Like someone else out there understood what she was going through.

It is a gift, that way, the internet, I suppose. Sometimes it is absolutely terrible, being on your own.

Very occasionally, once or twice a month maybe, there are times when I forget for a microsecond that Grace is gone. When I am half-awake just before the alarm clock goes in the morning, for instance, when I have just had a funny dream and I find myself thinking I must tell Grace about it and then it hits me with a jolt that I can’t, that I won’t ever be able to tell her anything ever again. And then I think about all the other things I want to tell her and I can’t. Like how much I love her. Like how proud I always was to be her mum. How much I miss her.

And that is when the anger, the real anger, comes.





Chapter Six


Dan

It turns out when you are in your mid-to late thirties it is actually quite hard to get people out on a Saturday afternoon at a week’s notice.