Regretfully Accepting Our Limitations As if the year had been eventful enough, there was more to come. In October, my mother revealed that she was expecting a baby. We were all thrilled. The fact that she was nearly thirty-seven years old did not seem to matter. Our pleasure was shortlived. By November, it became obvious from the yellow tinge to her skin, and the slowness of her pace, that Mum was very unwell. Infective hepatitis was diagnosed, and she was confined to bed, while we anxiously awaited her recovery. There was no improvement by Christmas, and on Boxing Day, an ambulance took her into hospital – to the same ward, in fact, where I had been only twelve months previously. Somehow, we all muddled through at home. I was put in charge of the housekeeping, since Dad was at work, and my brothers, now aged ten and eleven, were at school. A Sister of the Catholic order came in at midday, and again at teatime, to attend my needs, and to prepare meals for us all. It seemed an empty house without Mum. I missed her busying around, chatting incessantly, and making the house seem so alive. I was faced with new responsibilities, like making sure the food cupboard was well stocked, arranging the menus, doing Dad's sandwiches for work the next day, or just listening to the boys' little troubles. It was a bad time for them, too. Dad worked from 8 a.m. until 6.30 p.m. Then he would visit Mum. By the time he returned, Michael and David were washed and ready for bed. Sometimes, I tried to surprise Dad by coping with the washing up myself. My brothers often preferred to bring me the bowl of water and all the crockery on to my bed, than do the job themselves in the kitchen! I rarely got dressed and put in my wheelchair in those days. It was warmer in bed, and I had been used to coping with everything from that position for some time now. Besides, it made life so much easier for Dad. However, I did get up on Wednesday evenings, for my weekly outing to the club, where I could sit with Jack. I drew great strength from our meetings, though at home I mentioned little about them. Mum's condition worsened. The doctors wanted to terminate the pregnancy. They felt that this was hampering her recovery. Mum firmly refused. Her religious beliefs would not allow such action. The it was decided to perform an exploratory operation. My father broke the news to me with profound seriousness, and added: "They now suspect cancer." It was a terrible blow. Somehow I felt both grown-up and yet still a child, all at the same time. Dad looked tired and drawn. My heart ached for him, though I could find no words to console him. The operation took place in February. It was a grey day, which only added to the sadness, and I spent the entire day thinking about it all. If only I could just get to a telephone on my own! At long last, Dad returned home looking extremely relieved. There was definitely no cancer. "Mum won't get over the liver infection while she's pregnant," explained Dad. "She could have another handicapped child, because they can't see how a baby can survive and develop properly under the circumstances. But Mum won't agree to end the pregnancy, and I can't persuade her, so we'll just have to wait and see." My eighteenth birthday was due on March 19th, and Mum was eager to be home for it. She was still being nursed on a fat-free diet, and needed regular dressings on the operation wound, which in her poor condition would not heal. There was no question of her doing anything at home. But a Home Help was allowed in, and Mum promised to obey all the rules. It was lovely to have her home again. Her hair was still a grey colour, and her face was yellow and lined. But she was happy just to move around slowly, and organise a few things. She spent a lot of time sitting at the end of my bed, knitting things for the baby that she was still determined to have. Dad looked much happier, grateful to have Mum around, however little she could do for him. I never heard him complain, though there cannot be many men who have had to attend so willingly to all a daughter's physical needs, as well as help their wife into the bath and up to bed every night after a day's work. Our cosy routine continued for several weeks, before it was again rudely interrupted. One Sunday night late in March, Mum showed signs of going into labour, and was taken to hospital again. This time I would have to go away somewhere, too, and a neighbour would have Michael and David after school until late evening. These new arrangements were thought preferable to the way we had all struggled on before. Secretly, I hoped my journey would take me to Jack. But my parents remained very non-committal on the subject, and I feared that they would not allow us to be together in that way again. All I knew was that I would be going wherever there was a vacancy. Dad had said his goodbyes before leaving for work, and I was left ready in my wheelchair, with suitcase in hand. I prayed silently to myself "Please let it be with Jack." It was the contact of our letters, and our weekly meetings in that crowded clubroom, which had given meaning to my life all this time. I never discussed what he meant to me with any of my friends or family. So impossible seemed our situation, that it appeared to invite only ridicule. How I needed him now. The reassuring smile and the warmth of his hand, would have eased this empty feeling so much. When my transport arrived. I could not bring myself to ask where the driver was taking me. But as I feared, it was not in the direction I wanted. Later on, I learned that my destination was a hospital some sixteen miles outside Norwich. My heart sank, and I fought back the tears. I still clung to a vain hope that I could get to the club to see Jack. On my arrival, I put on a brave front, and cheerfully greeted the staff. My room was rather pleasant. I had the luxury of my own room, with a lovely view of the hospital grounds. My first thought was to write to Jack, and then ask if I might telephone the club president. Puzzled glances were exchanged amongst the nurses. "It's against hospital rules for patients to use the office phone, and we haven't got a public call box." The ominous tone of voice seems an ever present part of the "invisible restraint" in such places. But after some consultation, I was allowed to telephone, to see if my transport could be arranged for club night. Of course, the answer was a firm but apologetic "No." Meanwhile, Jack knew nothing of these latest developments. My letter had not reached him, and he was still expecting to see me at the club. We were both sadly disappointed. For a time, Jack and I corresponded as usual, but suddenly there seemed little to write about from my end. We felt strangely disillusioned, concluding that we had absolutely no control over our own destiny. This limited friendship was all we could ever expect. Handicapped people were moved around like pawns, to comply with the wishes of everyone else. They had no say in what mattered to them. That was how things were – and there was no prospect of any change. To separate us in this way, without a thought for our feelings, was callous, but we had to go where we were put. What was the use of pledging ourselves to one another, when it was obvious that we each needed a normal partner? This was Jack's bitter reaction, anyway. I only felt more and more depressed. I would have favoured hanging on to what little we had, however remote, rather than a complete break. But our letters ceased. I felt too low to argue at all. Now I knew what real loneliness meant. The hospital staff were kind to me, probably thinking that my silence and private tears were for my family. I was dressed every day, and sat in my wheelchair. My needs were few. I liked having a pen and paper, and a small mouth-organ which I was learning to play. My pleasure was enhanced by sitting in the garden when the sun shone. In fact six weeks dragged by in this manner. I received one or two short letters from my mother, but that was the only family contact I could reasonably expect at such a distance. Slowly, I became conditioned to this comfortable though dull existence. Goodness knew how long it would last. If my mother did not survive, would it last for ever? I banished the thought quickly. When Sunday came, it looked like being just the same as any other day to me. My one consolation was that the sun was shining brightly. So I could not believe my eyes when suddenly I saw Dad approaching from the driveway! His face was bright and beaming, and I knew that it must be good news, which he had cycled all the way to bring me. "You have another brother," were his first words, adding meaningfully, "And he's all pink too." The baby weighed only four pounds, which meant that it might be a week or so before he was allowed home. Mum had named him Gerard, after the Patron Saint of Mothers- to-be, in whom she put so much faith. My home coming seemed too good to be true. That bleak day of my departure was thankfully fading in the light of Mum's already apparent improvement. We soon settled into a new routine, which now included the baby. It was a great pleasure for me to feed him, and play with him on my bed, where he nestled very often. This added interest in my life helped to numb and feelings I nurtured for Jack. But there were sad reminders of our happy times as I arrived at the club each week. The helpers joked good-naturedly as they assumed that we still wanted to sit side by side. Now it was slightly embarrassing when I had to ask to be moved away from Jack, and it became obvious that there was a change in our relationship! We both realised that the mutual feelings between us were still strong, but I tried to take Jack's advice. "Better for you to mix with other people," he said. But I could find no company like Jack's.