Lily’s funeral will be my first visit to church without her. It’s a beautiful late-spring day; the sky is blue, the birds are singing and the sun’s warmth is creating new life in the gardens after the winter rains. The walk to the church is filled with the aromas of blooming wattles, jasmine and lavender. A light breeze floats through my cotton dress, as if Lily is lifting me for the journey ahead, while Chris walks beside me, my hand nestled inside his.
Once we are seated in the church, my gaze is directed firmly at the casket, willing Lily to rise up like a phoenix. There is an enormous spray of lilies on the casket along with two small roses on behalf of Rosie and John, who sit with Maggie and Archie, next to Gran and myself. Chris sits beside me, holding onto my hand as though if he lets go I will float away. The church is filled with people from our street, including the shopkeepers and the school community. There isn’t enough room for even one more person to squeeze in.
Rosie and John cling tightly to Maggie, who clings tightly to them as well. Archie completes the family huddle and tries to look strong, but he is bowing under the pressure to be stoic, and the grief of losing his only child. I know what the children are thinking and what they are feeling because it’s exactly what I felt at my Dad’s funeral. Nothing will ease their pain or make things seem better; no lollipops, playgrounds, cute little puppies, nothing will change what they feel. The world is a different place for them now.
Gran hovers protectively over Maggie and Archie; having lost sons in the war she knows their pain. Parents should never have to bury their children, no matter their age. It must be a pain too great to bear.
The service is relatively short. To my surprise Aunty Maeve does a reading for Lily. She stands up in front of the congregation and quietly clears her throat. Then she begins her reading in her melodious Irish brogue. There isn’t a dry eye in the place; even the men have tears welling in their eyes.
After the service Aunty Maeve looks after Cal while Will spends his time comforting Ethan as well as helping out with Rosie and John. Chris has either held my hand the entire time or hovered around me like a bodyguard. The warmth of his body is a constant reminder of his love for me.
Chris’s family are here, thankfully without Doug. I just couldn’t have coped with him today; I don’t think anyone could have coped with him. One word from him and he finally would have received the thrashing he so richly deserves. It crosses my mind that it should be him in that coffin, not Lily. Uncharitable, but honest.
Sylvia comes up to me and envelops me in her arms and we hug for a long time. As we part she gently wipes the tears away from my eyes and says, “Only time will lessen the pain, Juliette. We are all here for you. Whatever you need, don’t be too proud to ask.”
“Thanks Sylvia. Where’s Doug?”
“He’s in hospital, again.”
“Hospital? Is he OK?” Not that I care about him, but Sylvia is a different matter.
“Nothing he hasn’t done to himself, Juliette. But let’s not talk of him today. Today is for your beautiful Lily.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
The wake is simple and held at Gran’s house. Archie, Maggie, Rosie and John don’t stay long. They come to say goodbye to me. I know that this will be tough and steel myself to be strong. Rosie and John melt into my arms and for the briefest second, I can smell Lily.
“Your Mummy loved you more than anything in the whole world. You made her smile every moment of every day. Don’t ever forget that, OK?”
“Why did she have to go away then, Aunty Jules?” asks Rosie.
For a moment, my voice is gone, replaced by a lump in my throat the size of a football. The energy used to stem the flow of tears is enormous, but they need to hear something. Lily needs me to answer them. If the roles were reversed, she would be the fairy godmother to all of my children.
“Perhaps God needed another angel, John. But she will always be with you, in your heart.”
My own heart feels like it has been attacked with a blunt knife. Having to watch John and Rosie live through this is harder than living through it myself. Knowing that there’s nothing I can do fills me with anger and frustration. My arms gather them into me, holding them tightly, as if I could absorb their pain and make it my own. I’d give anything to be able to do that for them.
They both start to cry, so Maggie and Archie speed up the goodbyes and soon they are gone. We’ve all had enough tears for today.
Last week Gran, Aunty Maeve and myself cleaned out Lily’s house and packed everything for Maggie. There is a new family renting there now and they seem very nice. They have a young teenage daughter who seems to have grabbed Will’s attention. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m glad that someone has moved in; it takes away the expectation that Lily will walk out of the garden gate and come over. It’s helped me to begin to move on.
I’ve spent a lot of time with Gran over the last few weeks; she keeps me busy so that there’s no time to sit and feel sorry for myself. Even though we are always on the go with light gardening and spring-cleaning, we are yet to get the nursery ready for the arrival of the baby in two weeks’ time. We had just started the clearing out and packing up of the front room when Lily passed away and today we are back to it, polishing and packing away the silver and glassware.
“We still have a lot of work to do before this baby arrives, Jules: washing, cleaning and cooking,” Gran says.
“OK Gran. You’re a bit of a slave driver. Aren’t pregnant women meant to take things easy? Look at me, my thighs are bouncing off the underside of my belly,” I say.
“No one ever died of hard work, my sweet,” she grins.
There’s a first time for everything.
“How did you do it Gran? How did you have so many babies and do all that work?” I think of the convenience of my own life, disposable everything, premade meals for adults and babies, microwaves, sterilisers, more money to afford things and my personal favorite, a nanny. These women had none of that. They just worked hard their whole lives.
“We didn’t have a choice Jules. It wasn’t like it is today with washing machines, electric irons, all the kitchen appliances you have,” she laughs. “Most of us gave birth at home, we didn’t even go to a hospital. Nothing for the pain, no doctors and nurses to help if something went wrong, no two weeks in hospital afterwards. Many women lost babies because there wasn’t access to doctors like there is now. We just had babies and continued on our merry way.”
Gran lived through both wars and the Depression, and yet here she is, larger than life. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself or expect that the world owes her something.
I get serious for a moment. “How about all the losses, Gran? How did you deal with all of those?”
She stops her work and looks at me with a wise smile, “I just did the best I could at the time. My brothers in the Great War, that was hard because I’d never experienced loss before that. Luckily your grandfather survived, otherwise none of you would be here today. He was at the landing at Gallipoli you know.” Her face is full of pride.
“He was an ANZAC?” I ask.
“Yes, he was. You have a very strong heritage, Juliette. Your Uncle Din was on the Kokoda Track too. You have fighting blood in your veins, my girl. You’re made of the good stuff.”
“It must have been a horrible time.”
“Yes and no. We made the best of it. Everyone thought the war was going to be glamorous, noble; but in reality it was tragic. So many men lost; so many mothers and wives with broken hearts. There isn’t a house in this street where a mother hasn’t buried at least one of her young; some through war, others through illness.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them. Maeve, myself, Anne. We’ve all buried children, husbands, brothers and sisters.”
The possibility of losing my sons is too much to even think about. Children should never pass away before their parents, but in these times, it was all too common. How did these women mend their broken hearts enough to go on after so much loss?
“Does it get easier, to lose people that is?”
She lets out an ironic laugh, “No. Never. And time does not heal all wounds, I’ve never believed that. The wounds remain, they just lose their rawness. At the moment, when you think of Lily, you feel sadness at your loss, but the time will come when you will think of her and feel happiness at the time you shared.” She grabs my hands across the table and my eyes start to fill with tears again. “Lily would want you to be happy, to laugh and smile, to enjoy each day with those you love. She would come down from the heavens and kick your little bottom if you sat around moping.” I laugh, because that’s exactly what she’d do.
“I just miss her so much Gran. I keep waiting for her to walk in the door and say something funny. And when she doesn’t, I want to go over to her house and see her.”
Gran squeezes my hand and passes a hanky.
“Every morning when I wake up, for just a tiny second, I forget that she’s gone, and I can’t wait to have a cuppa with her, or blanch the veggies, or whatever we used to do together. And then, I remember. I remember that she’s gone, forever.” The tears stream down my face again as my voice cracks, “I can’t imagine not seeing her ever again, Gran. I just want her back.”
Gran gets up and sits next to me, taking me into her strong arms, allowing me to let it all out. Wracking sobs escape, from deep down inside, so deep that they hurt to bring up. Pure, raw grief overflows like flooding rains, purging all my hurts. Tears for my Dad, for Lily and for my Mum are released with the ferocity of a dam floodgate opening.
“Shhhh, it’s OK Jules. Let it all out my love, that’s it, let it all out.”
Her words of encouragement, spoken with such wisdom and love, propel me into the deepest outpouring of emotion of my life. I sob until my breathing is laboured and I’m forced to suck in oxygen asthma-style, just like an hysterical toddler.
“Let it go, my girl. Let it all go. Feel it all wash away with your tears.”
My tears for a loved father, gone too soon, for my best friend whose journey was also cut short, and for my mother, misunderstood and blamed for behaviour she couldn’t control. All the years spent hating her for how she treated me, all the personal relationships I went out of my way to avoid just so that the pain of loss and disappointment wouldn’t have to be endured again. All the wasted years spent trying to prove to everyone that I didn’t need them, sacrificing my loved ones for the sake of…what? Being successful? Being known? Being worthy of clients and celebs who aren’t worth a grain of salt compared to these people, to my modern family?
“An old Irish proverb, Juliette: ‘A lesson learnt by tragedy is one never forgotten’. Take the lesson you have learnt from dear Lily, whatever it may be, and let it make you stronger, wiser, kinder. That way she will always be with you, in your heart.” She squeezes my hands and looks at me with a nod.
“Thanks, Gran.” I smile at her. What an amazing old lady she is. I think about my clients, and none of them, not even all of them put together, could hold a candle to her. I hope when I grow up, my family loves me the way we all love her. I hope that my friends love me the way I loved Lily. I hope that when my time is through, people will think more of me than what car was in my driveway, or who my clients were, or how much money was in my bank account. It would be nice to be remembered as a loving wife, mother and friend. When I grow up…
It’s the middle of the night when a minor earthquake occurs in my uterus. It would be a five on the Richter scale, followed by a few aftershocks. It’s starting.
“Chris, Chris? It’s time, we have to go now,” I say, nudging him in the ribs.
He snores and snuffles.
“Chris!” I say louder. “It’s time.” My nudge is a little harder, perhaps a little too hard, as he falls out of bed in fright.
“Wha? Jules? Wha’s happening?” he mumbles.
“Chris, it’s time. The contractions have started.”
“Oh, right. OK, I’m on it.” He jumps up to his feet and looks around the room, dazed.
By the time my clothes are on and my bag is in hand, Chris is still standing there looking 98 percent asleep and two percent confused. Just as well one of us is in control of things.
“I’m just going down to Uncle Din’s for the keys, OK? You just get yourself organised and be ready when I get back.” Men. They just don’t handle this waking in the middle of the night thing, do they? Yes, pot, kettle, black.
Aunty Maeve returns with me to stay in the house and watch over the boys while we are gone.
“Don’t ye worry ‘bout a thing, me love. You just go and birth another spectacular baby.” She kisses me and sets us out the door.
It’s a quick trip to St V’s. Chris takes me into reception of the maternity ward and the Matron comes out to greet us. The whole time the contractions have been getting stronger and stronger, but they aren’t insufferable just yet.
“Thank you, Mr Taylor. You can go home now; we’ll telephone you with news when we have it,’ she says crisply.
“Go home? What? Can’t he stay? Be with me during the birth?” I say.
The Matron’s face distorts into a look of pure horror. “Stay?” she bellows. “No, he certainly cannot stay, Mrs Taylor. This is not a place for husbands. Good grief. Imagine a world where men are allowed to see babies being birthed. They’d just get in the way, and probably require medical attention themselves.”
There is more chance of Collingwood winning two successive Grand Finals than there is of me changing this lady’s mind.
Chris takes me in his arms, brushes the stray hairs off my face and gently traces my rounded cheek with his fingers. “My beautiful wife,” he says smiling at me. Those sexy crinkles melt my heart again. He puts a hand on my tummy and right at that moment the baby kicks. His face lights up and then he looks at my tummy as though it is the most miraculous thing he’s ever seen. “I can’t wait to meet you, little one. Be kind to your Mummy. She’s the love of my life.”
A tear rolls down my cheek and my chin wobbles as he takes my face in his rough hands and brings his lips to mine in the most delicate, loving kiss I’ve ever experienced. I can still feel his lips long after he’s pulled away.
He heads out the door.
“I love you, Chris,” I call out after him, but he’s gone and doesn’t hear me.
I come back down to Earth and realise that all that’s left is my suitcase, an enormous dose of fear and a short, stout, bosomy Matron who scares the hell out of me. She’s a beast.
Soon enough, the contractions are fast and furious and I am wheeled up to the birthing suite, although it’s just another hospital room. There are no candles, soothing music, aromatherapy, big baths for water births, and no Chris. Shit! I can’t do this without him. He was there for both Ethan and Cal. He was my advocate, he made sure the anaesthetist turned up and plugged that sweet, sweet cocktail of drugs into my spine. He massaged my feet and soothed me with heated washcloths and offered words of worship. In fact, he did whatever I told him to do because he was scared shitless of Pregzilla.
The nurse walks in with a razor, a shaving brush and cake of soap.
“What are you going to do with that?” Day spa, 1961-style?
“I’m just going to shave you love,” she smiles.
“My legs are fine. I shaved yesterday, but thanks anyway.”
“I’m not going to shave your legs, Mrs Taylor.”
“You’re not?”
“Goodness no! I’m going to shave your…” she nods, eyebrows raised.
“My what?” No way.
“You know, your privates.”
My privates? Does she mean…?
My expression must be confused so she clears it right up for me, “Your vagina, love, I’m going to shave your vagina.”
What? Oh my God. What an invasion of privacy.
“No, no, it’s alright, really. I’d prefer that you didn’t”.
“Sorry love, I know it’s not nice, but I have to. Hospital rules.”
“The hospital has a set of rules that state that all labouring women must have bald vaginas? I’d like to see that in writing.”
“It helps the doctor see what’s happening, that’s all,” she says.
“Well, I….” I feel mortally embarrassed, because my vagina is as hairy as a mountain gorilla. My tummy was so big that it was not possible to see what was being shaved and I didn’t want to run the risk of cutting part of it off by doing it by feel.
The nurse ignores my discomfort and goes ahead with her job. The shaving cream is icy and I flinch each time she goes near me with the razor.
“Relax love, I don’t want to nick you. Keep still.”
It is sooooo hard to keep still when a stranger is holding a very, very sharp blade to your girly bits. Yogic breaths help me keep stillish until she’s finished.
She leaves the room, only to come back minutes later with a long hose with a bulb on the end. She puts it down next to me.
“And what are you going to do with that?” I ask.
“I’m going to give you an enema,” she announces calmly.
What? What the hell is going on here? My inner voice is hitting high C and about to shatter glass.
“Uh uh, no way, lady. You’re not shoving that hose up my bum.”
“It won’t take long, love. Won’t hurt a bit,” she smiles.
“In what universe won’t having a hose shoved up your arse ‘hurt a bit’? Are you kidding? What’s wrong with this hospital?” I say.
“It’s just what we do. Everyone has it.”
“OK, you go first.”
“Not everyone, everyone. I’m not having a baby.”
“And I’m not having an enema.”
“You might have an accident while you’re pushing, so it’s best to get it out now.”
“An accident? God, I sound like a pet dog. So, let me get this straight, you want to shove a hose up my bum to make me poo, which you will have to clean up now so that you don’t have to clean it up later, if I poo naturally during the birth? What the hell kind of logic is that?”
She looks at me like a mother who has reached her patience limit and is about to explode.
“No. No. No,” I say adamantly.
The Matron comes in. “No what, Mrs Taylor?”
“Um…no….thank you?” Is she cranky because I didn’t use my manners? My God, she scares me.
“Mrs Taylor,” she takes a deep breath and rolls her eyes slightly, as though dealing with an imbecile, requiring her to explain things very slowly. “We give every woman an enema. It’s for health reasons. It clears the back passage of any fecal matter so that it is not expelled during the birth. Surely you don’t want to expose your baby to that, do you?”
Well, the other two didn’t seem to mind. I have heard that it is common for women to poo during birth, but that the midwives clean it up before anyone knows about it. Maybe that is where the term ‘shithead’ comes from? I begin to laugh. The Matron and nurse look at me as though I belong in the psych ward.
“And prey tell, Mrs Taylor, what is so funny?” Matron tuts.
“Oh God. Where do I begin? First the Sister comes and shaves my girly bits bald and now you want to give me an enema with that enormously long hose, telling me that it won’t hurt. How about you go first and we’ll see how much it doesn’t hurt? I’ve had two children and I know that there is absolutely no physical privacy or dignity left by the end of it, but come on. Give me a break.”
“Mrs Taylor…”
“No, thank you, Matron, I will not be having an enema today,” and with that I close my legs — as best I can.
Her face folds in on itself like a sock puppet, but what is she going to do? Hold down a pregnant woman and shove it up there? I’ll resist it every bit of the way. I’ll clench my buttcheeks together so hard my eyes water. Nothing is getting up there.
“Very well, Mrs Taylor, as you please.”
A victory has occurred. The power has shifted back to me again. This is my birth, not hers.
“Here love, drink this, it helps with the pain,” another Sister says.
Anything that helps with pain is a friend of mine.
“Sure, I’ll be in that,” I say, and I chug down a vile liquid that tastes like a cross between mucus and brandy, with a hint of petrol. Minutes later my head is lighter than air; in fact, small molecules and atoms are passing through it, along with psychedelic patterns and large orange elephants. There is no hope of controlling my limbs or my mouth, but on the positive side, there is no pain either.
Then the nurse is smiling at me with the enema kit in her hands. “See, I told you you wouldn’t feel anything.”
The good news is that my labor is in its final stages, so this will all be over soon. The bad news is that the drugs have worn off and there is a baby the size of the Golden Gate Bridge attempting to pass through my birth canal.
“One more push, Juliette. Come on love, you can do it,” urges the Sister.
“No, I can’t!” I’m flailing. My energy has long gone; tears of exhaustion mixed with sweat are running down my face.
“Juliette, you’re so close now. Come on, one more push. You can do it, come on.”
The tank is empty, there aren’t even any fumes. Please, make it stop. Lily’s beautiful face pops into my head — her smile, her laugh — and suddenly there is enough energy to give my all for one last push.
“Arrrrggggghhhhhhh!”
“Well done, Juliette. Great job. It’s a little girl!” The Sister holds up a red, puffy blob covered in blood and white goo.
A girl! A little girl! I have a daughter. She squawks and bellows that little newborn roar as they clean her up and check her over.
“Is she OK?” I ask, trying see what’s going on. “She’s alright, isn’t she?”
“She’s perfect, Juliette. Just perfect. Here you go, time to meet your little girl,” she says, wrapping up a tiny person in pink blankets.
Finally, she’s in my arms, snuggled and warm. I can’t see what she looks like for all the tears in my eyes. Happy tears, as one little girl enters the world, and sad tears, for the grown woman who left it.
“Hello, little one.”
The tears stream down my cheeks as her little hands clasps around my finger. I know that Lily is here with me; I can feel her standing beside me, cooing at my baby. I so wish Chris was here to share this moment with me. With us.
In the six weeks since the birth, my little girl has been a constant source of adoration and attention from all the neighbours and family members. Sylvia, Gran and Aunty Maeve are frequent visitors and everyone has knitted and crocheted pink outfits and pink blankets and sent along all sorts of items to help us out, including the famous ‘Spencer Street Casserole-athon’. Some of them are nearly as good as my own.
The best news of all is that Will got a two-year academic scholarship to Christian Boys College, which will see him matriculate and sit entrance exams for Melbourne University. They saw him play football, prior to his injury, and were impressed, but his exam results were among the highest recorded. It’s not a guarantee that he will go on to university and study medicine, but it’s a great start.
We borrowed Uncle Din’s car/tractor and went down to Ocean Grove to see John and Rosie. They seem to be settling in well, considering. Maggie broke down in tears when she held our little girl — baby Lily. Ethan, Will and Cal have recovered as well as possible from Lily’s passing and the departure of Rosie and John.
Doug passed away four weeks ago, and sadly, no one misses him. As Sylvia said, she mourned his passing a long time ago and now she is free to move on and perhaps find some happiness after a lifetime of hardship. She sold his cherished car and gave us the money to buy a car for ourselves, so that she can see her grandchildren regularly.
Christmas Day was spent at home, surrounded by all of our family. I cooked a traditional lunch for sixteen people, and it was so good that there were very few leftovers. It was a simple, perfect day spent with everyone who is important to me — the best Christmas of my life.
Tonight is New Years Eve and a street party is underway. It’s been a hot summer so far, much more noticeable without air-conditioning, but tonight there is a balmy breeze wafting up the street, carrying with it the smell of freshly cut grass. A long trestle table has been set up in the middle of the street and is laden with food: ham, roast beef, salads, trifles, and pavlovas, all of which are attracting their fair share of little fingers.
“Come on Mum and Dad, you’re going to miss the concert if you don’t hurry up,” Ethan says as he herds us into our seats. Gran bounces Cal on her knee and Sylvia and baby Lily are lost in a world of their own, while the children assemble, ready to start their Christmas play. I take my seat next to Chris, who puts his hand on my thigh as we settle in to be entertained.
The play begins and Ethan stands up in front of everyone. He is playing the role of an angel, draped in a white sheet with tinsel wrapped around his head. I lean forward as he begins his part and suddenly, tears blur my vision. My heart pounds with pride and a lump forms in my throat. There he is, my beautiful boy, performing his role, smiling and looking like a natural in front of everyone.
Chris squeezes my hand, looks at me and smiles as Ethan starts to sing ‘Away in a Manger’. A tear rolls down my cheek. Chris kisses it away and then wraps his arm around me, pulling me into him as we watch our son perform. My heart is so swollen it might burst.
Two hours after the concert we have some fireworks and crackers for the younger kids. The excitement of the night has caught up with them and despite protests that he is not tired, Ethan is asleep before he hits the pillow. I put baby Lily down in her cot and return to the party, determined to see in the new year.
Soon after, someone cranks the radio up and people start to dance in the street.
“May I have this dance, my beautiful wife?” Chris asks, extending his arm to me.
“You certainly may, my handsome husband.”
He takes me in his arms and together we melt, lost together. My heart beats in a different kind of way. Right now, it beats just for him.
“It’s been a big year, Jules,” Chris says.
I laugh, because he has no idea. “I don’t think they get any bigger,” I say.
Soon it is nearing midnight and although exhaustion took over an hour ago, I just want to stay up to see in the new year, 1962. The fireworks and crackers light up the sky in our street and then the countdown begins. On the stroke of midnight Chris wraps his arms around me, runs his fingers through my hair, dips me backwards slightly and kisses me in a way that is probably indecent in public in 1961. But it’s dark and no one can see, and even if anyone could see, I wouldn’t care. Some kisses are too wonderful to waste.
Everyone hugs and kisses each other, joins hands and sings Auld Lang Syne, which causes me to get misty again.
“What’s wrong, love, are you OK? Is it Lily?” Chris asks me.
“No, I’m fine,” I say, wiping the tears away from my eyes. “I’m just…”
“Just what, love?” he asks, worried.
“I’m just so happy. We have such a beautiful family, Chris, and this is everything I could ever want; family, friends, good times. It would be perfect if Lily, John and Rosie were here, though.”
“She’s here, Jules” Gran says. “There is no way in the world that girl would miss seeing in the new year with you. She’s here, you can count on that,” she says, as we wrap our arms around each other.
Gran’s right, as usual. I can feel Lily with me all the time.
Chris and I say our goodnights to everyone. When we get home Lily is sound asleep, as are Cal, Will and Ethan. I kiss them all and marvel at how gorgeous they are, just for a couple of minutes. I fall into bed very happy and peaceful. The photo of Lily and I, taken on my birthday, is in a silver frame next to the bed. Two friends clinging to each other with Cheshire smiles. I shed a tear and bear a smile at the same time.
“Happy New Years, Lily. I miss you.” I whisper.
Chris climbs into bed next to me, his muscled chest and arms a nice distraction from missing Lily.
“Are you tired, Jules?” he asks.
“Not that tired,” I say, as our bodies twirl around each other.
It’s been a long day and baby Lily will be awake in a couple of hours for a feed, but right now, all I want to do is continue that kiss with Chris, in the privacy of our own bed.