Madeleine (5 page)

The dramatic impact that one small person can have on your life never ceases to amaze me. Suddenly, your whole world revolves around this little bundle, and you don’t mind in the slightest. The overwhelming love and protectiveness you feel towards your child makes you incredibly vulnerable – probably as vulnerable as you have ever been since you were a baby yourself. Now, however, you understand that this is a vulnerability that will never leave you.

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A FAMILY OF FIVE

Madeleine suffered from colic. She cried for the best part of each day for the first four months of her life. When she had one of her screaming episodes her little fists would clench tightly and her face would turn purple with discomfort. Gerry and I spent hours running through our checklist – Is she too cold? Is she too hot? Is she hungry? Does she need her nappy changing? – before we were able to accept that this was colic, and this was what happened with colic. Unfortunately for Madeleine, it could strike at any time, not just in the early evening, as is typically the case. I remember feeling so helpless as I tried everything I could think of to ease her pain: this position, that position; feed, don’t feed; rub her tummy; gripe water, Infracol; maybe a dummy? Needless to say, those early days could be very long and she was constantly in my arms. ‘If you pick her up all the time, she’ll never go to anyone else, you know,’ people would remark.

It’s hard to remember how I managed when I look back and picture myself buttering a piece of toast with one hand (I am very bad at going without food), holding Madeleine in the other arm and never being able to answer the phone or even go to the toilet unaccompanied. Madeleine and I spent endless days dancing around our living room to the sounds of MTV. Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy in Love’ and Justin Timberlake’s ‘Rock Your Body’ were our favourites, along with a subconsciously choreographed routine to Mummy’s own rendition of ‘She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain’.

Poor Gerry would arrive home from work and would hardly have a foot over the threshold before he was handed a roaring bundle while I went upstairs for a loo break, a scream-free moment and a chance to regain the use of my arms. There were several occasions when the three of us would be huddled together in the kitchen, crying – Madeleine with her colic and Gerry and I at the futility of our attempts to take away her pain.

I was always terrified that Madeleine would hurt herself. I remember once, when she was about four weeks old, refusing to make a car journey with her because the baby seat appeared to be wobbling very, very slightly. I know Gerry felt I was a bit over the top sometimes. But babies seem so fragile and with your first it’s hard to get the balance right. I always erred on the side of caution.

Quite apart from the colic, Madeleine seemed to have an aversion to sleep at the best of times. It still astonishes us that she could survive on so little. There she’d be, surveying her surroundings with those great big peepers, studying anyone who came into her orbit, just taking it all in. Perhaps her curiosity and capacity for observation might explain why she always seemed so far ahead of the game and became such a knowing and endearing little girl at such an early stage. ‘Auntie Michelle’, my great friend, bought her a Blossom Farm baby gym from the Early Learning Centre, which had detachable soft toys. When you pressed the lamb’s head, the tune of ‘You Are My Sunshine’ would play. I remember singing those words to Madeleine so often, with a few key personalized alterations:

You are my Madeleine,
My only Madeleine.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don’t take my Madeleine away.

The terrible irony of those words brings bittersweet tears to my eyes when I think of them now. They have taken on a dark undertone, like the tinkling notes of a nursery rhyme in a horror film.

Happily, Madeleine grew out of her sleeplessness. When it came, the breakthrough was sudden. We all went to Italy in September for David and Fiona’s wedding and one night, for no obvious reason, we put Madeleine down and she slept for a solid six hours. That was a real red-letter day.

Those first few months were quite an isolating time for me on the whole. While almost all my friends in Liverpool and Glasgow had children, my Leicester friends did not, which meant they were working and not around during the day. Mostly, then, it was just me and my special little buddy. Although Queniborough was a lovely village, our walks there tended to be rather aimless as there was no café or anything to walk to. And the fields where Gerry and I went running were impossible with a buggy.

So in some ways returning to work part-time in November 2003, while Madeleine started at a nursery near our home, was not such a bad thing. Although I hated the thought of being apart from her, I felt I needed to keep my hand in at the surgery: professionally, it’s not a great idea to drop out for long periods. I also knew that nursery would bring a little more variety into Madeleine’s world. Leaving her was an incredible wrench at first, but as we settled into our new routine I found it gave me a break of sorts, in terms of doing something different, at least, and mixing with people. And it helped get my spongy brain back into gear.

As it turned out, this arrangement didn’t last long: in January 2004, when Madeleine was seven months old, we rented out our house and moved for a year to Amsterdam, where Gerry had a fellowship to study cardiac magnetic resonance imaging (MRI). The use of this specialized imaging technique in cardiology was at that time relatively new in the UK, and the posting was a big success. Gerry’s great new colleagues soon became firm friends and what he learned in Amsterdam advanced his career on our return.

Since it wasn’t going to be feasible for me to work in Amsterdam, I had Madeleine all to myself again. I’ve always considered myself very lucky to have been given this opportunity to spend quality time with her. We joined two mums-and-toddlers groups and a swimming club, where we quickly made friends; we would go to the park, drop into a café or just enjoy a lazy girls’ afternoon in our apartment, treating ourselves to a movie and a slice of cake. It was a little piece of heaven.

As special as Madeleine was to us, and as fortunate as we felt to have her, both Gerry and I were keen to expand our family. Given our fertility problems, this was going to mean another attempt at IVF. We had no way of knowing if it was likely to work again and, even if it did, how long it might take. As a first step, in the spring I went along to see a GP. Not being Dutch citizens, we weren’t sure if we would be entitled to any treatment at all, so we were surprised and delighted when, just a month later, we had an appointment with a specialist and within only six more weeks we found ourselves starting another cycle of IVF in Amsterdam.

For the most part, everything was far easier psychologically this time round. Much as I wanted another baby, Madeleine had lifted me from the despair of childlessness, thank God, and I was now able to approach the IVF a little more philosophically. If it succeeded, brilliant; if it didn’t, then we only needed to look at what we had already to be content. It was a weird period emotionally, though. I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty, as if we were somehow overlooking Madeleine, not focusing on her 100 per cent, in our haste to move on to ‘the next one’. I loved her so much but I also knew that a little brother or sister would enhance her life, too.

The treatment cycle did the trick and I was pregnant again. We were overjoyed. This time, however, the scan revealed two little beating hearts. Twins. Wow! We were thrilled but also a little apprehensive. Having worked in obstetrics and anaesthetics, I was only too aware of the increased risks and complications associated with carrying twins. I wondered if my skinny body would be able to accommodate two babies. Our worries were completely brushed aside by two of Gerry’s Dutch colleagues. As Gerry was voicing his concerns, he was interrupted by young Robin enthusiastically chipping in: ‘Fantastic! Two for the price of one!’ The lovely Aernout just looked at Gerry and revealed, ‘I’m a twin,’ in a ‘so-what’s-the-problem?’ kind of way. Suddenly our concerns seemed, if not misplaced, at least excessive.

All the same, my second pregnancy was nothing like the first. Obviously, with Madeleine to look after and entertain, there was definitely no sneaking off for a little rest, for a start. More significantly, I felt very different physically, even in the early weeks. During the second month, I craved high-fat foods. I don’t know how many text messages Gerry received begging him to get me some chips on his way home. The thought of so much fat is quite repulsive to me normally but at the time my body was telling me I needed it. Gerry and my friends will testify that any combination of the words ‘Kate’ and ‘hunger’ represents a kind of emergency at the best of times, but at this stage of my pregnancy there seemed no limit to the amount of chips, sausage rolls, pizzas and Mars bars my body cried out for.

It was just as well, as things turned out, because for the next five or six weeks I was completely poleaxed by nausea. I can remember doubting I’d ever be able to go through this again, which, given my overwhelming desire for a big family, is a measure of just how awful I felt. I couldn’t eat and even swallowing a sip of water was a struggle. The smell of food – even the very mention of food – provoked a strong physical reaction. I would hear Gerry calling to Madeleine, ‘Would you like some potatoes and broccoli?’ and I’d roll into a ball with my hands over my ears.

Consciously or not, we all feel better when we can see those close to us being properly nourished. I know how satisfied I feel when my children scrape their bowls clean. Gerry found my problem very difficult to ignore. He was worried about me and about the babies and I’m sure he missed the three of us sitting down together and sharing a meal. But there was nothing I could do about it: my body simply wanted to be still and to be left alone.

Another concern was a persistent lower pelvic pressure and discomfort that came on only sixteen weeks into my pregnancy. I remember walking around Amsterdam for the next eight weeks with my hands cupped under my bump like a truss, trying to alleviate some of the weight, while at the same time occupying a very energetic toddler. Considering how normal I’d felt during my first pregnancy, I was a little worried, but only a little: the end result was going to make these trials more than worthwhile, after all.

However, it was not long before things took a more dramatic turn. At twenty-four weeks, a transvaginal ultrasound scan to measure the cervix (the shorter it is, the greater the risk of the mother going into premature labour) revealed that mine had pretty much reduced to nothing. I was immediately put on to a trolley and admitted to a ward, where I was to remain on bed rest to reduce the gravitational pressure. The tears flowed, initially not so much because of the risk to my pregnancy but because I was distraught at the prospect of being parted from Madeleine.

‘If your babies come now,’ the specialist told me bluntly, ‘they die.’ Perhaps his English did not stretch to the expression of empathy or tact; perhaps the Dutch bedside manner is just to tell it like it is. Either way, once the seriousness of the situation sank in, so did the fear, and my prayers increased in frequency. Thankfully, my dad was staying with us at the time and was there to give Gerry a hand taking care of Madeleine. After five days of immobility, my condition improved and I was allowed home on the proviso that I did no more than I’d been doing in hospital. Nothing, in short. So from then until the babies were born we needed help, and when my dad left he was replaced by my mum, Gerry’s mum and a relay of friends and relatives who came out from the UK over the next six weeks to stay with us in our one-and-a-half-bedroom apartment. It was hard for me not being able to pick Madeleine up or play with her properly. All we could do, really, was cuddle on the bed. Still, I was grateful that at least I hadn’t had to remain in hospital.

My difficult pregnancy wasn’t the only upsetting and stressful event that year. Gerry’s dad had been diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus in 2003 and was becoming more and more frail. It was terrible for poor Eileen to watch her husband of over forty years shrinking before her eyes. Eileen had not been well herself, either, undergoing surgery and radiotherapy for a salivary gland tumour as well as a hysterectomy. Then the marriage of two very good friends of ours broke down unexpectedly, just before their daughter’s first birthday, and a distressed mother and child came out to stay with us straight afterwards. At the time Gerry described 2004 as our
annus horribilis
, but if we thought that year was bad, it would pale into insignificance compared with what lay in the future.

At twenty-seven weeks I began to bleed and had to go back into hospital. We were worried about the babies being born prematurely in the Netherlands. If that happened we would have to stay on after Gerry’s fellowship had ended, with no family support and no income, so it was imperative to get me back home as soon as possible – provided, of course, our specialist felt it was safe enough for me to travel. He did, and on 1 December, a month ahead of schedule, we departed for the UK. On the advice of my consultant I flew, accompanied by my Auntie Janet, with Gerry, Madeleine and most of our belongings following by car and ferry. Gerry then had to return to Holland to complete the final two weeks of his post while a new stream of willing relatives arrived in Queniborough to help Madeleine and me. Another advantage of our early return was that it enabled me to get Madeleine re-established at nursery for a few mornings each week before the babies came rather than afterwards. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel sidelined once the new arrivals made their entrance.