From a Distance

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There is something prehistoric in the relationship between a mother and her child. Something that defies language. Something with instinct and connection well beyond love and loyalty, nearly like a type of magnetism.

A fascinating journey begins when a woman looks in the naked mirror, feels her body, and the knowledge dawns that she is harbouring a new life. The love and passion between her and her man strangely make place for a new awareness. Then, the awareness develops into a bond between her and her new content that grows daily in the mirror and under her hands.

And when the time strikes, the pain starts. But this pain is different. For the first time, pain has a purpose. She allows the pain to overwhelm her and screams at the top of her voice in agony, stirred in ecstasy. She knows the pain will render the connection complete.

The midwife cuts the umbilical cord, wraps the baby in a clean sheet, and wipes the sweat and tears from the mother's brow. "A girl!" she says softly, ushering the distraught baby close, guiding her searching lips. And when the girl finds the nipple, she finds hush. The woman looks at her in astonishment, cradles her in her arms and guides her breast. Her girl-child now has body and face. In this instant, she becomes "The Mother" and the little new person, although now apart from her body, becomes part of her being. For the first time, she experiences the satisfaction of complete bondage.

The Mother carried, nourished and grew a new human being successfully. This is the glue of love.

We are witnessing the beginning of a connection that few understand, and no one can break. It will carry love and hurt, anger and laughter, disappointment and joy, hope and despair, and all that life can throw. They will fight each other, nail and tooth, only to turn around to fight the whole world together. When anger rises, and separation seems inevitable, the instinct of bondage re-emerges as the reality of unconditional connection. And the world will watch and smile at the enigma. The Mother will protect her girl with her own life and guide her to grow in knowledge and experience, becoming a woman. And the Mother will grow old and die. But until she concludes life herself, the girl will harbour her Mother in her heart, tied to the strings of her being. The bond is always as strong and raw as the earth.

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Candy was 3 years old, had a charming smile, a voice like Jingle Bells and golden hair. But tonight was a challenge.
Her distraught Mum clutched Candy to her chest, smothered kisses and whispers into her hair, sniffed back tears and rocked from side to side. "Candy will never be able to handle needles and stitches," she whimpered.

"She'll be just fine!" I spoke.

We then spoke about the weather, the family and the latest news in town. After listening to my voice for a while, Candy finally turned her head slightly and peeped her left eye out of the bosom, revealing blood-stained cheeks, a blood-soaked Band-Aid on her forehead, and a thumb tightly plugged into her mouth.

"Hmmm", I said. "Let me guess… Your brother hit you with a pillow from behind, and your head hit the corner of the bedpost."
Of course, this was inside information obtained over the phone from Mum 30 minutes earlier, but it had the desired effect.

Candy unplugged her thumb, turned around on her Mother's chest and was ready with a vigorous explanation: "Yes, and the pillow broke open, flying feathers everywhere over the room. He doesn't listen to Mummy! He does it every time! He never listens!"

Satisfied with the correct transfer of all relevant information, she plugged her thumb back in and gave it a couple of angry sucks.

Mum recoiled a little and allowed her girl to face the doctor and the emergency room around her. Candy's eyes darted through, looking at the nurse, resuscitation equipment, and examination couches and then settled back into my eyes with wariness.
"Well," I said, "I don't know where you and your mum have been shopping, but that Band Aid is the prettiest one I have ever seen!"
Candy unplugged her thumb in a hurry, stuttered a little and was ready with the information: "Mum bought it from the Chemist, and there are ones with elephants and lions and puppy dogs "She looked up into her Mum's face, caught her eye and verified the correctness of the information without a word. The thumb went back to where it belongs in challenging times like this.

The corner of Mum's mouth wrinkled briefly, but she remained wary and worried.
Her tears are now dry.

I bent over slowly, demonstrating with a single finger. Candy's eyes squinted as she followed the tip of my finger approaching her face. She clenched her blanket tightly with her left hand, arched her back and buried her thumb even deeper in her face.
"It's alright, darling; Doctor is just taking a look", Mum oozed into her hair while holding Candy firm against her breast.

"This Band-Aid has got puppy dogs on it!" I announced with excitement.
Candy looked her Mum in the eye to verify and glanced back at me.
"I wonder if these puppy dog Band-Aid scan heal a wound?" I asked, not wavering my finger. Candy looked intrigued, checked her Mum's eyes and looked me warily in the eye again.
"Let me see. I promise it won't hurt! I'll have a careful look only."

Candy's back arched again, prompting Mum to hold her tighter.

I carefully lifted the corner of the Band-Aid.
It was a deep, 1.5cm long vertical cut in the middle of her forehead.

"Ah, that's a bit sad," I said and declared my findings.
"These puppy dog Band-Aids won't be able to heal the wound…."

For a moment, we were all wrapped in deep thought.
Candy briefly looked at Mum and back at me in anticipation.
"But I can fix it! I can fix it, and it won't even hurt," I announced with victory.

Candy was very impressed and offered a brief smile of satisfaction. She was gaining confidence.
"Would you like me to fix it for you? It won't hurt, and your mum can stand right next to you holding your hand".
She nodded her head without looking at Mum.

I took that as a "yes." Talking is hard with a thumb stuck in your mouth.

So, I showed her a pillow with no holes and no feathers spilling all over the floor. She could lie with her head on the pillow, keep her right thumb in her mouth, and hold onto Mum with her left hand.
Mum cradled Candy's head in her other hand, looked deep into her eyes, played the hair through her fingers and said: "Darling, mummy is so proud of you. You are such a brave girl."

I placed a second pillow on its side next to Candy's head to block her view and asked Mum to hold it. The nurse and I quickly prepared the suturing tray, and I wrapped the syringe and needle in a swab to conceal them. But Mum missed nothing. She watched every movement we made, blood slowly draining from her face.

I came from the head end of the couch and touched Candy's forehead. She turned her eyes upwards and kinked her neck to see what I had in my hand. "This is cotton wool and cold water, called antiseptic", I explained. It will kill any germs in the wound. Germs are tiny, but they cause infection and pain. What I am going to do does not hurt or sting, but it will be cold," I explained. Candy seemed ok with it, and I gently cleaned her forehead with Chlorhexidine. I went back to the trolley and collected the syringe and needle, wrapped in gauze. Candy examined the contents of my hands again, this time looking more worried.

"This is where the two of us will have to agree", I said, resting my hand on her forehead. An agreement is when two people think something is good and decide to help each other. I can make the whole wound numb and take all the pain away. I can then put stitches in and make your face pretty again. The agreement is that if you feel a tiny ant biting you, you won't move your head, but you will tell me about the ant. I will then kill the ant so it can't bite you again. Will that work?"

Candy shook her head up and down.
Mum watched every move like a hawk.

I exposed the syringe and needle outside Candy's visual field and explained to Mum: "I'll enter the wound wall from the inside of the wound. Because the injury disrupted the epithelium already, Candy won't feel anything."
Mum arched her neck to see better.
I pushed the needle into the wound, entering the side wall of the cut.
Candy did not flinch, but Mum started sliding down the edge of the couch and dropped unconscious to the floor.

"Nurse, can you please stretch out Mum's legs, make her comfortable and put a pillow under her head?" I asked casually.

"What is Mum doing?" Candy asked, concerned, and tried to turn her head.
"You can't turn your head because I'm busy fixing it", I said in a very calm voice.
"Mum is just going to have a little sleep. She must be exhausted. Was she very busy today?"

As Candy explained all the intricate details of her Mum's busy day, I managed to infiltrate the wound and stitch it without a single ant biting Candy.
As I knotted the last stitch, Mum woke up.
She looked around the room, trying to figure out where she was, spotted Candy on the procedure bench and jumped up.
"Candy! Candy, how are you, my poor little girl?"
She grabbed Candy's hand and buried her head in Candy's chest.

"I'm fine, Mummy," Candy said in her usual Jingle Bell voice, "but you have been sleeping the whole time!"

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The picture is probably not complete without me also telling you something about Dad.
So here it comes.

The Father

Two faint knocks were on the door, followed by a shuffling sound.
"Come inside".
More of the same shuffling sounds.
"Come inside!" I repeated my invitation.
More shuffling. The door handle moved down slowly, only to snap back up with a bang.
Silence.
Then a bum pushed the door open, and a stooped-over someone reversed into my room holding something white in his hands. When he looked over his shoulder to determine his direction, I recognised Henry.

"Good day, Henry", I greeted the young man.
Henry swung around, mumbled something that sounded like "yipdocgooddaybuddy ", and placed the precious cargo on the examination couch.

"A baby!" I exclaimed. "Where did you get this from?"
"She's mine, Doc. Can you check her out for me, please?"
He scratched his back-to-front cap with his right hand.

Henry had blue overalls with as many pockets as fingers on his hands. Each pocket contained a screwdriver, a spanner, a pair of pliers, or some useful tool. An oily rag hung out of the back pocket on his right bum, matching fresh oil and diesel stains on his pants and boots. He surely started the day with clean clothes this morning, I thought. He must have been in the workshop until now. Henry is a diesel mechanic.

The examination began.

It was 9 a.m. The baby looked content and sleepy. She must have had a good feed a few minutes before.
Henry slipped his mobile phone in and out of his breast pocket every 30 seconds, checking for messages while pacing the space between the window and the couch. He was in a great hurry.

"Perfectly normal little girl!" I declared after a while and started wrapping the little treasure in her clean woollen blanket.

"Fantastic Doc! I'd better get going now!"

He quickly checked the contents of all 10 pockets, checked the screen of his mobile phone once more, grabbed the UTE keys out of one of the pockets on his right hip, and stormed out of the room.
"See you later, Doc!" he shouted as he thundered down the wooden steps, out into the car park and pulled off with screeching tyres.

No chance to catch that fellow, I thought, looking down at the sleeping beauty in my arms. He sure will be back very soon.

I walked over to the window with the baby in my arms and looked over the park. The week before, the photographer came to my house to take a few photos of the sandstone charm dating back over a hundred years. He collected his sleeping baby in her carry cot from the back seat and placed her on the bitumen while collecting his camera equipment from the boot. I delivered the baby a week earlier. He was still beaming with pride over the achievement of becoming a dad.

While talking about the experience, he picked up his gear in one hand and carefully placed the baby in the boot with the other. He was just about to close the lid when I asked, "Do you always keep your baby in the boot?"

"Oh, sh*t! No, Doc! Sorry, Doc! I was thinking about other things," he rambled, swiftly rescuing his baby from the boot.

A white Hilux Ute stopped with screaming tyres on the ambulance parking space below my window.
Henry jumped out and thundered up the stairs.
"Sorry Doc, I just forgot my baby!" he said with outstretched arms.

I placed the sleeping parcel in his hands.
Henry then carefully, step by step, eased his way down the narrow stairwell.

What is it about men and babies?

Epilogue

Henry and the photographer are stereo types from the Baby Boomer era with a touch of Africanism to it. Today, the fathers are much more hands-on. The roles might even reverse, I hear you say. Some fathers are taking on primary caregiving roles, while mothers are the breadwinners.

Yes, I respond. However, we are not in the process of judging or setting a holy grail for parenthood. We are simply observing and trying to gain a deeper understanding. These tales, I concur, reflect something of our natural heritage. Something functional in the family dynamics that became gene-locked somewhere in our history.

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NEXT TIME (Part 2):