I wasn't sure I could write this
A story with totally unrelated imagery
We haven’t gone down to our neighbours’ woods to see the snowdrops yet and we’re running out of time. It’s been so bloody cold and dreary I haven’t felt like being outside at all, which has inevitably resulted in lower moods and shorter fuses. I check my phone for any photos of the bleak landscape as proof but have none, I barely stepped out, no walks, no swims. It’s a blip, surely, we’re hoping the arctic air will blow over us soon and the dull tones of the countryside will get brighter. Please.
The snowdrops down the road are beautiful, I’ve been craning my neck from the car as we drive past. We usually walk through the woods admiring their cheery little heads but it does have a slight undertow of anxiety for me. Deep breath.
I lost Michael there one day. He was three and we were walking together, Cillian bounding ahead, impatient to be first to the pond, me with Easkey in the baby carrier in the middle and Michael behind, distracted by this and that and trying to keep up. As we went through to the gardens I called to Cillian to wait and when I turned around Michael had completely vanished. Totally, utterly disappeared. I shouted a couple of times, then laughed with incredulity. How? Where? Very quickly I started to panic; it’s a working farm, there’s big sheds, animals, machinery. Soon my neighbours came out and we all started searching together, shouting and shouting until my throat was sore, running through the brambles tearing my legs and arms. I phoned my brother in law to come up and help and within ten minutes he’d phoned back, ‘I’ve got him.’
I took a long time to feel calmed but the worst part was bringing back the feeling of total despair, dread and anxiety because it’s not the first time I’ve lost a child. I thought about making joke here about not judging me or calling social services but I can’t laugh about it yet, maybe never will.
We were in London, it was rush hour and we were getting the tube. Already a highly stressful situation. Michael was still in a pram so Dara took him through the accessible turnstile while I took Cillian’s hand, he beeped through and I was holding his little shoulder while I tried to put my ticket through. It wouldn’t open, the red X appeared three times while the crowds kept coming and the people piled up, pushing behind me. Beside me a staff member was checking tickets so I told Cillian to wait where he was and I ran over and pushed my way through, three seconds I’d say and he was gone.
I ran down the steps onto the platform and started shouting, voice wobbly with fear, eyes desperate to catch a glimpse of my precious firstborn. A man approached me asking if I was looking for a little boy, I replied, hopeful, suspicious, manic. I felt like someone had stolen my breath, my brain muddled with numb disbelief, shock and confusion as he said, ‘he got on the last train.’
I shook my head, tears in my eyes. He told me to get on the next train and get off at the first stop. I waited for a minute until it arrived and jumped on, agitated, thinking about all possible eventualities, press conferences, living in London, searching…you know where the mind can take you, torture you. Two minutes of a journey and off at the next stop, screaming his name and out he came from an office with two staff and the kind woman who’d noticed him alone and took him off the train.
I grabbed him, hugged him tightly and slumped onto the platform crying and crying. I didn’t stop shaking for hours. I didn’t learn to breathe again properly for years. I still haven’t shaken off my tendency to catastrophise. I’m not sure why I decided to write about this this week, maybe it’s cathartic? Maybe it’s because it’s just always in my mind, a feeling of failure. My fault.
When I took the kids out to the beach the other day, the boys ran one way to climb rocks and Easkey ran for the ledge above the rough waves; I shouted for everyone to wait, come back and felt that fear rising. Cillian said, ‘stop worrying so much,’ but the line of letting them explore and keeping them safe is blurry and hard to navigate. A constant journey of learning for us all.
After we were all back together in London we had to grab some food and try to decompress, we stopped at a beautiful little neighbourhood wine bar. I couldn’t stop my hands shaking from the shock and I can’t even remember what we ate that day but something about being in the welcoming comfort of hospitality helped to steady me. The feeling of being held by others, reassurance. I love to recreate a sense of that, a place to gather where people feel safe, soothed.
Looking forward to lunch on Thursday.
I identity with these thoughts. Won't say more. Loved these lines: something about being in the welcoming comfort of hospitality helped to steady me. The feeling of being held by others, reassurance. I love to recreate a sense of that, a place to gather where people feel safe, soothed.
Your place is one of those soothing places. I'm creating one too. And yes, it's been so cold here. I look forward to it changing.
That was gut wrenching Ciara. You are a powerful writer, such sensitivity. We miss our regular trips over the mountain to Ballycastle this year!