By Farzana Hakim

Hi, all. Welcome back to this super edition of Thursday Connectors with me, your host, Farzana. I’m so glad I’m here, because today’s Connectors has definitely affected me, going straight to my heart!

I’ve already told you many times, I’m a sentimental, emotional kind of lady. Now, in my early 40’s, with two out of three of my kids now adults and off doing their own thing in the world, I have much more time on my hands, to reflect and do the things I didn’t get a chance to do when they were little and needed me, their mummy, 24/7.

Who am I kidding here? My boys may be adults, gearing towards their final exams for their degrees at Uni, and applying for the next steps, but I’m still Mummy, and I’m forever putting their needs and desires first!

It’s the nature of all us Mums, isn’t it?

Actually, today’s Connectors comes with a trigger warning. Please be aware the writing may be upsetting for some. Running the ‘Hear My Voice’ Workshops for women, I get to hear and explore different aspects of motherhood and women’s stories and many don’t make for easy listening.

Just the other day, my friend told me her friend’s 19-year-old son had died in a car crash. I cried for her friend, at her loss. I was transported back three years, when I was sitting in an emergency ward, being told my son had sepsis and that the next few hours would be crucial. I didn’t know what to do. I was numbed, yet couldn’t stop my tears from falling. My hands wouldn’t unfold, because I was begging Allah to save my boy. I was glued to his side for weeks afterwards while he recovered, making him comfortable and just being Mum. I was lucky, my boy came home and is well, MashAllah. But I can’t imagine the pain of that other Mum; going through every day having lost a part of her world.

Not just this. Us Mums go through so much in life, don’t we? And often, it’s our own mothers who we end up playing the role of a mother to! My children nursed me through surgery last August, helping me in and out of bed, taking me to the bathroom and the rest. I cry when I think back to how helpless I was and how vulnerable my children were, as they watched me suffer. I feel guilty, but on the other hand, that’s part of life, isn’t it?

Anyway. Enough of me. Instead, let me introduce some wonderful stories through my page.

When I was sent this first Connector a few weeks back, it made me cry. Clare Cooper’s creative piece is inspired by her mother’s story, who is currently in a care home suffering from dementia.

Hi, Clare. Let’s connect:

I Know, Mum

“Hello, Mum.”
“Hello, dear. I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
“I rang you last week.”

“Did you? I can’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter. How are you?”
“Bored and lonely. I’m stuck in this room on my own all day. If they take me downstairs, they sit me with a load of old people who have dementia and nobody talks to me! They all just stare at me. I don’t have dementia, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

“Have you seen my room here?”

“Yes, Mum. I’ve seen it several times.”

“It’s not bad, a good size, and from my window I can see treetops and funny big white birds that fly in and out of the trees all day. I don’t know what they are. Have you seen my room?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Where are you phoning from?”

“I’m at home, Mum.”

“At the house?”
“No, at my house.”

“Where is that again?”

“Hampton Court, Mum.”

“Oh, yes. I miss the house. The other house. Why can’t I go back there?”

“You’re much safer where you are, Mum. You need lots of care, now, and it’s expensive to have the carers visit you at home.”

“I have plenty of money! Someone must be stealing it!”

“No, they’re not, Mum. It costs to have you staying where you are, as well, you know.”

“I think I’ll go, now. I don’t like this conversation.”
“OK, Mum. ‘Bye.”

 

“Hello, Mum.”
“Hello, dear. I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
“I rang you last week.”

“Did you? I can’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter. How are you?”
“Bored and lonely. I’m stuck in this room on my own all day. If they take me downstairs, they sit me with a load of old people who have dementia and nobody talks to me! They all just stare at me. I don’t have dementia, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

“Have you seen my room here?”

“Yes, Mum. I’ve seen it several times.”

“It’s not bad, a good size, and from my window I can see treetops and funny big white birds that fly in and out of the trees all day. I don’t know what they are. Have you seen my room?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I want to go back to the house. I was only supposed to be recovering from my fall, yet I’ve been here months and months, now.”

“That’s because of Covid, Mum. The pandemic. Nobody could go anywhere, remember?”

“Oh, yes. That. I can go home now, though, can’t I? I’ve had all my jabs.”

“It’s still not safe, Mum. You’re much better off where you are, believe me. Let’s change the subject. What did you have to eat, today?”

“I can’t remember. I think there’s a new chef, here. The food’s not as good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll bring you some more of those nice biscuits you like, next time I come.”

“Can you come today?”
“No, Mum. I’m at home. It’s about 90 miles away. We’ll be down to see you soon. I’ll bring some more photos with me. You liked looking at those before, didn’t you? You remembered who everyone was, too!””

“Oh yes, was it you who brought those? I thought it was my other daughter. I have two daughters, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

“Where are you phoning from? The house?”

“Home, Mum. My home. I told you.”

“And is everything all right with you? You haven’t had the Covid, have you?”
“No, we’re fine, don’t worry about us.”

“I’ve forgotten your partner’s name…”

“It’s Allan, Mum.”

“Allan. Of course. Are you both OK? Have either of you had the Covid?

“You just asked me that, Mum.”

“I haven’t got dementia, you know.”

“I know, Mum. You’re just getting forgetful.”

“I’m going now. Goodbye.”

“’Bye, Mum.”

***

“Hello, Mum.”
“Hello, dear. I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
“I rang you last week.”

“Did you? I can’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter. How are you?”
“Bored and lonely. I’m stuck in this room on my own all day. If they take me downstairs, they sit me with a load of old people who have dementia and nobody talks to me! They all just stare at me. I don’t have dementia, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

“Have you seen my room here?”

“Yes, Mum. I’ve seen it several times.”

“It’s not bad, a good size, and from my window I can see treetops and funny big white birds that fly in and out of the trees all day. I don’t know what they are. Have you seen my room?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Where are you phoning from?”

“I’m at home, Mum.”

“At the house?”
“No, at my house.”

“Where is that again?”

“Hampton Court, Mum.”

“Oh, yes. I miss the house. The other house. Why can’t I go back there?”

“Oh, Mum! We’ve talked about this before, so many times. Can we please just talk about something else today?”

“I haven’t got dementia, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

© Clare Cooper, 2022

*****

The next, equally emotive piece, was sent in by Claire Buss. I emailed her straight back, telling her how I felt when I gave birth to my twins. Her experience triggered my own memories of those early days of motherhood, over 21 years ago.

Hi, Claire. Let’s connect:

Being A Mum

I never wanted kids. It wasn’t until I met my now-husband that my biological alarm clock rang and the need ignited within me. It took a long time to fall pregnant. I always wondered why it was phrased that way but now, having been through my own journey, I think I understand. I had a lot of disappointing months and a miscarriage before a successful pregnancy. I was horrendously ill, almost to the point of hospitalisation and I lost my job as a result of my morning sickness. In a scan, it was determined that I only had one aorta going to my baby instead of two. I was put on special watch with extra scans. My baby was breech. I was invited to come into hospital to have him turned. This involves having a medical professional attempt to get hold of the baby inside you from the outside and turn them around. It felt as horrific as it sounds and resulted in me almost breaking the consultant’s hand. Breech meant C-section. There were no alternatives. I was beyond scared heading into that operating theatre and went into shock, requiring extra care in recovery. I ‘fell’ a lot getting pregnant, but now I had a baby boy, so needed to stride forward in confidence. There is no striding initially after a C-section. And there was scant confidence. My mind was consumed with every what if? scenario you can possibly imagine, coupled with intense anxiety and no sleep. I lost the ability to talk, unable to form words and, if I could manage to speak, it was unintelligible, with a debilitating stutter. All this ‘falling’ in those early days.

But being a mum is about riding the fall in the most dignified way possible, because there is always something else. My baby boy wouldn’t breastfeed, lost lots of weight, didn’t sit up when he was supposed to, wasn’t talking or reacting at the levels expected. He never crawled. He didn’t walk until after he’d turned one. He had next-to-no fine motor control and was scared of everyone, except me and his dad. Each ‘fall’ became a lift. A way to overcome, to find the solution and the help required. All this talk of what my boy wasn’t… he was gorgeous, he was funny, he was loving. He was mine.

Eventually, after many ‘falls’, we’ve found out our beautiful boy is autistic. But that doesn’t matter, because he’s ours and he’s amazing. I’m still ‘falling’, still doubting, still fumbling my way. Especially now, with his younger sister in tow, but she picks me up, says she’s going to take care of me, amazes me every day with her uniqueness and how different she is from her brother. She’s four and a marvellous wonder. I’m so glad I fell into being their mum.

© Claire Buss, 2022

***** 

Next up, a poem from Marie Kenfak. Her experience is all-too-familiar.

Hi, Marie. Let’s connect:

First Born’s Love

My love for you is unconditional
It is as old as your conception date
The joy and happiness I felt
As I carried you in my womb
Made the discomforts bearable
I was in a bubble filled with excitement
My mind was constantly window shopping
Resulting in uncountable physical trips
To get you the necessary and the artificial

The contractions burst my bubble
Forcing me to get back to reality
Almost nine months had elapsed
Your surrounding was narrowing by day
The ocean of my womb had less varieties
The outside world was calling you louder
Your curiosity was growing stronger
Whatever it was, you wanted out

The pain I experienced was doubling
My cervix was trying hard to play its role
But it didn’t get far, not even halfway
Time was passing
The pain was excruciating
I needed you out, myself
Just like the worried doctors
Epidural was a relief
But my cervix wouldn’t budge
So caesarean was the only option

The C-section left its markings
A painful oozing smelly scar
Which made me welcome
Diluted tea tree oil in my care routine
The above C-section also left
A red inscription in my mind
“Never will I go through this again”

But once I laid my eyes on you
Once I hold you in my arms
Once we had that skin-to-skin contact
Something magical happened
The pain bore no emotional weight at all
The healing process sped up amazingly
With every breastfeed
And every skin-to-skin

Oh! The joy of seeing you smile
The feeling of your tiny fingers
Wrapped around my pinky
The amazement I got every day
From watching you grow and learn
From witnessing your sitting, your crawling
Your standing and your first steps
The giggles I had from hearing your babbling
And the pride from hearing your first words

I got so much fulfilment taking care of you
So much pleasure from your companionship
Before I knew it, I got forgetful
Forgetful of the pain of childbirth
Forgetful of the sleepless nights
Forgetful of the red inscription in my mind
So forgetful that I had three more babies
And yes! You guessed it right!
Four C-sections all together.

© Marie Kenfak, 2022

*****

The next Connector is Eithne Cullen, with a poem to rip open our hearts! Again, this deeply affected me.

Hi, Eithne. Let’s connect:

Holding On

I held you like this when you were a baby
close in to keep you still and calm,
close in to keep you safe and warm.

I dried your tears and smoothed your hair
and told you shush, don’t worry Mummy’s near.
Tried to keep out the worries of the world.

And I have held you close like this
so many times, throughout the years,
to keep you safe and help you bounce back up.

This was my way of showing you are perfect:
when you failed a test or got a rotten grade,
when naughty boys got stars just for sitting still.

For every boy who called you dumb or dull,
and every girl who said you were fat,
and every teacher who said ignore them and they’d stop.

For every job you went for but did not get,
the training schemes that led to nothing in the end,
the drink and dope and skunk that took you far from me.

Throughout the years, I held on and held tight,
you drifted further for me, out of sight,
until I saw your broken body, your final cry for help.

Today I hold you as we wait for the bed,
for now, I know I cannot heal you with my love,
my hugs cannot put your troubled mind to rest.

© Eithne Cullen, 2016

*****

Now, a thought-provoking, yet chilling short story, sent in by Azeeza. It highlights the unseen, darker side of motherhood and of a woman’s life which, in many households, is often lived and experienced behind closed doors.

Hi, Azeeza. Let’s connect.

Father’s Day

A tumbler. That’s what my mother threw at his head. Smash, shattering into a million pieces, missing his face by an inch.

It was Father’s Day. My first school concert of baby-voiced singing and finger art decorations, standing up on that stage, grinning from little ear to little ear. Then Daddy walked in. I saw him, with the button-down we bought him the year before. It was now redesigned with a brown stain over his chest. Where his heart was supposed to be.

My baby, my little cutie. That same slurred voice. My father. My dad. Daddy.

I didn’t understand at the time why he fell down the stairs, why the other fathers carried him away, why Mrs Pillay held my shoulders and kept me on that stage.

I remember Carina exploding at him when we got home, thin, and sharp under her gown, my mother’s bony shoulders shaking.

That’s when she’d thrown the glass at his head. It shattered, never to be whole again.

“This will be the last time,” she said.

But it was not the last time.

Shut up, Azara, why are you always so morbid?

That was the last Father’s Day I had a father. It took me years to stop waiting for him to show up. I would look without seeing into the crowd of proud fathers, pretending he was there.

But he never was.

© Azeeza Rawat, 2022

Connect with Azeeza on Instagran: @typewrittentypos

*****

Thank you to all the special women who have featured in today’s Motherhood special. I can’t stress enough how important it is to share your stories like this. So, please continue using creative writing to find your voice. As I’ve said many times already, writing that comes from the heart is always the most sentimental, and motherhood is the most sentimental of all stories. Today’s collection is definitely a prime example.

Before I go, in celebration of National Poetry Month and National Haiku Week 2022, I’ll leave you with this collection of poetry sent in by Shahema Talfader.

Haiku: Dew

Dusk cools the damp air
Dew drops form on the flowers
The ant drinks her fill

© Shahema Tafader, 2022

Haiku: Lake

Lake water ripples
in the breeze. Ducklings swim by
the white plastic bag

© Shahema Tafader, 2022

Haiku: Bangladesh

Green rivers with green
leaves on top and their flowers
Shapla ful: lily

© Shahema Tafader, 2022

Haiku: Tea

Green bushes for miles
Leaves sway in the gentle breeze
Picked for brewing tea

© Shahema Tafader, 2022

Haiku: Spring

Pigeon’s puffed out neck
coloured with purple and green
He won’t find a mate

© Shahema Tafader, 2022

Take care and see you in May!

*****

Read the latest issue of Write On! magazine online.

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