Am I Still a Mother?

Helen Bouchami

Description

An ordinary woman: an extraordinary lifeIn 1979 Helen returns from Algeria to a much-changed UK, where she must juggle sole parenthood with the demands of a successful career. Her life unravels when her older son develops acute leukaemia and his devastated brother spirals into depression and addiction.For a decade Helen battles to keep her family, and herself, together. Unable to save her sons, can she now save herself?"Takes us on a devastating yet inspiring journey through the loss of her sons just a few years apart. Writing with searing insight and exceptional beauty, Helen Bouchami reveals how grief gave way to the transformative, healing power of love, and ultimately, to a new sense of meaning in life."Joelle Fraser, author ofThe Territory of MenandThe Forest House

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800468016
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Helen Bouchami

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781800468016

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For my sons,
whose presence – and absence – shaped my life.
Contents
Author’s Note
Prelude
The Long Shadow

Part One
In the Beginning
The Price of Motherhood
Homeward Bound
Mother to Mother
Tug of War
Women

Part Two
Christmas 2001
Life on Harvey
Rising Star
Money. Money. Money
Icarus
Get Busy Living
Double Whammy
All Fur Coat
Match
My Funny Valentine
Four Angels
My Flesh and Blood
Time to Say Goodbye

Part Three
Morocco
The First Year
Awakening
Two Steps Forward
Men
Lightning from a Blue Sky
Plus ça Change
Seven Days That Changed My World
And Then There Were None
Aftermath
Dad’s Funeral
With a Little Help from My Friends
Alone in Life

Part Four
Pistol-Packin’ Momma
Ewa’s Visit
The Battle Begins
Inquest
The Woodland Burial Park
Learning to Love Again
Am I Still a Mother?
Author’s Note
I have changed the names of some people and organisations in this book. In two places I have combined events that happened on separate dates, in the interests of narrative flow. Otherwise this book is a true account of my experiences as I remember them.
Writing this book has been an arduous seven-year venture, during which time I worked on rebuilding my life, and developing my craft as a writer. To those, too many to name, who helped and supported me on each of these journeys, thank you.
Prelude
Some time in October 2001, a disembodied voice, male, unfamiliar, was asking me to choose between my sons, which would die and which I would choose to save.
‘I can’t,’ I said.
‘Then,’ said the voice, ‘we will have to take them both.’
However terrifying, the memory of that dream would have faded in time, were it not for what happened next.
The Long Shadow
‘Helen?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Paula.’ I hesitated. I knew who she was of course – my son’s new partner – so new that we hadn’t met each other yet. Why would she phone me this early? Beyond my kitchen window, an anaemic sun was no match for the morning gloom of grey cloud. ‘Bouch is in hospital.’ She used his nickname. Only the family called him Mounir.
I caught my breath. ‘What happened?’
‘He wasn’t well at work last night, so he went to lie down for a bit. When he started hallucinating, I made him go to A&E. I’ve been here with him all night.’
A few days previously I’d called him at the restaurant where he worked as a chef. He’d gone for a sleep, they told me. So unusual . Even in the quiet afternoon period between mealtimes, he would be bustling about, cleaning the kitchen, managing his fridge, planning his menus. A late night, I’d thought then. But now? Already a tight band of tension fastened around my throat, but my voice was steady. ‘What have they said?’
‘They did some tests that show his blood counts are really low.’
‘Which hospital?’ I asked, straight into practicalities. Setting down my coffee mug on the worktop, I hunted for some paper and a pen.
‘Medway Maritime,’ she said. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear as I scribbled down her directions. Then she added the comment that catapulted me from tightly wound tension to soaring alarm – like those fairground rides that shoot you up in the air, leaving your stomach behind. ‘They want to take some bone marrow.’ Bone marrow? Hallucinations? What could it be? He didn’t do drugs, that much I knew, well not for years.
As I hung up, Reda, heavy-lidded, tousled and unshaven, appeared at my side, heading for the back garden, a pack of red Marlboros in his hand. He had thrown on a favoured old tracksuit against the November chill. He’d slept the night in what, at twenty-six, he still referred to as his room, to make a morning meeting at his company’s Reading headquarters, saving him a drive across rush hour London from his Bow Quarter apartment. He placed a hand on my shoulder, head tilted, enquiring. ‘What is it, Mum?’
‘Your brother’s in hospital.’
Sleepiness evaporated. ‘What happened? What’s the matter with him?’
‘They don’t seem to know, but they’re keeping him in to run more tests. I’m going down to Kent. Paula’s been up all night and she needs someone to relieve her.’ I said a silent thank you to this new woman in his life.
‘I’ll come with you. Give me five minutes.’ As Reda retreated upstairs, I heard him call and leave a message at work. ‘Family emergency.’
Was it? An emergency?
Gulping down the rest of my coffee, I switched off the television news. Thankfully my car keys were exactly where they should be. Reda re-appeared, changed into a T-shirt and jeans. We both donned warm jackets and set off.

I convinced myself that I was calm, in control. My brain thought otherwise. I suffer from a degree of spatial dyslexia. What vestigial sense of direction I possess, unaided at that time by the twin crutches of satnav and Google maps, completely deserts me when stressed. Once off the motorway system in Kent, I made wrong turn after wrong turn, not helped by Paula’s directions which assumed we would be travelling along the M2 rather than the M20. Reda glanced sideways at me from the passenger seat as I tutted and made yet another U-turn. He insisted I stop to ask directions, then guided me turn by turn until we finally drove into the Medway Maritime car park. But relief at having arrived was quickly replaced by apprehension about what we would find.
The receptionist directed us to Dickens Ward, where Mounir had been allocated a single-bed side room. I spotted a blue card on the door, but in too much of a hurry to reach my son, I took no time to read what it said. It would take me another day to learn its significance. ‘Alright, Mum. Alright, Reda,’ he greeted us. He’d fitted chameleon-like into his southern location, with not a trace of his Lancashire upbringing nor his Algerian origins.
A woman was sitting on the bed holding his hand. I recognised her from Angela’s bitter caricature. When she and Mounir had split up, she complained, ‘He’s left me for a ginger anorexic!’
Paula rose to greet us, tall and slender, her face pale against her red hair. ‘Do you mind if I go?’ she said after a few minutes. ‘If I can get some sleep I can come back tonight.’ Mounir squeezed her hand, and she leant over for a brief kiss, perhaps all the thanks she needed for her night-long vigil. Even so, I added mine.
Once Paula had left, I asked him, ‘So what happened, sweetheart?’
‘Do you remember Blackpool?’ he began. His brother took the bedside chair and I perched on the edge of his bed, in the place Paula had vacated. Blackpool was where we celebrated Mounir’s thirtieth birthday, weeks before. A family outing with his three children, Reda and me. At the Pleasure Beach Mounir had a mock fight on a boxing simulator. Fit and strong as he was, he became pale and shaky after the exertion. ‘I need to give up the fags,’ he’d gasped. He was pensive and distracted at first, but soon we forgot and focused on having a good time with his children.
But Mounir couldn’t forget. He was so shocked by this incident that he bought lozenges to help him stop smoking . Then his gums started to bleed. ‘I thought I must be using too many lozenges,’ he told us. ‘Last night was weird. All these images from my PlayStation swirled around in my head as though I was in the game.’
Later, when Reda had gone out to the smoking area, a young man came into the room, his white coat and stethoscope identifying him as a doctor. He doesn’t look old enough. ‘Can I go home now?’ Mounir asked.
The doctor shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But the hallucinations have stopped,’ Mounir protested.
‘OK,’ the doctor paused a moment, ‘let me explain. Your red blood cell count is way below normal, and your platelets,’ he said, peering over the dark frame of his glasses to consult the chart on his clipboard, ‘extremely low. No wonder your gums are bleeding. You are very poorly.’
Could this be fixed quickly? A transfusion perhaps? Unsure as to what arrangements to make, I followed the doctor out into the corridor. ‘What happens now?’ I asked him. ‘I live in Reading and need to work out what to do.’
‘I’m a generalist,’ he told me. ‘Your son’s results will be analysed by a consultant tomorrow, but it will take a bone marrow biopsy to find out what sort of leukaemia we are dealing with.’
‘Leukaemia?’ He gave voice to my worst fear; yet I was still in denial. The mention of bone marrow summoned memories of puffy-faced children on television or in the newspaper, appealing for a donor. The images always puzzled me. Didn’t most cancer sufferers become thin? But also lodged in my brain was the notion that leukaemia was a childhood