In the ten days I had been away the streams in Morden Hall Park had swollen and the coot family were thriving. The roses were now in full bloom and groups of schoolchildren accompanied, I guessed, by intrepid teaching assistants were on a field trip. Those plumbing the depths of the fast-moving water were able to plunge their sticks in a bit deeper than the boy I had seen a while back assuring his Dad that it was ok to do what he was doing. As I did a turn round the Park the wind was blowing up a gale just as it had done almost 42 years ago the night Rebekah was born. Twigs were flying around like a disintegrating witches broomstick and rose petals were strewn around like confetti.
This could not have been more appropriate, since our daughter had been born in a thunderstorm. Insisting that she wanted another boy Jackie went into labour that August with the backdrop of a truly Gothic sky. Becky is the third of my children, but the first of the daughters whose births I witnessed. I still retain the image of that chubby, sleepy, head, with eyes clenched shut like a dormouse having been disturbed from hibernation, crowned with thick, black, damped down hair. Even more indelibly etched on my memory is her mother’s reaction to being told she had a little girl. When Jackie expresses joy her smile illuminates the room. She gave just such a dazzling smile on that occasion, but it is her voice which will ring in my ears as long as I live. Lingering ever so slightly, lovingly, over the last letter, ‘A girl!’, she cried. She had expressed a wish for another boy because she dared not hope for a girl.
That little girl has always been a determined, caring, and courageous decision maker. Perhaps it was consideration for her Dad that caused her to wait more than thirty years to change the spelling of her name to that which both she and Jackie preferred. I had registered the birth not realising that I had not spelt the name in the way her mother had wanted.
Whilst I was walking in the park Rebekah was on the operating table in St. George’s Hospital undergoing potentially life-enhancing treatment which is not without its risks. The spelling of her name had been a decision which changed her signature. Today’s implementation of a far more courageous one may change and extend her life. That is why my thoughts were of her, not of what I began this post with.
Jackie and I collected our granddaughter from school in Mitcham in a raging tempest and drove her to visit her mother in St. George’s Hospital, Tooting. By the time we arrived at the hospital the rain had ceased for the day, but the powerful wind continued so as to put the World Cup supporters’ flags flying from Mitcham’s bedroom windows seriously at risk.
A drugged and drowsy post-operative Becky largely dozed through our visit but still managed to display flashes of her trademark witty humour, such as fixing her mother with one eye when she disapproved of what had been said, or placing her small cardboard sick repository on her head as a makeshift hat. When a pharmacist with a foreign accent was trying to find out from the rest of us what, if any, medication she was on and whether she had any allergies she opened both eyes, removed her oxygen mask and pronounced something unpronounceable followed by ‘and no’, thus quite lucidly answering both questions. We stayed a couple of hours.
It was with relief and exhaustion that Jackie, Flo, and I ate at ‘The George’ on London Road, Morden. This is a Harvester pub offering perfectly good yet very cheap basic pub food offering a wide menu (largely grills, burgers and pasta) with a vast range of unlimited salad and dressings to which you help yourself, and similarly available bread rolls. Tetleys or Old Speckled Hen were the beers on offer, or you could have a variety of wines, juices, etc. Flo and I had fish and chips which neither of us could finish. My beverage was ‘the hen’. All this is served with friendliness and efficiency.
It’s an honour to be the first to like this. I read it with tears falling down my cheeks from the moment that Jackie smiled. 🙂
I’m so pleased, Susan. I was surprised to see how long ago I had posted it – when so many of today’s blogging friends would not have known about it. Thank you very much indeed
I should have wished her a Happy Birthday – that is what I was aiming towards.
I will tell her 🙂
No photographs, but vivid depictions still. I love this line: “Insisting that she wanted another boy Jackie went into labour that August with the backdrop of a truly Gothic sky.”
Thank you so much, Crystal. I appreciate your comments.
Thank you, Derrick for sharing this emotional and enlightening post. Your words were more than sufficient, no pictures were required.
Thank you so much, Maj
Even sans photographs, this post is so highly descriptive that if forms vivid imagery in one’s mind. It is also deeply emotional. I remember being so sure I would have a boy, that, having given birth, I didn’t ask “Who?”, but rather “Is it a boy?” I am certain I would’ve loved a girl just the same, but for almost 50 years now, I have been truly happy that the answer was affirmative.
🙂 Thank you so much, Dolly.
You are very welcome, Derrick.
I too was determined we would be having a third son – my cup of joy ran over when our daughter was born. Of course we couldn’t tell beforehand in those days.
No, we couldn’t. Much appreciated, Anne. Many thanks.
I’m back here from the future, where Jackie’s smile, as your readers have seen, still illuminates the room (and garden). Lovely post!
Thank you so much, Merril
Oh, you know me…I’m sitting here crying. 🙂 What a beautiful write, Derrick, about a beautiful day and your beautiful girl! 🙂
(((HUGS)))
PS…one of my brother’s had all girls and on their last baby being born he was quiet for 9 months about hoping it was a boy. But his wife said, in the delivery room, when the baby finally appeared…another baby girl…he said, “Oh, HE’S a girl.” Ha! 😀
Thank you so much, Carolyn. That is lovely XX
It is a riveting post. After the powerful opening, it was impossible to stop, useless to look for a photo. Linking the time of your daughter’s birth with her life-saving surgery is a masterly touch. It seems she was born twice.
Indeed – I’m pleased you liked that, Uma. Thank you very much.
So fun to see Becky’s progression through life.
Thanks very much, Judy. You will appreciate that the selection was difficult 🙂
Yes..One does get carried away.. At least I do.
Thank you so much for providing the link to this wondeful recount of Becky’s birth and life.
I started blogging four years ago and like you, it seemed to be a few months before I received my first comment!
🙂 Thank you very much, Sue
I’m happy you linked to this post, Derrick. I love the part where Jackie gets her girl. What a lovely story.
Thank you so much, Cheryl
Thank you for linking to this point, Derrick. I concur with your other readers about how moving it was.
Thank you so much, Liz
Even I was moved, and I’m not generally given to emotions. Sometimes the story is good enough without any photos, and this one is.
Thank you so very much, Quercus