There’s a light wind blowing. It’s one of those changeable sorts of days; one moment the sun is shining, the next it is raining and I am dashing back inside. But when it’s fine, I come straight back into this garden. It’s quite beautiful; they must put a lot of effort into making it nice for the patients. There are some well-established trees, many in flower now, as the year reaches its colourful May peak. There are shrubs and bedding plants, neatly trimmed lawns and block- paved paths, wide enough for wheelchair access.
And there is a fishpond, into which a small waterfall trickles. Water lilies crowd each other against the opposite side, and if you look carefully, you can spot flashes of gold and white, as the fish swim lazily amongst their stems. The surface of the water ripples gently in the breeze.
It is spitting again, so I look to the sky for the immediate weather forecast. A dark cloud, moving swiftly overhead, promises heavier rain, so I return indoors and pull the door to behind me. I am in the visitor’s day room. There is a TV, books and magazines, sofas and armchairs, a table with a chess set, a piano, and box of children’s toys. It is comfortable and well equipped. Someone has put effort into thinking what relatives might want while they wait.
Wait. I’ve been waiting for eight hours now. Waiting is effectively doing nothing, so why is it so difficult? I am grateful for this room, and even more so for the beautiful, relaxing garden, but I am tired of waiting.
I waited like this once before, in a different place; there I was also surrounded by nurses and patients. I waited then for a different outcome, though one as inevitable as this surely is. I recall every minute of that wait; it is inscribed upon my memory. How I miss him, still, after all this time.
I put the TV on. There are afternoon quiz shows, or a black and white movie. I cannot concentrate on either. I switch it off.
The rain stops, so I return to the garden. I stand by the fishpond, and gaze back at the building. The curtains are drawn in my daughter’s room. How much longer? I hope the drugs are working and she isn’t suffering too much.
I follow the well-trodden path around the lawn. Past the flowering cherry, around the pollarded beech with its stunningly bright spring foliage, between the rose beds with their new purple growth and beginnings of buds. And back to the rippling pond.
The door opens, and a nurse calls me. I ignore the paths and run across the lawn; my feet get wet from the recent rain.
“What’s happening? How is she?”
“No change. I’m sorry to alarm you. I just wondered if you’d like a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, that would be nice.”
Tea. Coffee. Caffeine. I’ve drunk so much today my hands shake when I pick up the cup. I spill half of it into the saucer, and more into my lap. How much longer? I’ll be needing a change of clothes. I wonder whether there is anywhere for relatives to stay the night. It isn’t an appealing prospect, but I feel I can’t go, can’t leave my daughter, not like this. I know the nurses will phone me if there is any news, but I know also that I won’t leave till it is over.
Another lap of the garden. I wonder how many fish are in the pond. There is a metal grid over it, to prevent small children falling in, I suspect. A stone cat crouches among the geraniums beside the pond. It looks as though it is waiting for an opportunity to snatch a fish. Green lichen grows on its back. It has been waiting even longer than I have.
The nurse is waving at me again. Once more I run back, across the grass.
“It’s over. You can go in.” She motions me towards the door of my daughter’s room.
I stifle a sob and feel my stomach lurch as I enter. She is lying there on the bed, pale but peaceful. My son-in-law stands beside her, holding her hand. And there, nestled in her other arm, is my first grandchild.
“Mum! It’s a boy!” Her voice is weak, but proud. “Don’t look so worried. I’m okay, really. They had to an emergency caesarean in the end. But we’re okay.”
I am speechless with relief and joy. I gently lift the baby from my daughter, and smile at his dark blue eyes and upturned nose. My son-in-law bends over his wife to kiss her.
“Well done, love,” he says. “Not the birth we’d imagined, but we got the result we wanted. What shall we call him?”
“George,” replies my daughter. “After Dad.”
I smile. The hours of waiting fade into my past, just a ripple in time. I hold the future in my arms.
