I was at the hospital the other day (for nothing of note) and was asked, as is always the way, to recount my medical history. I have it off pat now: the twin pregnancy, the dramatic labour, the weeks in neonatal care. The worry, the relief, the false hope. The illness, the grave expressions, the choice. The funeral. And then again a year later: the impossible second twin pregnancy, the worry, the danger, the holding of breaths. The safe arrivals.
The doctor listened to my story in silence, then nodded, knowingly. ‘So, your son,’ he began, in an accent I couldn’t place, ‘he came back?’
I held my breath.
‘He came back to you,’ the doctor repeated. His teeth were straight and white, and he smiled at me as though he were merely passing the time of day.
I suspect that in this world of political correctness – this world of treading on egg-shells, of never assuming, never implying, never suggesting – that such a statement does not belong. I suspect there are many who would find such a comment from a medical professional a step too far; perhaps even insulting. But there are things no amount of science can explain, and there are times when grief can be touched by a total stranger. I heard his words and I drank them in, feeling them spread throughout my body and wrap themselves around my heart.
‘Yes, I said. He came back.’
