This week has been one of journeys, of visits, to the past, and glimpses of the future. Sam, at 16, is leaving the care of paediatricians, moving towards adult health services, and together, we are making our way between appointments, visiting the places and people of our shared past.
There are changes in us all. Instead of a rough collection of post-war prefabricated huts there is a brand, spanking new Children’s Centre, but, funnily enough, many of the faces are familiar; over the years, the medical staff have rescued one or other of my children from the jaws of whichever illness was threatening to pull them under more than once or twice. One of the reasons, after our housemove, we have opted to stay on at the same trust is the continuity. Many of the health professionals who see Sam for routine check-ups have known him, and me, since he was born.
This week, after the hearing aid debacle (I have checked everywhere, in and out of pockets and bags, the washing machine and the reception desk at college), it was the turn of the heart scan. It’s been on the horizon since the summer; twice now we have had to postpone, due to holiday or work commitments. The date has been on the calendar for at least a month, a final check, just to be sure.
Sam’s heart hasn’t had such close attention since he was three days old. That day, bleak, and grey, the tail end of January, was wet. Instead of sunshine, the crispness of a golden autumn, it was slick. Brown and dirty; the dampness in the air, the remains of tears, the shaky sweat brought on by the hospital and a darkened room cooling in the cold air. Then, he was a tiny baby, he hadn’t been home, hadn’t had his first bath; now he is on the cusp of manhood. This was the morning when together, we looked in the bathroom mirror as he shaved the beard that is slowly roughening his baby face.
It was supposed to be no big deal. Like I said, it’s been on the calendar for months. Over the years, we have got used to dividing our time, not exactly taking turns, but attending the appointments, of which there are many, separately. Most of them are mundane. Most of them require only the polite boredom of waiting your turn, the oft repeated recitation of a medical history, the everso slightly defensive spike, the sensitivity to unsaid, but assumed stereotypes. I was unprepared for the wash of emotion, the tidal return of a day long gone, when I feared, when I truly feared what our future might be.
There was no reason to fear. There was no sign of breathlessness, no dusky tinge to his skin. As he has grown, he has become a vision of good health. I knew that this scan was a formality, a chance for a doctor to see the baby grown, to shake his, and my hand and say goodbye. But still. There are moments when reason does not feel strong. There are times when the echo of the heart is an unstoppable force. It overwhelms, and it catches you out.
We left with a smile. A wry admission that we hope never to meet again was our goodbye. We move on. We may carry the echo of that dark January day, but today there is sunshine. Today, there is tomorrow.