"Why does it matter if your children fall from a balcony?"
I started having awful anxiety about my children after I read an article on a news website about a little girl falling from a water tower. The girl was small and fell under the railing that surrounded the water tank. She died immediately on impact, according to the article.
After I read about the little girl, I would lie in bed beside my husband each night and close my eyes to visions of my own children. They would be standing on an elevated balcony above a forest of trees—I’m not sure which kind, perhaps Pine or Tōtara—and between them and the trees was a single plank of four-by-four. Their little bellies would be pressed right up to the railing, I can still imagine the red line left on their skin. Then each one of them would slip under the plank, one, two, three, down, down, down, arms and legs flailing in the air, until I would startle, our bed gently bouncing.
My visions happened every night and for quite a while. I told my husband about them; that they were making me exhausted and privately weepy. Each morning I was barely able smile at him from across the breakfast table.
My children are all in their twenties now. But in the visions, they were three and four and ten.
My husband called a therapist for me. This is something he thought I would interpret as an act of support, and for the most part, I did. Anyway, I was too weepy to organise therapy for myself. He booked me in for one hour with a woman named Margaret.
Margaret hired a room in a brick and tile community building just out of the city. When I sat down, she pointed to her surgical mask and asked me whether I minded if she removed it. I shook my head and we both placed our masks on the coffee table; subversive but filled with hope. Around her neck dangled a thick black cross, and that first time I saw it, I thought: Is she religious? I couldn’t ask her, of course, so I told her about the visions in as much detail as possible. I needed time to decide what to do if I discovered she was indeed the worshiping type. What was the colour of the wood: ash; how many meters off the ground the balcony stood: twelve or fourteen; what the view was like from above the trees; stunning, magnificent. She flicked her wrist into the space between us, dismissive but attentive. Would I leave if she told me she believed in God? I wasn't sure. I couldn't know, I guessed, until I found out what she would tell me. And this is what she told me: Why does it matter if your children fall from a balcony? I am not kidding; she did say that.
After the initial shock, when I was able to speak again, I said: Because they would die; my children would die a disturbing death, and then of course, I would have no more children. I could feel my hands gesticulating on either side of my face, but I wasn’t seeing them.
She nodded. What's the worst thing about having no children?
I watched her silently for some time, maybe thirty seconds or more, and she seemed to enjoy this, her countenance beaming like a child’s in front of Saturday morning television. I noticed her wrinkly black shirt then, oversized and possibly made of linen. I saw the lines around her mouth and eyes and that when she sneezed, which she did only one time, her eyebrows raised, looking peacefully surprised.
Finally, I said: Do you have children? And she nodded. I have had two children, was all she said.
What is the worst thing that would happen if they were dead? She smiled, then looked at the wall behind me, which I knew was blank—there was nothing to see there. She told me the session was supposed to be about me, not her. And I was rather cross about that, I think I scoffed or rolled my eyes, or did both. And she laughed! The therapist—Margaret—laughed at me, or at least at my response, and this shocked me. For all she knew, my expression of exasperation could have been pointing to a deeper issue I had with authority, or worse, superiority.
I held my mouth firmly shut until I said: The worst thing about my children dying a terrible death, and being dead is that—
I thought about this for a long time, too long.
When I didn’t say anything, her questioning ceased, and I watched her face. She looked almost serene on the sofa opposite me in that hired room, like it wasn’t a room that didn’t belong to her, but a place she could reside in without feeling afraid.
It would hurt terribly; I was finally able to say.
It would, she agreed, it hurts terribly to lose a child, but to lose one in such a traumatic way, well that would be something. Then she asked: What would you do?
I had nothing to say to that. I didn’t want Margaret to think I was withdrawing and have her write something in her notebook, so I repeated her question: What would I do?
She scribbled something down, thin black ink like scattered twigs on a forest floor. Yes, if your children died like that, what would you do? Kill yourself?
God, I thought. God, did she really say that?
Margaret seemed to be fighting off a smile. Well, would you?
No, I said, which I knew was true. I would hurt for the rest of my life though.
She nodded: And then at some point you would die, too, right? And you would all be dead. Are you afraid to die?
I reached for the glass of water I assumed had been left on the table for me before the session. It smelt of chlorine and had a metallic quality to it. To fight off my natural impulse to ask whether the water had come from a bottle, I thought about her question again. I’m not afraid not to exist anymore if that’s what you mean. I probably want to avoid a painful death, and would miss some things in my life, people mainly, is what I mean.
Right, you would miss things that are here. And no one wants to experience a painful death unless they are really messed up. I looked at her then and I knew—I mean, I could feel—that my eyebrows were raised. She laughed again and said: Don’t let me get into that. God, people! And I couldn’t believe she’d said that in a therapy session, just couldn’t believe it. I mean, it was true—God, people! It couldn’t be truer—but to have said it to a client with emotional issues, well, that was truly something.
She clapped once, and said: So, you wouldn’t kill yourself, that is good! She sounded like a mother, a very nice mother who I would like to spend time with. I am pleased to hear that, she said. What are some good things that would remain in your life even if your children had died?
I guess I would have my husband, who is often busy, but he is a good man, and he wants the best for me. He booked this session for me, actually. And then I would have my friends—I have two very close friends; one who lives here, and one who lives in Arizona. If I am really scratching the bottom of the barrel, I would have my crocheting, which I do for young people and my Thursday group.
What is your Thursday group? Margaret wrote something down as she said this.
I teach crocheting to a group of young mums. It’s silly really, because none of them can earn any money from it, except one of them—Magdalena—started this online shop selling baby’s summer hats. She’s earning a small amount, which is good because she’s a solo mum.
That’s wonderful. She must be appreciative to have gained a skill that can help support her child, Margaret said. I didn’t say this at the time, but Magdalena had asked me out for a glass of wine the week before, which had surprised me—I remember my cheeks prickled with warmth—and when our wine had been delivered to the table, she told me that we were celebrating the one hundredth baby hat sold on her website.
Margaret said: You have some wonderful things in your life.
And I thought: I do, I have some wonderful things in my life. I felt like taking all my clothes off and jumping into the waterhole just down the slope from our house.
Margaret leaned forward, and resting her hand on the table, said: Nobody wants to lose their children, not even people who are really messed up. And we were laughing. I heard one of us cackle. Life can be quite awful, Connie. And when she said this, she said it with such conviction that I suddenly realised I knew nothing about this woman who was supposed to be helping me. I watched her mouth open and thought she was about to say something, but instead she picked up the other water glass and took a sip. Her lips pursed and pale around the rim; thin facial lines gathered from time spent wincing—that static state of pain. What we focus on grows in importance, she said. These visions, these things that concern you will drown you. But whatever is good, Connie, will help you breathe again.
When I got home, I took my shoes off at the door and asked my husband whether he knew if Margaret was religious or not. He said: Of course, Connie.
But why did you send me to a Christian? You're the least religious person I know. I dropped my warm socks on top of the pile sneakers.
My husband embraced me. It's a pandemic, Connie. Did you think a normal therapist would be available? Plus, I didn’t think any of them would be able to relate, even if they were.
I pulled back to look at my husband then, the heels of my feet squashed and ghostly white. But what do you mean?
It was a fall from a balcony, like the dreams you have. When I didn’t say anything, he said: Well, she lost the girl, obviously.
I said: Her girl? And he nodded.
My husband bent down and picked the socks off the pile of shoes, he threw them down the hallway where they landed outside the laundry. I started taking my clothes off then. He said: What are you doing, Connie?
The buttons of my blouse kept catching so I pulled at the cotton and a few sprinkled over the linoleum. It's still warm out, I said, taking his hand, which was warm, jagged like carved bark. Let’s visit the waterhole before tea.
