Veronica Foale

Author: Veronica Foale

  • Drudgery

    She stands at the kitchen sink, steadily washing dishes. Behind her, the baby whines, discontent with the lack of attention. She moves  faster in the hot water and hurriedly finishes the last few items, before wiping her hands and scooping the baby up into her arms. She snuggles his neck and he giggles, content now that attention is being paid.

    The baby on her hip, she slowly makes her way through the house, straightening books and picking up laundry. He twirls his fingers in her hair and she shakes her head away, not enjoying the pulling.

    She finishes up and surveys the house, looking for things she may have missed.

    This is not what I was meant to be doing with my life she thinks, as bending, she places the baby in the high chair and moves to the kitchen to make lunch for him. Looking at the clock she is struck by how slowly time is moving.

    She is methodical as she peels potatoes and carrots for lunch. She boils the water and plays peek-a-boo while the vegetables cook and the baby gets steadily grumpier. It’s almost naptime and she is looking forward to the silence it will bring.

    It’s like this every day. The eternal drudgery. The washing of dishes and clothes and mucky handprints on the walls. The cooking of food that is never eaten and the picking up of toys unplayed with.

    He starts to cry in earnest and she looks at him and talks cheerfully, almost cooing the words.

    ‘What a great big boy you’re going to be. Mummy is just going to mash these vegetables and then you’re going to eat them and stop crying aren’t you. You’re going to nap and leave Mummy alone for a bit, yes, yes you are.’

    He looks at her as she mashes his vegetables and blows on them to cool them.

    She walks towards him and sitting on the floor in front of him, she starts the song and dance to get him to eat.

    He smiles at her and the first 3 mouthfuls are easy, before the lure of playing in the food is too great and he starts spitting to examine it. Resigned to the mess, she lets him examine some as she puts as much food in his mouth as she can before he grows bored of her.

    The bowl empties slowly and she stands to find a clean wash cloth. By the time she emerges from the bathroom, he has crawled away, leaving smeared food across the floor; tiny handprints marking his disappearance. She chases him down and he giggles as he is caught and then cries as he is cleaned.

    They make their way through the naptime routine until he is safely ensconced in his cot and sleeping.

    She boils the kettle and makes a cup of tea, moving without thinking now.

    I used to be a person she thinks. I wonder what happened to me?

    She moves through the kitchen, holding her cup of tea until she is sitting outside, in the first rays of Spring sunshine.

    The cat twines underfoot and she closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sun, reminding herself to just keep breathing.

    The cat jumps on her lap and startled, she drops the cup, spilling hot tea on herself and shattering the mug. She swears, loudly, before breathing deeply and moving to pick up the shards of porcelain.

    As careful as she is, she cuts herself and sits back on her haunches, watching her finger drip blood. Her skin, bright red where the tea hit it, stings in the cool air.

    Her fingertip glistens red and the sun shines through the blood like red diamonds.

    It reminds her that no matter what, she is still alive.

  • Not

    Three weeks ago when my period didn’t show up, I was certain I was pregnant. When I vomited for the first time and my breasts leaked colostrum and my nose was oh so sensitive, I was certain I was pregnant. When my blood pressure dipped and I almost passed out and I was exhausted and sick, I was certain I was pregnant.

    I took a pregnancy test.

    Negative.

    But. Is that a hint of a line? Honey, can you see that? It looks like it’s catching at the top, just a little, is that a line? Am I imagining things? Never mind, it’s too faint to tell. Oh wait, it’s fading, it probably wasn’t a line. I’ll just test in a few days and see then.

    And so, I waited a few days and took a second one.

    Negative. Starkly, whitely, negative.

    I counted cycle days and added things up on my fingers. I remembered the last time I lay next to my partner, our skins slick with sweat and I counted back to then.

    fifteen

    sixteen

    seventeen

    days

    It’s early I told myself, I’ll just wait a little longer.

    I waited almost 10 days.

    My breasts stopped leaking.

    My nose was less sensitive.

    I didn’t feel heavy anymore.

    I continued to be sick however.

    Still, no period.

    Another test. Plenty late enough to show what needs showing. But it’s negative again and despite the sickness, I am as positive now as I was then, that I am not pregnant.

    Whether I was in the first place or not is debatable. But I know my body and I know me.

    In my future I see blood tests and probing ultrasound wands. I see doctors visits and questions of why is my body not working again. I see shaken heads and no answers.

    And it’s funny, but I don’t remember stepping back on this rollercoaster.

    ***

    As an aside, I am fine actually. Rather ill, but at this stage, and with 3 negative pregnancy tests behind me, my nausea would be Ehlers Danlos and progesterone related. I’m trying to get in to see my doctor but someone has forgotten to switch the phones to the other clinic and so I keep getting the answering maching. Grumble grumble. And I know, this isn’t normally what I write about here, but bleh.

  • Now

    Sighing, I flop on the couch and wiggle until I’m on my stomach. Arms outstretched I hide my head and eyes.

    My brain works and I taste the words on my tongue, playing them through my mind. They fall from my mouth, whispered, like jewels and I swallow them back up again, not wanting to lose any.

    ‘What are you doing?’ says my partner. ‘Are you hiding?’

    ‘No. I’m brainstorming’ I mumble. My head pops up and I look at him, cupping my chin in my hands. ‘I’ve already had a shower today, so I can’t go and brainstorm there, can I.’

    ‘Oh. Okay’ he says and wanders off.

    I had words, before. A whole post full of words, beautiful words, strong words. I just hadn’t written them down yet. I was busily running them through my mind as I picked up toys when a harmonica drilled it’s way into my ears and chased all the words away.

    I can still hear it, that damned harmonica.

    Innnnn ouuuuuut innnnnnn ouuuuuut and SQUEAL!

    I bury my head back in my arms and try to return to my words, but the spell is broken. My son crawls over and pulls my hair and my daughter continues to suck on that dammed mouth organ.

    Standing now, I head to my computer, hoping to salvage something. Anything.

    It doesn’t work, not really.

    Behind me my partner switches on the vacuum and watches me typing and ignoring the housework. His gaze makes my hands trip over the words and glaring at him, I snap the laptop shut. In reality, he probably wasn’t watching my words, but I can’t work anyhow.

    I stand, allowing him to vacuum underneath my desk before he heads off in one direction and I sit back down to harness my wayward words, like small flighty creatures they dart off before I can get my hands on them.

    In the background, the vacuum cleaner hums still and my daughter screeches my name, imploring me to ‘let her iiiiiiiiiiin’. My son giggles at her.

    It’s hard to write here and now.

    But I do it anyway.

  • Welcome to the InterWebs

    The travellers sat in a carriage that was a little bit too small for them. Pressed against their neighbours, they were privy to things they weren’t sure they wanted to know.

    Outside, the world streaked past, faster than you’d expect, but slower than they wanted it to.

    In the front of the carriage a bored tour guide stood up and turned to them.

    ‘And here we leave the last vestiges of Reality. If you look out of your windows, you can see it trickling away.’ She started to look less bored and more peppy.

    ‘Right!’

    She had cheered up immeasurably, obviously Reality bored her. ‘We’re nearly there. Do you have your checklists?’

    ‘Yes.’ they all chimed back at her.

    The colour streaked back into the tour guide’s face and slowly she became prettier and curvier too. The lack of Reality suited her.

    ‘Let’s go through the checklist now. Do you all have your About Pages?’

    A hand streaked into the air and a small mousey woman began to speak.

    ‘I don’t have an About Page. I’d really just prefer people didn’t know who I was…’ she trailed off as the tour guide glared at her.

    ‘You need an About Page.’

    ‘But -‘

    ‘You need an About Page.’ she turned to the entire carriage and swept her arms wide.’You all need About Pages. Do you know why?’

    They didn’t know why, but no one was game to say so.

    The tour guide sighed. ‘Look out there! Go on, look!’

    They peered out of the windows, the carriage had slowed now. Outside were thousands of people, absorbing information from every venue. They looked … animated.

    ‘Those people, they don’t care about you.’ the tour guide boomed. ‘They have no idea who you are and frankly, they don’t give a shit. You could be the next Christ and they wouldn’t give a fuck. Not without an About Page.’

    ‘But I want to be anonymous. I don’t want -‘

    The tour guide cut her off again.

    ‘Lady, everyone is anonymous here. No one cares who you are in Reality, this is the InterWebs. You can be whoever you like. Just for Gods sake, write yourself an About Page. Fictionalise it, anything, but you will not survive without one. People will look at you and if they don’t know who you are in the InterWebs, they will slide right past. Short attention spans you see.’

    ‘Oh.’

    ‘It’s nothing personal.’

    The mousey woman bent to her laptop and started typing. Slowly she grew brighter and a little taller too. Her eyes sparkled and she looked less mousey.

    The tour guide reiterated ‘You can be anyone here. No one cares.’

    With a flurry of heads they all bent to their About Pages and updated themselves; the change in the mousey woman spurring them on. By the time the train drew into the station, they were all shining with confidence.

    ‘Okay’ said the tour guide. ‘Sorting time.’

    ‘Sorting?’ someone asked.

    ‘Yes, sorting. You have to know where you fit into the InterWebs don’t you? Otherwise you’ll get nowhere and I’ll have to take you back to Reality.’

    ‘Oh.’

    They shuffled nervously, no one wanted to be sorted.

    ‘Right, you. What do you write about?’

    ‘Ummm, my children mostly -‘

    ‘MUMMYblogger. Go and stand over there.’

    ‘But I’m not a MUMMYblogger…’

    ‘You write about your children, right?’

    ‘Yes…’

    ‘And occasionally you’ll post recipes. You dabble in photography and sometimes your photos work and sometimes they don’t, but you post them anyway. You’ll accept money to review products and you will enjoy the free stuff.’

    ‘Ummmm -‘

    ‘You sound like a MUMMYblogger. Don’t worry, the InterWeb has thousands of them. You’ll find plenty of people that you like. Hell, you might even write a book and wouldn’t that be just what Reality needs?’

    The tour guide sounded cynical.

    ‘What do you write about?’

    ‘Technology and stuff.’

    ‘You’re in for Tech then.’

    ‘Xbox Games’

    ‘Oh, another gamer. Exactly what we needed’

    ‘The state of the InterWebs’

    She sighed. ‘Geek. Another one.’

    ‘Fashion and Reality Stars’

    ‘Really? That’s who you are?’

    He nodded.

    ‘Right. Perez Hilton wannabe’

    Slowly they were sorted, whether they liked it or not.

    The tour guide stood and looked at her little group. ‘These niches aren’t all defining. You’re not stuck there forever, it’s just where you’ll be happiest. You may branch out, you can write about anything. The InterWebs isn’t like Reality, there are no rules here.’

    They nodded impatiently, wanting to leave the too small carriage as fast as possible.

    ‘Can we go now?’ the Perez Hilton wannabe asked.

    ‘As soon as we go over the last of the checklists. You’ve got About Pages? And Content? You also need a Contact Page, otherwise no one will be able to find you.’

    They checked their files and nodded again.

    ‘Right, you’re good to go then. Remember, some of you will find Sponsors and some of you won’t. It would be wise to create a BlogRoll once you find a group you like. Have a walk around your niche and see how it feels. If you find you dislike it here, the train leaves once an hour to take you back to Reality. We don’t advise you leave and return often though.’

    She looked around at her newest group. They were exactly like the last group and the next group would be exactly like these ones. The InterWebs didn’t promote originality in its overall use, just in its content.

    She bent her head to her clipboard and then looked up.

    ‘Disclaimers: You need to listen and then sign and then you can disappear. Agreed?’

    She looked at them while they murmured their assent.

    ‘The InterWebs will not be held responisble for anything you do here. Your will is still your own and your decisions and the consequences thereof will be held by you in your entirety. While it is advised you stick to your niche, you are under no obligation to do so. Anyone caught stealing content will be evicted back to Reality. Do you agree to this?’

    They agreed and one by one, they stepped forward to add their mark to the document.

    The tour guide stepped back and watched them leave. Bending her head she checked her watch and boarded the train back to Reality again. Another group would be through in an hour.

    They always were.

    ***

    See Part Two Here

  • Circles. Round and round in circles.

    My hair falls out, great handfuls tangling themselves around my fingers as I run a brush through it. Stress I assume and hormones. Something, I’m not sure anymore. It’s no great loss.

    My son hands me a handful of half chewed pasta. Wrapped around his fingers are more strands of my hair. All the vaccuming in the world never picks it all up.

    I have a lot of hair.

    Or should that read I had a lot of hair.

    ***

    The hospital rings me while I am in the car. I strain to hear her voice over the top of the traffic sounds and my children, whining, contained in the backseat.

    ‘We’ve got the children’s genetic tests back.’

    ‘Okay, have you got the results?’

    ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you over the phone, you’ll need to come in and see us.’

    ‘Oh. Why is that? It was only meant to be looking for the gene that causes coeliacs, surely it’s just a yes or no answer.’

    ‘The test results are quite involved and complicated. You need to discuss them with Head of Paeds.’

    ‘Oh.’

    I feel sick and cold all at once. It was only meant to be a genetic screen for Coeliacs. It’s not involved or complicated. Yes. Or. No.

    ‘You have an appointment in June don’t you?’

    ‘Yes, that’s right.’

    ‘Well, ideally we’d like to see you sooner.’

    ‘Yes, that would be good.’

    Sooner is never good news.

    ‘But, as you can imagine, we’re heavily booked. I’ll see what I can do for you.’

    June is a life time away. I’d like to see them tomorrow, but that’s not possible. What else have they turned up, that she can’t give me the results over the phone, when I was told that I could ring to find out whether the children have a coeliacs gene or not.

    ‘Are you sure you can’t tell me if they screened positive for the Coeliacs gene? That’s all they were testing for.’

    ‘I’m very sorry. Like I said, the test results are rather involved and you need to see Dr. B about them.’

    Dr B. The higher up of higher ups. The Paed we never see, whom our regular paed leaves the room to consult with occasionally. The one in charge of all the major decisions. Him.

    ‘Okay then.’

    ‘Okay, we’ll try and get you an appointment sooner.’

    Inside I panic.

    Outside, I rely all this information to my partner, who has listened to one side of the conversation while he drives.

    We’re worried now, they were only meant to be checking for Coeliacs, nothing else. Nothing that would warrant an appointment with the higher ups.

    ***

    I sit on this information for over a week without thinking about it, pushed down to the bottom of my mind, until it bursts free this morning, leaving me stressed and strung out.

    My mind spins in circles.

    They were only meant to be testing for coeliacs. Nothing else. EDS wouldn’t show on a genetic screen, not enough information has been compiled for doctors to know which gene is broken in EDS.

    ***

    I turn the music up loud and sing, badly.

    Anything to make my mind switch off.

    Because I’m worried. Really worried.

    And to be honest, we’re already dealing with enough fucked up genes, I’m not sure I can take much more.