The egg in my head

Update 11: Plastered

warning: snotty one

2016. The year I gave birth to Ivy, my first, my beautiful, my perfect little baby. That’s what 2016 was meant to be about. Instead, 2016 became the year they found a Brain Tumour.

My daughter Ivy is 11 months old now. Last week I finished plastering her room. At last, she’s nearly ready to move out of our room so some last minute DIY was in order. Stood in her room, finishing off the plaster and in a hidden corner, I commit an unusual act of plaster-vandalism.  I press my hand firmly into the wall leaving a shallow imprint (the plaster isn’t soft enough!). In it I scratch the word “Mami”. Underneath, I gouge out a little heart with “Ivy” written it, much like you might have seen scrawled on a school desk or toilet door. I’m crying now, I stand back and imagine my now grown-up daughter finding the hand print in the back of the cupboard and placing her had in it. She finds it a good fit then looks again and sees the heart. “Mami really loved me” she says to herself.

Why the tears? I’m frightened I won’t be here to see her grow up and that she won’t know me. Why am I frightened? I’m frightened because I’m scared I’ll die and I won’t be there to mother her. Little Ivy’s need their Mami’s, that’s meant to be my job.

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