My Mother My Mirror Page 19

  Years later, when Simon was in his late teens, after a great deal of thought, experiment and research he came to the conclusion that it was the steroids that flipped his heart into overdrive; but at the time there was the usual denial of any possible reason for his symptoms... and of course at that moment we were not about to hang about and ask questions.

  I bundled him back in the car and we rushed the twelve miles to the hospital. Sam was at home with Judy. I didn’t let him know straight away what was happening, partly because we were in such a hurry but also because I knew he was guaranteed to make a crisis worse, by worrying and shouting and being difficult.

  They took blood from Simon, inserting the needle in the back of his hand. He was very brave. To begin with they said it might be anaemia, which didn’t sound too bad and could easily be remedied, but then they found it wasn’t. We waited around, then had more tests. Simon was starting to look pale. His poor little heart was working twice as hard as usual, and though he was a sturdy child, it was taking its toll. Eventually they took us into a clinic, lay Simon on the table and attached a long, flexible tube to the cannula on the back of his hand, through which they fed a liquid drug called ‘Adenosine,’ which they explained was like putting the brakes on the heartbeat. At the same time his heart was being carefully monitored, and at precisely the moment the beat was back to normal, they stopped the drug. I was terrified! What if they overdid it and his heart stopped altogether? My precious, sensitive boy was in the hands of strangers!

  It was getting late now, and we were shown up to the Children’s’ Ward and given a bed in the corner. I lay Simon down and snuggled in beside him under the honeycomb hospital blanket. The lights were turned down and the curtains drawn around the bed, but he was still wired up to the ECG machine, so I lay watching the jagged green squiggle as he drifted off to sleep. By this time I had phoned Sam and told him what was happening, and he had agreed to stay at home with Judy until the next morning.

  For a short while I dozed alongside Simon, holding his little body close to mine; then I woke again and glanced back at the monitor, and to my horror his heart seemed to be going slower than ever. All my worst fears came to the fore: they had overdone the drugs after all... he was going to die... I couldn’t imagine anything more utterly devastating than the loss of my little boy. I slipped off the bed and rushed to find a nurse, who came back and looked at the cardiogram. She told me it was a little slow, but he should be fine. I lay back down, unconvinced. I was so scared. I think that was the worst night of my life. It felt as if there was an enormous, deadly structure teetering over our heads, which at any moment could topple and destroy us both completely.

  A few hours later it began to get light. I may have slept for an hour or so. Simon seemed OK. I found some coins and a phone and called Shelley’s new wife, Ann. She is a kind, motherly lady and I felt she would understand. Sure enough, she was warm and reassuring. Slowly I realized that its actually quite normal for the heartbeat to slow down when someone is asleep.

  A little while later, Sam and Judy arrived. I think that first time we stayed at the hospital during the day so they could continue to monitor Simon, then went home in the evening and carried on as normal. But the episodes of tachycardia continued, with more hospital visits and more Adenosine; then they tried him with Digitalis as an on-going drug, but that didn’t work for some reason.

  We began to feel quite at home in the Louisa Carey Ward, often spending the night. Judy and Simon would both play with the toys in the playroom, Simon all wired up again and carrying around a small ECG machine in a rucksack on his back; and sometimes we would all go down to the canteen and have roast potatoes and salad and nice cakes. At our request, they tried very hard to treat him without the use of too much medicine, but in the end he was having bouts of rapid heartbeat about once a week, which was not good for his body, and it became obvious he would have to be on medication for a while.

  I would be watching him playing and notice he had gone a little quiet, a little pale, even a little green. So I would sit him on my lap and feel his chest, or sometimes just look carefully at the artery in the side of his neck, and sure enough the dreaded double beat was hammering away again. So we rang the hospital, and they told us to wait for half an hour or so and if nothing changed then to come in, and then there would be the Adenosine and the monitoring and sometimes even staying in for a few days; until in the end Simon was put on something called ‘Flecianide Acetate’ which we squirted down his throat morning and evening, and for a while his condition stabilized.

  29

  Relationship Breakdown

  Although Simon’s heart had been affected by the steroids, and probably by the strain of undiagnosed asthma previous to that, I was also aware that the conflict and aggression between Sam and myself was enough to make anyone’s heart race, and the atmosphere in our home was becoming far from healthy.

  Witnessing the effect of Sam’s anger on the children was probably the most painful thing I have ever experienced; even more painful than the way I felt crushed as a child, because here it was happening to people whom I loved more than I had ever loved anyone, and towards whom I felt responsible and protective.

  Him shouting at me was bad enough, but when for the flimsiest excuse he would suddenly turn his frustration on one of them, most often Judy, I saw before my very eyes that tragic process of closing down, becoming defensive, fearful, untrusting and hurt... in someone who had a moment before been completely trusting, innocent, loving and brave. And it made my heart bleed. Occasionally there was some justification for a telling-off, but the force and the volume hugely outweighed the crime, and more often than not Judy had simply made an innocent mistake – dropped, spilt or broken some unimportant thing. However much I pleaded to Sam or tried to reassure the children, I couldn’t stop what was happening; and I felt increasingly upset.

  Sam was becoming more and more unhappy: more bitter about his past, both with his parents and with Maharaji, more disillusioned with the world, more blaming everyone and everything, especially me. I felt like a prisoner, interrogated severely about every phonecall or excursion I made until it was hardly worth the aggravation, and mostly I didn’t bother. He was suspicious of all my communications with other people, especially my family – with some justification of course, because I desperately needed to talk to someone about my predicament, and did so if ever I had the opportunity.

  He continued to be jealous of my connection to Maharaji, giving me long spiels about the evils of believing that one human being was superior to another, and how many marriages he had seen wrecked by the childish practice of devotion; until it got to the point where he was saying, “It’s him or me,” and so I had to choose him.

  He took me out into the garden and built a small fire, and I brought out my beautiful photographs of Maharaji, that filled more than a whole album, and burnt them all one by one. It wasn’t so hard: a lot of Maharaji’s teaching was about letting go, and I had reached a point where I could see that my attachment to him actually made me weaker rather than stronger. I would be feeling fine, getting on with life; then I would hear he was coming to the country and find myself suddenly reduced to the humble devotee who desperately needed saving, which wasn’t even true any more. However, bullying me into letting go was not a loving thing to do.

  In our spiritual explorations he had heard of a phenomenon called ‘psychic attack’ and became convinced that there were malevolent people out there, probably those who didn’t want to hear the ‘truth’ that he told them, who were out to get him and were able to bring him down by sapping at his energy on a psychic level. He built a ‘star-gate’ – an elaborate geometrical structure made of copper pipes – which he would sit underneath in the corner of the garden, and which was supposed to be a sanctuary from evil forces. A little later he embraced the Christian Church for a while, and would attend the service on Sunday morning, coming back saying he had risen into the Light, telling me that all the spiritual nonsense we had
talked about previously was unnecessary: there was enough spirituality in the good old religion of our forebears.

  I don’t want to completely invalidate any of these things. Sam did have an amazing capacity for raising his consciousness to higher levels which was quite genuine and a real gift. But when he was back in his everyday mind, he didn’t seem to realize that he was no longer accessing such pure truths, and would carry on speaking as if he had the authority of God, often completely contradicting what he had been saying with such force only a short time earlier.

  He had a great deal of trouble in getting all the different parts of him to work in harmony: his mind, his heart, his spirit, and his more physical, animal nature; so that often he was in conflict with himself and out of touch with practical, everyday reality. He found it particularly hard to be comfortable with his own emotions and be honest about how he felt.

  Sam was definitely sensitive and intelligent, and could be stunningly insightful, but most of the feelings he expressed were what I later learned to be ‘secondary’ rather than ‘primary’ – that is, rather than being immediate, vital and eager for a solution, they were dramatic declarations about what he thought he felt; and as such they tended to be repeated round and round in a loop, never reaching a satisfying conclusion. Rather than resolving the situation and allowing him to move on, they would act as a cover for the more vulnerable feeling underneath, which was often something simple such as ‘I am hurt’, ‘I am afraid’ or ‘I need to be loved... ‘ But he was rarely able to admit such things.

  Smoking dope was another way of covering up the pain and making himself feel temporarily wise and in control, or else so high it didn’t matter. But I’m sure it also added to the paranoia, and the even harsher self that emerged when he wasn’t stoned.

  In the end I said to him, “I think we should go and see a counsellor.” He said I was implying he was mad, and refused to even consider it; so I set about looking for help myself. For years I had given a wide berth to anything remotely similar to what Carmen was involved in, feeling it important to tread a different path and having found any of the things she suggested particularly unhelpful. Now I had to admit that meditation was not enough. It occurred to me that my complete dismissal of any learning relating to my emotional life might have left me a bit lacking in that direction, and it was probably time to find out more about it.

  Every so often we went to visit a family up on the moors that Pat Densham had introduced us to. They had a boy a little older than Judy, and they would play together. Emma, his mother, had told me she was seeing a psychotherapist who was helping her a lot with her relationship with her husband, John. The next time we went I asked her more about it, and she gave me the phone number of a lady who may be able to help.

  So during the autumn and winter of 1996/7 I went once a week to a room in the Quaker Meeting House in Totnes to see a therapist. I poured out all my distress, and tried, with her help, to work out how to improve the situation. She was a bit quiet, but I was so upset it hardly mattered: I just needed someone to talk to.

  Meanwhile, of course, life went on. I had started taking Judy to the Nursery part of the Steiner School in Dartington a couple of times a week, leaving Simon at home with Sam. It wasn’t a great success, because she never wanted me to go home; so I spent many happy mornings joining in with bread-making or story-time, nature walks and painting; and then progressed to sitting outside the classroom in a place where she could still see me through the window, but rarely managed to leave the premises. In the end she decided it was all too airy-faery and she wanted to go to a proper school with computers, so I began to investigate the local primary schools.

  With this in mind, Pat Densham put me in touch with a woman called Alison in Broadhempston, who recommended their village school. I went to see it, and it seemed very nice, so I put Judy’s name down and she started there when she was five. But unfortunately the headmaster I had seen on my initial visit had already changed by the time she began, and a more authoritarian man had taken his place.

  During the years the children were at that school, each time Mr Clark was unkind to them I thought about taking them out and sending them elsewhere - particularly Simon, because it seemed he was less good at relating to boys - and the last thing my children needed was another bullying man in their life. But it wasn’t all bad: it was a village school with only fifty pupils, and the other teachers were decent; they did some fun and interesting activities, and it was geographically convenient; so despite my misgivings, in the end they both stayed there throughout their junior years.

  By now I had a series of cleaning jobs, and as Sam was happy to leave our finances up to me so long as he had enough for his supply of dope, I was able to start putting some money away each week: wrapped in foil, in a tin, behind the water tank above the fridge at the end of the passage. I just had a feeling that one day I might need it.

  After two or three months, my therapist admitted she felt she was supporting an unhealthy relationship, and asked if I had considered leaving. Of course I had, but I always thought it was impossible to do so with Judy and Simon so young. Now I began to think again. I had run away a couple of times before the children were born, once to London and once to stay with a friend on Dartmoor. Each time Sam had become frantic, eventually discovered where I was and raced to fetch me, literally down on his knees with remorse and apologies and promises to never, ever again be arrogant and unkind: to love me for evermore. During these episodes he did seem to genuinely see the error of his ways, and he was seductively persuasive; so each time I returned to him, and after a little while it would all begin again.

  This time it was becoming more serious: I could see the pattern all too clearly. It was getting worse; and the children were suffering. Such was the intensity of his rage that it seemed quite possible he would become physically violent, though he never did. However, the mental and emotional violence was quite bad enough. I’m ashamed to say that Judy’s first memory is of pushing Mummy and Daddy apart when they were fighting and shouting at each other. Apparently I ran away into a nearby cow field, and she came to find me and bring me back.

  The therapy was beginning to open my eyes to my situation. After so many years of feeling inferior because I couldn’t compete with the eloquent communication – first of my father and mother, and then of Sam – it now began to dawn on me that this intellectual battering wasn’t actually communication at all, but the attempt of an insecure person to prove he was right. I knew when someone was really communicating, and it was a mutual thing, quite different from what happened with Sam. I looked into those big blue eyes that had always held so much promise for me, and noticed for the first time that they lacked warmth.

  So what to do? We were completely tangled up in each other on a practical level as well as every other – though we didn’t own the house, which made things slightly easier. I began to investigate means of escape. Judy told me afterwards that she had a pretty good idea of what was going on, with her sharp ears and keen curiosity, but I made sure at least that my phonecalls were made when Sam was out of the way. I rang women’s refuges, the Citizens Advice Bureau, a solicitor, friends and relations. At one point I decided to take the children abroad, but then discovered that Sam could have me up for abducting them, so that plan had to be abandoned.

  My heart was still open to him until quite close to the end. After all, I did love him: I could see the enormous potential in his beautiful soul. But I couldn’t live with him anymore: it was becoming unbearable. I have a picture of me at that time – in fact it was the one I got for the passport when I thought we were going to Portugal. I know passport photos are not great at the best of times, but in this one I really do look like a plucked chicken: pale, drawn, scrawny and exhausted.

  I remember the moment I closed my heart. We were on the lane outside the cottage, arguing about something. I just decided: OK, enough is enough; and from that moment on, at long last, I just didn’t care. I began to will him to behave eve
n worse (as if I needed more proof!) just so I was absolutely sure I was making the right decision. And then when he became really abusive I encouraged him to smoke more, which I hadn’t done in the past because I cared for his welfare and knew it wasn’t good for him. Now my only concern was to survive the few weeks before our escape.

  My sister Kharis kindly offered to pay for us to stay in a cottage in Pembrokeshire, South Wales. Carmen said we could have her car to keep, on condition that I didn’t return to him. I began to fill the suitcases on top of the wardrobes, adding more clothes, toys and supplies every day. I knew it was most unlikely he would notice, as he was generally unaware of even the most obvious domestic changes.

  I also began to sleep badly, for the first time in my life. Prior to this I had the blessed ability to drop off, even after a bad argument. I still slept beside him in our double bed upstairs, often weeping quietly as he snored. We rarely made love any more. The phrase kept coming to me, “So near but so far...” and somehow that seemed like the cruellest sort of aloneness: to be physically so close, yet emotionally so very distant. It reminded me of an ancient loneliness, probably of being left to cry as a baby, and the grief went very deep.

  Sometimes I made some excuse and slept downstairs, and then I would be up in the very early hours, climbing the hill to the west of the cottage, gazing out over the moors and down at the sleeping town of Ashburton. In my acutely emotional state, I was more aware than ever before of the beauty of the solid planet beneath me, calmly holding me whilst everything else in my life was falling apart. Being a veteran of insomnia, Carmen gave me some sleeping pills, which I resorted to when I became too exhausted.

  I think leaving Sam was the most scary thing I have ever had to do, though living with him was pretty scary too. I can still feel the effects in my body, eighteen years later. There’s a part of me that will always be a little shaky.