Recess, recede


Winter Recess, ink and acrylic on canvas, by my dad

About two months ago I resolved to write here weekly. I can say only that the end of autumn was busier than expected, and culminated in my father’s move into long-term care one week before Christmas. This sounds sadder than it is. It is the right place for him to be. In some ways, I had been preparing for this eventuality for the last two and a half years, when I first got a call from a concerned person in his community in Manitoba, who told me that something was wrong. She was correct; Dad, born the same year as Robin Williams, shares his diagnosis, dementia with Lewy bodies. Williams’ suicide was tragic, but there is no denying that he evaded a fast-moving, merciless decline—a fate recognized by some to be worse than death. This is not luckiness, but its twisted inversion. Dad painted the picture above just a few years ago: 2013, 2014? I photographed it and printed it on poster paper for his new room as evidence of his old life, proof for his PSWs (that’s “personal support workers,” for those not in the know) that he used to be capable of intentional expression. As he was, he would have chided me for this, complaining that the colours were off, that I didn’t take care with the light. Not now. I apologized to him anyway. He’s still there, or part of him is partly there.

Having been responsible (to varying degrees, and alongside my very capable sister) for both my parents through their decline and terminal illness in my twenties and early thirties, I keep telling people—jokingly; I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read, let alone publish it—that I’m going to write a book called The Millennial Guide to Elder Care. It would be a book of stark facts, interviews with experts, gentle coaching. For example, if you, as an adult with living parents, have only ever been on the receiving end of their help, consider that you are lucky beyond measure. Consider that this might not be the case indefinitely. Consider that one day you might have to dismantle all the systems of your afflicted parent’s life, and that you will require the legal right to do so. Consider that a crisis can move as slowly as a glacier, that it is possible to live in crisis for a very long time, and that this can erode you until you are particulate, moraine. Consider that within the Ontario hospital system, staff have the right to physically restrain your parent in his chair or bed, not in the interest of recuperation, but because dementia makes him walk obsessively and has also stripped away his literacy, so that he can no longer read signs that say, “Do Not Enter,” and this is an inconvenience. (Happily, the use of restraints is illegal in long-term care except to enhance dignity—helping people sit braced upright for meals, for example.) Consider that when you object, you will be told that the only solution is your supervising presence in the hospital room, all day and all night, for as long as is necessary. This happens to caregivers daily. It could happen to you.

In October I read Ann Patchett’s latest novel, The Dutch House. (Spoilers follow.) I like Patchett because her prose is so assured and unflashy as to be hypnotic, and because she takes her time to please. Most of The Dutch House was no exception. It was a delight when the pieces fell into place and Danny made his first real-estate move, recalling the moment when Barbara Bovender tells Marina Singh a story that causes State of Wonder to swerve wildly in another direction. Watching an expert perform her expertise is deeply satisfying.

Then I came to the scene where Danny and Maeve finally re-enter their childhood home and confront Andrea, their wicked stepmother, thief of their birthright, only to discover that she has lost her mind. Stricken with dementia, reduced to childlike behaviours, and cared for by a hired nurse, Andrea weeps and wails and no longer knows her stepchildren. She is both punished and unpunishable. I finished reading about Danny’s celebrity daughter  finally opening the doors of the Dutch house to an adoring public and felt mostly nausea. Is this really Patchett’s fault? Writers have used madness to punish villainy for centuries—hello, Shakespeare. In reality, though, dementia is not actually a punishment any more than influenza or psoriasis, or if it is, it’s the gulag, which is to say, justice’s opposite. I’ve read reviews describing The Dutch House as “a fairy tale”; that lament the fact that due to her dementia, Andrea receives an insufficient comeuppance for her tyranny. This, in the same month when my sister and I had to sit before a panel of healthcare professionals, brandishing peer-reviewed studies that prove restraints lead only to falls, fear, and aggression; when I had to listen to a nurse berate “you girls” (I am 35) for not believing “that this is only going to get worse” (I was aware), asking me how I would feel if it were my mother in a hospital bed “and a strange man came in the room.” I took the deepest breath and did not refer her to the clearly unread patient history we had provided, which stated that my mother is dead. Instead, I walked to the quiet suburban street where I had parked my car, got in, and screamed.

On the day we moved my father into long-term care, a nurse took his arm and showed him to his seat in the dining room. “You’re cold,” she said. “Let’s get you a sweater.” She introduced him to a passing PSW, who said, “Oof, he looks rough. Hospital? Don’t worry. We’ll get you all cleaned up.” And they did. They don’t really need his pictures to know that who he was is still partly there. I have needed the last month to adjust to the new routine. The old one has not yet sufficiently receded for me to relax. Things will get worse, but they are so much better.

Book of the year: A Change of Time by Ida Jessen


2019 has been a good reading year: a good mix of novels, stories, memoir, poetry, and biography. Some quality nonfiction, too—thank you, Jia Tolentino and Jenny Odell. I started many books I did not finish, which was a sad consequence of needing to read on my phone a lot, but is also one of the liberties of getting older and prioritizing things that hold my interest. I did not expect Ida Jessen’s A Change of Time (En Ny Tid) to be a book that would hold my interest; I certainly didn’t expect it to delight and astonish me, nor to make me turn immediately back to the beginning upon finishing it to understand how it was done.

Someone with very good taste is in charge of the new fiction display at my local public library: intermingled with the ubiquitous Lee Childs and James Pattersons are usually a handful of Europa editions and other international titles. I took the Jessen home in October because I was missing Denmark intensely, and wanted to revisit it. The beauty of the Archipelago edition convinced me. This is not an edition that screams, “You are about to read a Serious Translation, furrow your brow.” The little painting on the cover is by Vilhelm Hammershøi, whose work makes me think of Vermeer and Alex Colville, the same natural light and graininess. It’s the perfect image for the story, which is in large part about interiors.

The novel is a diary, belonging—as we’re told on the first page—to “L. Høy, Schoolteacher.” A few early, broken-off entries are dated to 1904 and 1905 before the diary leaps ahead to the autumn of 1927, which opens deliciously: “There has been so much tidying up in the house these last few days I thought I would see if I too might have something to put away and conceal. But what could it be? And from whom?” There are observations of the weather—damp, windy, the days darkening rapidly, and I felt a pang for the lowlit golden mornings last fall in Aarhus, “fifty minutes of sulphurous yellow sun on the horizon.” Lighting the lamp and stove are purposeful, necessary, repeated actions. We learn that the narrator, now called Fru Bagge, has been making the train journey from her village of Thyregod to the hospital in the Give, near the city of Vejle, to visit her dying, taciturn husband, the local physician. On impulse, she checks into a hotel after visiting him; a famous poet is giving a reading there. Fru Bagge is an educated woman, more intellectual than the locals (and owner of the first bicycle the village had ever seen), and she listens carefully to the verses. The next morning, she learns that her husband has died, and that she, having told no one of her whereabouts, missed the call.

We learn that he has taken care of all the arrangements without telling her, including finding her a new place to live, as the physician’s house is managed by the parish, and with no physician, she is homeless. Fru Bagge endures her grief, and begins to perform an accounting of her life. “It is a matter of having lived with one person for most of one’s adult life, and to have lost that person. To have been set free. Freedom is not always a good thing.” There is, for one thing, too much time in which to think. How on earth did she end up with such a gruff, unaffectionate husband, and who is she without him?

As the diary marches forward, Fru Bagge busies herself with the ordering of her new life, while going over and over the unrelenting past in narrowing circles: “And now evening again. Each day draws with it the next… In the evening, secret friends come scampering. Old joys, old sorrows, and all that lies between. They come with the light. I strike a match and put it to the wick of the lamp.” Jessen moves around in time effortlessly. I won’t tell any more, but the pleasure of the novel is that the great revelations of our lives happen within the confines of our days and nights—in other words, in ordinary time, occasioned by the familiar. There is no other place for them. One is reassured that “everything is still there” on a dim evening in early December, looking through the rectory window where the lady of the house is making black pudding, not in a void. The past does not make sense without the present, a fact which is borne out in the structure of the diary, with those early entries penned by the young schoolteacher illuminated at last.

The final sentence of the novel is perfect, so outrageously good that I gasped out loud while reading it. It made me furious that I finished the book just a few weeks after Ida Jessen visited Toronto to do an event with Anne Michaels, for which I would have braved the Greyhound if I’d known. Although Jessen did not translate the novel herself (the work was done by Martin Aitkin, and it reads beautifully), the back flap tells me that she is the Danish translator of Marilynne Robinson, Alice Munro, and Elizabeth Strout. This makes perfect sense, and is a good metric for opting to take or leave it.

Reading, summer 2019

Danish autumn

So much has happened since I last spent time in this space. My youngest grew out of her babyhood. My father became disabled and is now my legal, moral, and logistical responsibility. I went back to work part-time, then quit after acquiring an extensive private list of remarkable names that I can never use in fiction thanks to a non-disclosure agreement I signed to take the job. I spent a year in Denmark. I came back to southern Ontario and have spent the last eight weeks in the post-sojourn mindset, feeling like the year away was a socialist hallucination, because nothing really changes here except that there are more gross condo developments and, against all odds, a functional light rail system. Also, we got cats.

I want to write more about Denmark, because it was unlike anywhere else I’ve lived. But I’ve been meaning to write more about what I’m reading. Although I didn’t meet a single Dane who wasn’t a capable English speaker, and Aarhus boasted a beautiful modern library complex (Dokk1), the kids and I exhausted the children’s and adult fiction collections quickly. I’m not a huge fan of on-screen reading, but the Libby app saved us, and the kids loved listening to audiobooks (I am not an audiobook person, but it worked especially well for S, now 6, who wasn’t reading fluently yet but likes long and complex stories). It was a huge relief to return to our excellent public library, even if it meant leaving a land of free pediatric dental care, excellent public transit, and protected cycling infrastructure (waaaaaaahhh).

An incomplete list of books read this summer:

Shout, Laurie Halse Anderson. A memoir in prose from the acclaimed YA author. I read this mainly for the Danish parts – Anderson spent a year as an exchange student in rural Denmark, and speaks Danish. I was keen to see what she had to say about the country, and laughed when she described how tough her legs became from all the cycling (hard same, LHA). I am certain she can pronounce rødgrød med fløde better than I can.

Less, Andrew Sean Greer. After his younger lover marries another man, heartbroken novelist Arthur Less circumnavigates the globe, writing, lecturing, and attending literary events. The transliterated German in the Berlin section had me howling on a plane. Funny, hopeful, and warm with some admirable turns of phrase: “One person after another came up and said his mother was at peace. His mother’s friends: each with her own peculiar spiked or curled white hairdo, like a dahlia show.”

The Position, Meg Wolitzer. A group of adult siblings live with the enduring success of their now-divorced parents’ illustrated sex manual. Wolitzer’s interest in the family isn’t dissimilar to Jonathan Franzen’s, but she’s funnier, and more realistic and confident in the scope she attempts. (This isn’t to knock Franzen; I don’t dislike his novels, but prefer his essays, although….yeahhh.) I also read Sleepwalking, her first novel, which was juvenile as expected, but complete.

My Sister, the Serial Killer, Oyinkan Braithwaite. There’s sisterly love, and then there’s cleaning up your sister’s boyfriend’s murder scene. Worth it.

The Overstory, Richard Powers. There is probably a pun here, not seeing the forest, etc., but I’m too lazy to make it happen. Richard Powers wants you to care about trees. Indeed, it behooves all of us on this stifling planet to do so. The strongest portions of this book are about individuals and their love for specific trees; an environmentalist sit-in in the canopy of a giant redwood is a high point, as is the chronicling of the life of a lone, improbable American chestnut on a midwestern family farm. The more violent activism scenes, where the individual characters start to behave as a group, are saggier, and work less effectively. This is a novel that, for me, suffered from being read on a phone screen – it’s too sprawling to be contained on such a tiny, stupid device. Better to read it in a park with a maple throwing its keys at the page.

The Last Hours, Minette Walters. I’ve been trying to read more historical fiction lately, for secret reasons. Set in 14th-century England, The Last Hours recounts one demesne’s struggle to survive the plague. After her husband succumbs, Lady Anne, the clever, shrewd, beloved, literate, medicine-mixing, God-fearing, peasant-respecting, head of the household steers her serfs ably through disaster. I probably shouldn’t have finished this book, nor should I have ordered the second in the trilogy from the library. Lady Anne is a medieval Mary Sue, for which I have no patience. It’s not implausible that she has merits, but all of them?

Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Caroline Fraser. If you are an adult over whose childhood the Little House books exerted any influence at all, Fraser’s superb biography is worth reading (or, if you are me, borrowing from my library via the Libby app, failing to finish it within two weeks, and having to request it over and over again until completed. For god’s sake, get the paper copy). Fraser has done a huge service with this book. The volume of research she’s undertaken is staggering. Do we want to admit how much of these beloved stories is carefully constructed artifice? Probably not. Should we learn what really happened and try to accept it? A million times, yes. I’d known that Wilder’s daughter Rose had played a role in the publication of the series, but not the full extent of her codependence with Laura. It’s the stuff of an HBO miniseries.

Big Sky, Kate Atkinson. What a pleasure to return to private investigator Jackson Brodie’s world. I’ve read all Atkinson’s more recent literary – as opposed to detective, not that this distinction is terribly important – novels, of which Life After Life is the best, but she’s in her element with Jackson, keeping a whole sackful of knives up in the air and catching them with precision as they fall. The coming of Brexit hangs over Yorkshire like the fug of a coal furnace, but Jackson keeps ticking along, feeling his age in his knees, righting wrongs within his power and training his adolescent son to look, listen, and think. There is a sense that he can’t do this forever, and maybe Atkinson is reminding us that she can’t, either. But when it’s over, we’ll still have the music.

Spring, Ali Smith. I’ve so enjoyed Smith’s quartet – I always learn something that feels essential, and wonder how I’ve lived this long without knowing about, for example, Pauline Boty. In Spring, another chronicle of Brexit wounds, a child walks into an immigration detention facility and demands that changes be made. There are two ways to respond to disruption of the status quo: acceptance or rejection. That Smith shows us both is important, and also horrifying.

A Mind Spread Out on the Ground, Alicia Elliott. In the prairie town where I went to high school, there was a neighbourhood with housing mainly occupied by indigenous residents. It was far enough from the school that in the winter months, the walk was dangerously cold, so many students who lived there simply didn’t come to school much in the winter. I had lunch with my old principal (an old friend of my mother’s family) a few years ago. He told me that when he pushed the possibility of busing the students to school, the school board rejected it, pointing out that students from the other (whiter, wealthier) side of town didn’t have bus access either. Never mind that many of them owned their own cars, or were driven by their parents. If this seems problematic to you, read Alicia Elliott’s book, which pries open many aspects of the systemic racism that is considered perfectly normal by so many in this country.

Immigrant City, David Bezmozgis. I haven’t read Bezmozgis’ novels yet, but his stories are such a pleasure – like watching Simone Biles perform her floor routine, or Kipchoge run. His sentences never get in their own way. The assurance of his understatement carries him far enough that when the narrator of the title story leaves his young daughter in the care of perfect strangers while he purchases a secondhand car door he’s found on the internet, a beat passes before you go, “What?

May your fall reading not be on a screen!

Early spring reading

from the cemetery where Elizabeth Bowen is buried, 2012

I’ve begun to quit pumping for the baby. At nine months, it seems to make little difference to her what she’s drinking, not like in the early days when two consecutive bottles of formula would send her into a gas-fueled rage. Correspondingly, I’ve been reading more instead of watching TV on the internet to hurry the time along whilst connected to a machine. Mechanically expressing breastmilk is right up there with eye exams and jogging on my list of Things That Do Some Good But Are Nonetheless Exquisitely Uncomfortable. I will not miss it. I’m quitting slowly in an attempt to avoid a hormonal crash, and all of a sudden the days seem more expansive. This despite the fact that I flew solo with the two younger kids last week while A. and N. were gallivanting about Nova Scotia.

I would love to write expansively and individually about the books I’ve been reading with this new time, but for now, bits and pieces will have to suffice.

The Break, Katherena Vermette. So wonderful to read a book set in my birth city in a community about which I know very little. But so very sad. There is such a gulf in Manitoba between aboriginal communities and white ones, and so many shortsighted and plainly wrong ways of explaining privilege or the lack of it. (So many family dinners spent listening with great frustration to older relatives explain how “that’s just the way it is”.)

Dear Friend, From My Life I Write to You in Your Life, Yiyun Li. I’ve read both her novels and story collections over the past several years, and when I read the essay from this memoir that was excerpted in the New Yorker I knew I wanted to read the whole book. Li uses these meditations on fiction and literary biography to examine her two suicide attempts and her decision to write in English rather than Chinese. The essay on Elizabeth Bowen’s The Death of the Heart, in dialogue with which Li wrote her novel Kinder than Solitude, was especially interesting to me, as I read the former haltingly last fall and really wasn’t sure what to make of it. I think I understand it better now, though I still find her mining of the psyche intense, scraping brain matter down to the neurons. I remember listening to Li being interviewed by Michael Silverblatt on Bookworm a few years ago, and he was positively quivering with excitement, asking her if she had modeled the novel after Bowen’s, though they’re very different. Listen here.

Featherstone, Kirsty Gunn. I read her debut, Rain, last year, and found this one in at my local thrift for a dollar. Two and a half days in a (Scottish?) village unfold in detail after a former resident returns there. Probably should not have read this while sitting poolside at N’s swim lessons, trying not to hear the very loud swim mum discuss her work’s latest restructuring or her parents’ real estate woes, as it kind of killed Gunn’s expansive and really lovely language. Best description of the dawn I’ve ever read. Take that, Homer.

Annihilation, Jeff Vandermeer. Creepy, atmospheric, fun. I came to this after reading a review of Vandermeer’s new book, which I plan to get my hands on after I finish his Southern Reach trilogy. This is the first. I like the odd bit of sci-fi every now and then, and reading one by a man who can write convincingly in the voice of a female character (zero descriptions of women’s hair/eyes/skin tone/body shapes! Amazing!) was positively novel.

Lincoln in the Bardo, George Saunders. I’m not a Saunders completist by any means, but I probably should be. I can’t think of another writer who looks so lovingly and apologetically on the human condition, which is to say, imperfection. How we cling to things when we should let go; how this can be funny and tragic at the same time. Looking forward to my sister finishing this so we can talk about it.

Butcher’s Crossing, John Williams. Two years ago, someone recommended Williams’ Stoner to my husband, so I special-ordered it from my local bookshop for his birthday. When I told the cashiers the title, their heads whipped around, their eyes bugged out, and both men immediately began to rhapsodize about Williams’ greatness. Stoner is a beautiful book; Williams’ prose is unmatched. But it’s also the most thoroughly depressing academic novel ever written. I mean, wow. So I gave it some time before attempting this western, which was, like Stoner, incredibly cerebral. A young student from Boston named Will Andrews goes to Kansas in 1873. He funds an expedition for a buffalo hunt in the Colorado Rockies. Carnage ensues. This was a kind of interstitial western – not the pulpy or aggrandizing novels of yore, but also not Cormac McCarthy (who I think does more for the idea of the west than Williams does). Also, not Stoner. Sorry, husband.

Vignettes from a small island


A job ad is posted by a local organization. A job for which I am amply qualified. It’s half-time, walkable. The deadline is the next day. I prepare the documentation. I pause. Doubt fills the pause. If I don’t get the job, as has happened many times over the last seven years, I will be flattened. If I do get it, how will I manage with three children, one not yet a year old, and a spouse who has no fewer than three upcoming trips scheduled? Who would do childcare? How would I manage work-schoolbus-babyfood-bedtime-preschool-laundry-readingaloud-diapers-lunchboxes-hygiene plus childcare coordination? I will never have the luxury of taking a job without thinking of everyone else. The doubt boils over. I recycle the application. I resolve to return to the question in the autumn once two children are in school full-time and the baby has turned one.


Three men, friends from other places, stay with us for a few days during a conference. All are awed to some degree by my husband, whose credentials are impressive, who publishes productively, who is a committed vegan, who volunteers, who runs vast distances, who teaches a spin class for triathletes on the weekend for fun. “How does he do it all?” one wonders aloud. His dedication is strong, to be sure. But he has help. In general I stay home with the kids, plan the meals, cook the suppers, do the laundry, tabulate the budget, get up with the baby at night. Willingly, more or less; and he is not a hands-off parent, either. Across the years the labour has expanded to fill my time. In advance of the conference I cleaned the guest spaces of the house in fits and starts while caring for kids and it felt like an accomplishment. In my diary I wrote, “I never thought I would be the sort of woman for whom a vacuumed floor constituted an achievement.”


I stand behind my bench at weightlifting class, shivering slightly. The gymnasium echoes with the chitchat of the retirees who arrive twenty minutes early and take all the plum spots. Before she switches on the thumping warmup music the instructor explains the theme of the month’s workout: nothing changes if nothing changes. Together we clean and press our barbells and settle them onto the meat of our shoulders. We sink into deep squats, the burdens calculated deliberately. We want to put on enough weight that we risk failing to complete each set. This, we learn, is how to become stronger.

Everything but making things

It’s the most important thing in my life, making things. Much as I love my husband and my children, I love them only because I am the person who makes these things.

AS Byatt, interviewed in the Guardian, 2009


“You’re always getting ready for the next thing,” my sister remarked a few weeks ago after supper. I was enjoying ten minutes’ respite on the couch before embarking on my late-evening drudgery (literal bottle-washing, preparing night feedings, scouting lunchbox fillers in the fridge) after completing my early-evening drudgery (kitchen sorted, baby bottled, bedtime hugs dispensed). It’s true. There is always a Next Thing, and I like to be ready for it, even though this often comes at the expense of Other Things I’d rather be doing, hence the long silence here and the fact that so far I’ve read just six books this calendar year, two of which were slim volumes of poetry.

I finally replaced my computer that died a sudden death at the end of November, right around the time I was organizing Christmas, dealing with a child’s head lice, and losing out on a lucrative editing contract that would have paid for a new machine. I thought that buying a new one would cure the feedback loop of drudgery and turn me into someone who makes things again. But I find myself climbing into bed at night thinking of all the things I’d have liked to have done during the day, none of which I’ve had time to do.

I know that the time is coming, but it seems far away. Six months. In six months Mr. S will begin school, there will be no preschool fees, and I will hire a sitter for Baby L two or three mornings each week. It shouldn’t be hard to find one, and as she’s the chillest baby in the universe, I don’t think she’ll mind much. I will no longer be pumping milk five times each day. I’ll probably not be faced with a counter full of used bottles to scrub daily. There will still be supper (there will always be supper), laundry, deep breaths, but there will be space in each week for making.

Before then, forms of sustenance:

* The landscaper came back to us with a plan for our sad, bare-earth front garden. It is glorious. Come May, we will no longer have the ugliest yard on the block.

* I submitted a story to the CBC Story Prize this year (not for the first time), and I was proud of it. Its existence is all the more miraculous because I typed it out in fifteen minute bursts over the baby’s head as she slept on me in the sling. The word limit is paltry, so lots got cut, but not to the story’s detriment. I don’t really think I’ll be longlisted, but I look forward to seeing the longlist in April.

* Several good friends from different times and places in our married life will congregate under our roof in three weeks for a conference hosted by A’s department. Seeing everyone together will be a bit mind-bending, but in a good way.

* My birthday is approaching. Bring on the cake.

Linaria cannabina


Every night before I go to bed, I take a piece of paper I have divided into eighths and write down these headings: medication, pumping, feeds. In the course of the next twenty-four hours, I will write down the times of day when I administer or perform or offer each of these three things, because if I don’t, I will from one thing to the next forget what’s come before, and when. Life moves quickly, and I find it difficult to distinguish the tasks of one day from the tasks of the next. This makes things sound worse than they are. The baby is four months old. Things have levelled off. I could probably stop soon, but I’m not quite ready yet.

This time around, life is what I expected it to be, but also not. This is different from motherhood 1.0, where nothing was what I expected, and version 2.0, which exceeded my expectations pleasantly. Now, when the baby demands to eat hourly or condescends to nap exclusively on a person? Yep, seems about right, and I oblige mostly without weariness or resentment, knowing that this too shall pass, glad to have problems I understand.

Baby L. arrived seventeen days early in the middle of a warm July night, opting not to be a Leo after all. It was the first of my births where I can remember the midwife’s arrival. “Thanks for calling me early,” she said cheerfully, hanging her equipment on a clothes rack in the basement bedroom. Her backup nearly woke the older kids upon entering, and I wanted to hit her when she chirped, “You’re going to meet your baby so soon!” “I know,” I howled, enraged, between pushes. Then: there she was, the baby I’d had such trouble imagining, substantial on my chest, looking so like my others that I thought, Ah, it was you all along. We named her for a Mavis Gallant protagonist and our favourite of Canada’s Nobelists. In the morning her brother burst in to meet her, then her sister. We took a photo. In it, I am dishevelled but happy, bordering on smug.

We had a good first week. In the second week an innocent-looking birthmark, a narrow pink stripe running from her nostrils down into the skin of her upper lip, darkened alarmingly to claret, and a small black speck appeared on it. “What is this spot,” muttered the midwife, puzzled by the baby’s gain of only one ounce in a week. “You’re asking us?” we said, equally unsure. The spot grew bigger, bled, scabbed over, bled again. The baby stopped nursing, began to scream in pain when offered a bottle. We went to Emergency.

It is difficult not to take it personally when your two-week-old is afflicted with a tumour on her face. A benign tumour of infancy, thank goodness, etc. But still, there were moments during our brief hospital stay when, having had perhaps three hours of sleep in thirty, I thought of every terrible thing I’d ever done and felt very low. I am living in a future memory, I repeated to myself to keep afloat. It was not my fault – there is no discernible reason for hemangiomas to occur – but I looked down the dark hall inhabited by parents of sick children and thought, Please, what did I do, let it be me instead.

L. was put on medication normally reserved for infant cardiac patients, a drug which was serendipitously discovered to erase this sort of birthmark only eight years ago. I don’t like to think how she would have fared ten years ago, or fifty, or five hundred. But the wound, once open, kept growing. Whenever she brushed her face with her hands in the way newborns can’t help, it would bleed everywhere and she would cry miserably. We grimly adjusted to a new normal: medication, Tylenol for pain, antibiotic ointment, Vaseline, plus dealing with pumping and bottles, because she was in too much pain to breastfeed. A. would take her for a few hours in the evening so that I could sleep. I began to feel that we would survive the summer.

And then, a week later, A. came down with acute appendicitis and was abruptly hospitalized himself. He went straight from an exploratory doctor’s appointment to Emergency (where he ran into the paediatrician who’d admitted L., who exclaimed, “What are you doing back here?”). I found myself jiggling an irate baby in one arm, trying to place an online grocery order with the other, all while supervising the two older children, who ran endless circles of the downstairs shouting, “We’re in the Olympics!” Mercifully, this occurred while my sister was back in town on a break from her PhD fieldwork, and with her help I limped through those first days of A’s recovery, during which he could not lift the baby. Then she was off again, and we survived through the kindness of our friends and neighbours, who took the big kids and made us wonderful meals. I felt supported by community in a way that I haven’t before, and I was so grateful.

We were referred to a thoughtful specialist one hundred kilometres away who will oversee L.’s care until she is at least a year old. After seven long weeks on the medication, the wound closed; the stubborn mark remains, growing as she grows, but if all works as promised it will soon fade. There will be a scar. No longer in pain, L. has grown rapidly into a cheerful chubby baby, possibly my easiest, definitely the easiest child of the three as they are now with her simple, answerable demands.

I still feel the occasional pang that nursing has not worked out, as though I’ve lost a language, and the bottles leave me feeling as though I’m performing a kind of beneficent gavage. We tried, after the wound closed, to return to nursing, but L. had already forgotten how, and the effort made us both miserable. I wrote myself a note on my phone to refer to when attached to the pump at four in the morning. It says, You are doing your best. I have never had much self-compassion, but it occurs to me that I did not understood the necessity of it until now. It’s less a weapon than it is armour, and thus fortified, I go forward.