The Upside of Down by Susan Biggar Read Free Book Online Page B

to pick my way slowly down the steep hill from our house—on skates—while grappling with the pram, I decide to walk down sock-footed before setting off.
    Once en route, we love it. Okay, at several months of age Aidan doesn’t say much but I take his silence as tacit assent. Skating through the streets with the brisk wind whipping my shirt and hair into a frenzy is liberating. It’s total escapism from dishes, mouldy grout, piles of tiny soiled clothes and the weight of worry. Exercise, especially outdoors, quickly becomes crucial for me, where I search for hope and help. As we break out to the coast road, the sea is smashing heavily into the rocks, sprinkling us as I propel the pram forward. Push glide pray, push glide pray, push glide pray .
    Occasionally we stop at the Brass Monkey, a cosy shack of a cafe which sits on a curve of the coastline, facing the open sea. It is always snug and serves comforting staples like clam chowder with homemade brown bread and mugs of hot lemon, honey and ginger. I gape across at the water, sometimes tranquil, other times raging, cuddling my cherished little boy tightly on my lap. These are good days.
    One morning we leave the skates behind and head into town to meet Darryl for lunch. Aidan’s in the pram as we walk up to Darryl’s office; although now about three months old, he’s still very small. In fact, he looks something like a cross between a baby and a pinto bean.
    â€˜Oh, hello. How are you, Susan?’
    I turn to see a couple I know only vaguely, the wife is a colleague of Darryl’s. They were aware I was pregnant, but haven’t heard that our baby was born prematurely. Or that he has been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis.
    We plough through the standard see-saw of new baby chit-chat.
    â€˜How was the birth?’ Are you getting any sleep? And finally it comes, the question that opens the door, the one I’m half wishing for and half dreading: ‘So, he is totally fine now?’
    I pause momentarily, wondering about the question, which was asked in an assume-the-positive manner: ‘He is fine, isn’t he?’ Not sure what to make of that—and not yet practiced at reading social clues about illness—I plunge in.
    â€˜Actually Aidan has cystic fibrosis, a genetic condition which means …’ Mistake! Reverse! But, of course, I can’t. The words are out and the couple appears to have been stricken by a severe attack of social awkwardness. In unison they begin an odd chorus of shifting their weight, shuffling their feet and glancing at their watches. Clearly there are other things they would rather be doing, like having major dental work. I quickly wind up the conversation and hurry away to find Darryl.
    â€˜I feel totally humiliated,’ I tell him after dishing out all the details of the encounter.
    â€˜Why? It’s their problem if they can’t handle talking about this.’
    â€˜I don’t know … I just don’t understand what happened. Is illness one of those ultra-personal issues, like sex and salaries, which aren’t meant to be discussed?’
    â€˜Maybe it’s just them. They might be expecting a baby and are panicked that it could have an undetected genetic condition.’
    â€˜Yeah, so faulty genes aren’t contagious—speaking to me isn’t going to increase their odds of getting some mixed-up ones.’
    Whatever their problem, it’s clear I need to develop a barometer for judging with whom, when and where to talk about Aidan’s health. This feels particularly important as I know so few people and am still finding my feet in a new country. I also want to learn to communicate a true picture of the reality of our lives. For example, I am regularly characterised by other parents as some kind of Wonder Mum: doling out pills, dealing with doctors and living with a dodgy future.
    â€˜I could never do what you do,’ they tell me.
    Really? What