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Sunday Morning

Written during my late daughter’s lifetime :



Shall we arise late this next Sunday morning

In the time-honoured way parents do?

Shall we lie snug and warm in our big double bed

Half-listening the sound of your hesitant tread

And the peep round the door of your golden-curled head

Before clambering in with us too?


Shall we go down to egg-dipped toast soldiers

Your small hand in mine down the stairs?

To a kitchen alive with your three-year-old patter,

To a garden a-song with the birds’ chirp and chatter,

In the lull before lawnmowers grumble and clatter

At the on-set of Sunday’s affairs?


I would it were so

But it can’t be, I know

For my darling knows nothing

of Sundays.


Mum will carry you downstairs as usual

In the small hours that are still part of night,

Knowing we face yet another long day

Of hoping the food that you’ve taken will stay

That you’ll grow that bit stronger, keep infection at bay,

In this wearying round of life’s fight.


For my darling’s not like other children,

Almost lost to us once without warning,

Cannot walk, cannot talk can’t our Treasure,

And Fate stole her sight for good measure,

Yet no-one will know greater pleasure

Than we, when she smiles, Sunday morning.

Life, death, handicap and suffering.

There are those who have read about a little boy whose parents have sought desperately to keep him alive, those who have read of a little girl whose mum’s hope is that she may soon pass painlessly and with a dignity too easily denied.

Those of us who have lived with profoundly, heroically handicapped children have a tendency to keep quiet. There are things you don’t want to know. If, however, you are going to form an opinion, make a  comment, perhaps you should know. And after keeping pretty quiet for a quarter of a century, I’m setting out to try to deliver some truth.

Little Matters of Life and Death.

Think of the worst crime that you can imagine. Take some time about it – it needs to be a truly awful crime. Then think about what you would do to the perpetrator of that crime if you had the power.

How about this: you would lock them up, in solitary confinement, the only voices they would hear would be those of their guards and their guards would be chosen specifically because they did not speak the perpetrator’s language, so that whatever words our perpetrator heard would be completely unintelligible. He must also spend the rest of his life blindfold and have all his limbs pinioned so that he can do nothing whatever for himself.

Sometimes during his incarceration someone will come in, say something unintelligible to him and then either give him a hug, stroke his face or his hands, apply a hot iron, a sharp blade, a crushing weight or some other instrument of torture to some exposed part of his body. He is not to know why this is happening, or when, or for how long – once it begins – it will last. It is important that neither pleasure nor pain make any sense.

He must live in a world of total silence, save for those occasional meaningless voices, and must not be allowed to read, to listen to music or anything vaguely resembling music, nor to watch TV. Neither is our perpetrator allowed to taste food. A tube is inserted into his body so that the food is transmitted directly, without taste or texture.

The sentence, by the way, is for the rest of the perpetrator’s natural life. There is no escape until death.

Barbaric, is it not? For what crime would you punish someone in such a way? But there are people who ‘live’ like this. They are the profoundly, heroically handicapped, who have committed no crime at all.

Like our putative prisoner, they may smile, occasionally, if they come to associate a particular voice with a consequent pleasure, the little petting, the hug, but they do not know what these things mean.

They do not have language. They have no words for what they feel or for what they fear, for what they enjoy or for what they suffer. They have only incomprehension. They ‘live’. They breathe, they receive food, urinate, defecate, they have some sense of physical comfort, a frightening sense of physical discomfort – frightening because they do not understand where it comes from, what is happening, whether it will end or go on forever.

How do I know this? Because this was my daughter’s life for the four and a half years of her existence.

Is it possible to explain how deeply, or even why, I loved my little girl so much? Perhaps not.

There is, of course, something awesome in seeing a child born, in holding him or her in your arms, knowing she is yours. You know that she is and always will be a part of you (at least, this is true in most cases, but there are, of course, parents who are not loving parents, much as we would like to think otherwise).

There is no feeling in the world like holding your own child to your breast, seeing those preposterously tiny manifestations of his or her humanity – genitals, eyelashes, fingers and fingernails, toes – and carrying in part of your brain the story that is just beginning and which, in normal circumstances, will be part of your life forever.

That story is based on expectation and a rather casual faith that – for you – things will happen as they have happened for the vast majority; seeing first steps, hearing first vocalisation, first words, seeing first smiles, hearing first laughter, hearing a voice develop from that of the child to that of an adult, experiencing the everyday and ordinary with that child, taking them to nursery and to school, answering their persistent questions, helping them choose their educational and ethical/moral pathways, sharing birthdays and feast days, holidays, sharing jokes, choosing birthday and Christmas gifts and cards, collecting the photographs and memories that one day you will cherish as your child moves on to the life of their own with others of their own choosing. Prom. Graduation. Marriage. Occasional heartaches through which both of you grow.

But for some of us that story cannot be told.

Jenny would never take first steps. Indeed, Jenny would never have the capacity to so much as roll her body over or begin to crawl. She would never sit up, except when the specialists designed a padded, hinged steel frame that could hold her in that position. Nor did that sitting position mean anything to her. Almost nothing meant anything to her.

She did not – could not – reach out and/or grasp. Blind, she saw nothing, understood nothing, to grasp at. She comprehended neither the sound of toys or devices nor their textures, would flinch at the gentlest, most loving touch to her face.

She could never walk, would never walk, never talk, never run. She laughed once, in early days, but that lasted just the one occasion, and when tears came to her eyes or she vocalized they were rarely anything but the expression of uncomprehending pain.

There was this, and you should perhaps ask yourself what it means that this is among the best memories; the damage to her brain was such that immediately after an episode of pain came to an end – the very instant, that is, that it came to an end – she appeared to forget all about it. She showed no sign of living in dread.

Best memory of all? She knew when she was in her daddy’s arms and would giggle and chuckle often when he bounced her in them.

But that is a small memory made huge by its disparity from the norm. Sitting by her bed on any one of her many stays in hospital and seeing in her no sign of recognition that we were there? That is a bigger memory, and a painful one.

“It’s all going to be alright, my darling. Mummy and daddy love you and will do everything they can to make you happy.” When those words are meaningless to the one who is intended to receive them, when you cannot tell them that the pain they are experiencing will pass, that becomes a big memory and a painful one.

It is not going to be alright. Ever.

You cannot kiss this better. You cannot love this better. And the knowledge that this is so tears you up inside such that you will feel the pain within you even decades later.

In spite of everything you do as a parent, this child will suffer. That you will suffer is a given, but it does not – to most of us – matter. What does matter is the sentence that such a child is serving and the question as to whether, when that suffering is at its worst, it would be the most human and humane action to allow that suffering to end. Even to enable it to end.

Even as a I write this, my mind baulks at it. I cannot crush an invasive ant or swat a fly without some sense of remorse. I believe, however, that we have to think about it, to face with courage one of the most difficult concepts there is to face.

Nor is the ‘sentence’ I described earlier the whole of the picture. To paint that whole picture would probably require a book, because it would require me to detail the myriad ways in which we and our society fail handicapped and profoundly handicapped children and their families.

We humans are not as virtuous, not as highly-developed, as highly-evolved or as compassionate as we like to imagine ourselves to be. At some time, we will have to face up to that reality. It will hurt, but it seems to me unfair that we should seek to avoid that hurt when our doing so continues, ferociously, to hurt so many of our children and their carers.


Richard M Thompson

25 July 2017

Father’s Day



First draft, while the spirit moves.

Father’s Day.

How did you stop being mine, dad?

How did you walk out the door?

Did I see you do it, dad?

I can’t remember anymore.

Time’s passed.

I know only that you left, dad,

When I was some ten years old

And I’d have given anything to keep you, dad,

I’d have promised to be good as gold.

But the chance passed.

I know my mother was a pain, dad,

She remained a pain to me,

But I, the child, could not escape,

Couldn’t walk out the door and go free,

Til her death freed me at last.

I had to listen to her words, dad,

Had to learn how she blamed me,

For she’d sent you away, she would often say,

Because you didn’t love me

As you should.

No vitriol with that assertion,

Though she had enough and to spare,

And some of it you might have spared me,

If only you’d been there.

But you weren’t.

What kind of bad must I have been, dad,

That you could not love your first born?

And being so bad as I must have been

What wonder that God had foresworn

To love me?

I believed then, as a child believes,

And I grieved then, as a child alone grieves,

My path obscured by autumn leaves

Whate’er the season.

A darkness in me.

Half a century ago you disappeared,

Vanished, it transpires, in sunnier climes,

Had another son, a daughter too,

And, no doubt, some lovely times,

But I did not.

For half a century I missed you,

Felt an aching absence in my heart,

Missed your words, your looks, your thoughts,

And it broke me apart


Believing in no God, no Heaven,

I know we will not meet again,

That the man who died three thousand miles away

Has left me, till my death day, in the grip of pain


One conviction only, did you – in leaving – leave me,

Which is that it’s okay to not stay,

That it’s okay when you are under pressure

Simply to walk away,

And I have tried.

The night that others dread

Is naught but peace to me,

The silent darkness of the dead,

Offers naught but ease to me.

Yet I can’t get there.

Too many depend

For me to seek the easy end,

And all my life I now must spend

Missing you.

Why did you leave me, daddy?

A black dog rant on anger and on parenting.

black dog

Black Dog, first draft.

Working on a picture of my ‘friend’. He seems to hang around a lot.

Angry, again.

Sick to death of being patronized by insulting television adverts. Sick to death of people shouting (metaphorically) at me on social media, “Buy my book!” “Buy my product!” “Stay at home mom in (insert own locale) earns thousands. Click to see how you could too!”

Sick to death of being showered with shit.

Sick to death of other people’s anger. Of the immigrant-hater, the Muslim-hater, the woman-hater, the gay-hater, the anyone-who-isn’t-me-hater. Sick to death of bible-bashers and Qur’an-quoters.

Sick to death that I can’t just hate them all in my turn. But I can’t. I hate what they do, but can’t hate those who do them. Yet it would make things so much easier. A black dog that bites would be easier to live with than a black dog who simply colors all one’s vision.

Sick to death of fetishized motherhood.

My mother wasn’t a good mother. There, I’ve said it. Not that she didn’t try – I don’t doubt she did. At bottom, though, she was herself too damaged. And the motherhood fetish did its part.

What mattered was not what was actually happening, but how it appeared to the rest of the world. What mattered was not succeeding in being a ‘good’ mother, but in never being perceived by others as a bad one. Whatever might happen she was not to blame. Someone else had to be.

My father did not leave her because she was psychologically damaged. My father did not leave her because he could not provide materially all that she wanted to ‘have’ materially in order to be seen as succeeding. No. He left, she said, because I was born a boy and he wanted a girl.

Succeed and she would praise you, modestly and always as if your success surprised her. Succeed and she would talk up your success, anywhere and everywhere, because your success was hers, your glory – however limited – was something to be reflected in. Be seen to fail – in any way – and she would eviscerate you with her tongue. Be seen to fail her in the eyes of any of the succession of would-be-Mister-Rights who followed after her husband and you would know, in that instant, that for that she hated you.

Never raised a hand to me. Did not have to. She could twist shame and guilt into too many deadly forms to need another weapon.

When my own first child arrived I at least knew how not to be, though more would be demanded of me than was ever demanded of her. My first born was what in older times they called a ‘basket case’. She would never walk, never talk, never so much as crawl or sit up on her own, never feed herself, never grow out of diapers, would never even see my face. I was the only one for whom she smiled though. And I fed her, nursed her, carried her everywhere and loved her as I had never loved any other being.

At the last it was my arms she died in, not her mother’s. Her mother knew it was right that my arms should deliver and feel the last goodbye.

My daughter’s full-time carer, I became her brother’s, my son’s, also. The same terror of appearing a failure to the world which had so informed my mother’s life ate at the soul of my first wife and overwhelmed her. Increasingly erratic, she left and divorced me before her brain gave way and spiraled into insanity.

Of course, no-one was watching me, judging me, as they would have done had I been a ‘mother’. Had I messed up it would only have been what people expected because ‘fathers don’t do this kind of stuff, do they?’ Being a father ‘mother’ was different, despite that the chores and the heartaches were much the same. I had, in that respect, an easier ride than a lot of mothers have.

It should not be so. Being a good parent is hard. Being a bad parent is too damned easy. And being a good parent in an increasingly materialistic and imbalanced world gets harder, in my view, year on year.

Only a fool would drive a car on a busy highway without ever having had a lesson, and even a fool would not find it too hard – I hope – to tell someone, ‘I’m afraid that I may not be very good at this’ and look for help and support. But in parenting it is assumed that everyone has a basic, natural skill set, that bad parents are features of the occasional news article and drama, and that a parent who asks for help or advice is somehow a failure.

It should not be so.