I’d never noticed pigeons before. I mean, I live in London, I see pigeons everywhere but I’d never really seen them, seen them. To me, they were just dull, grey dirty creatures, with seemingly no purpose or occupation. I’d actively walk away from them, rats with wings. I had no respect for them and nor did they have any for me.
But a day came when something changed.
I was 19 weeks; my baby was the size of a mango according to the apps. It was a Thursday when I was sent home from hospital with very little hope in my heart that my pregnancy would be successful. Less than a mere 15% chance of getting to the finish line. Wheeled through the corridors of women holding their new-borns, happily exhausted with drunken love in their eyes. The squawks of new cries filled my ears. Penetrated them deeply. I wondered if this would be the same journey I would make if my baby didn’t survive…would I have to endure those cries once more?
I’d experienced an early labour of sorts, that resulted in an emergency stitch to keep the baby from coming out. Sent home on strict bed rest “lying down is better than sitting, sitting is better than standing, and try not to walk”. My cervix was apparently ‘incompetent’. Having my intimate parts labelled incompetent left me feeling somehow incompetent myself, somewhat lacking. Like I’d done something wrong or failed my French exam and was now paying the price.
So, I lay down for nearly 5 months, which is about 19 weeks, 139 days…3336 hours. Only sitting to eat or standing when I had to go to the loo. I sat on a special plastic seat to shower. My hair, now almost down to my waist thanks to the hormones, was washed rarely but I longed for the days that I could. To feel the warm water on my head, running over my face. I made sure I washed my hair on the same day every week to mark we’d gotten through another- a mini celebration. But what I looked forward to the most on my shower days was taking off those awful socks the doctors made me wear because I wasn’t moving. I hated them, loathed them. A few moments where my restless legs could breath and feel free from those darned elastic bands.
Despite the news and the initial cries my husband was incredibly upbeat and determined to get the room I was about to spend almost half a year in set up. He brought the TV upstairs, created a snack and water corner, close enough I could reach and bought me a bed-desk so I could do a bit of work laying down. The room was definitely cosy and we just muddled on. I’m not sure how, but we did. Everything was on pause. Our social lives, our careers, the world we knew. The big world outside became a microcosm in comparison to what was happening in that room. And I watched daily how my husband, my friend, my lover became my carer, my nurse…but always my comfort.
In the early days people joked how in fact I was very lucky to have 5 months in bed- “think about all the reading you’d catch up on”. The thought crossed my mind, maybe I was lucky and I should use this time wisely, so I bought all the books I’d always wanted to read but never had gotten round to. But when the room was empty, the silence was deafening and all I could tune in on was whether or not the baby was moving. In those moments I didn’t feel that lucky and I couldn’t think of anything worse than reading. Instead, I took up colouring-in, taught myself to knit and watched all the crap box sets I vowed I never would.
The consoling messages and well wishes slowly quietened and the room became my sanctuary. The walls appeared cushioned and the light felt even brighter than it usually did. I’d wait eagerly for people to come and visit but when they did it felt like my bubble had been penetrated. I was being enveloped in my space, as if I was in my very own womb. I desperately wanted to see people and at the same time didn’t want to shake the equilibrium I’d created.
There were seldom occasions when I was wheeled out to see the doctor and the world felt loud, rushed and not like how I remembered it. I didn’t like it. I felt dirty, like I’d been sullied and couldn’t wait to get back. I got home, showered immediately, climbed back into bed where I could breathe. Safe again, yet panicked. I Googled whether it was possible to get a type of Stockholm Syndrome from never leaving your room. Google didn’t think so.
My muscles were clearly deteriorating, but no one seemingly wanted to help. Not until I got past 30 weeks. Instead I watched my body morph into something else. Something weaker and yet stronger at the same time. I wondered if I’d ever see the body I once knew again. The space I’d inhabited for all my being. I wished I’d taken photographs of it. I was never particularly fond of my body, in its physical form, I was always grateful for it but knew there were more beautiful versions out there. But now, I could hardly move, I was weak, tired and sore with a swelling belly and growing breasts; someone else was taking over. I missed my old body, my old self and owning that space. Now, I felt like nothing more than a mere bird, incubating her egg. Waiting for it to hatch.
So that’s how I spent most of that time. Watching rubbish TV, learning to knit cardigans that might never be worn and colouring-in, with the odd visitor, who was, for the most part, a breath of fresh air.
I’m not sure when exactly it happened, which day, which moment, but there was a day when suddenly I noticed the pigeons on the balcony. At first it seemed random, just a flurry of birds settling for a moment and then off they went. But, after a few weeks and my routine was firmly in place I started to really notice them. It was the same 2 pigeons that would come, every day, at the same time on the dot, and without fail.
Did these dirty creatures, I’d often shoo away, actually have a routine and how did I never notice this before?
There was a smaller one with slightly lighter grey feathers to the larger one. They’d arrive on the edge of the balcony and immediately start pecking each other like they’d discovered a private corner of a nightclub and couldn’t keep their hands off one another. What I hadn’t previously appreciated was that pigeons mate for life. And these guys were definitely together. They were always with each other, every day, kissing. They never stopped kissing. Then, occasionally a much scrawnier looking pigeon with a less defined rainbow collar would try muscle in on the action, but never quite succeeded. These creatures I’d previously seen as dirty and to be avoided became beautiful to me. I began to understand their routine and I waited for them. Seeing them so happy and seemingly in love became my joy. They gave me hope, so much hope.
I vowed to myself that if everything went to plan I would find a way to name him after those pigeons that visited me everyday. In those lonely hours they were my companions, my friends and I really began to love them.
26 weeks came and went and the doctors were “cautiously optimistic”, then 28, then 30 until I reached my limit and at a miraculous 39 weeks I was induced and gave birth to my precious, healthy son. No one could believe I’d reached 39 weeks, and certainly not me. Let’s not forget the irony that I was induced!
When he came out, the space he’d occupied for so long now felt empty. I hadn’t realised how full I was when he was inside. It was all so uncomfortable and worrying I hadn’t stopped to appreciate how safe he was in there. How safe I was in my room. Now he was out and I was out. I’d hatched him and he had somehow hatched me. I was not the person I once was…I’d had a kind of re-birthing I guess. I was a mother.
We stripped the room of pregnancy paraphernalia. I threw away all the socks, all of them. We took out the TV and replaced it with a cot next to me. It was practically glued to the bed but it didn’t feel close enough.
Despite returning to the same room, the same space…it felt different. It wasn’t mine anymore. It had become ours.
I never saw the pigeons again, I occasionally looked out for them but among the business of figuring out how to breastfeed I’d forgotten their routine.
But, I thought about them a lot. How comforting they were. How I’d mused that maybe one might be my late mother coming to visit. How their routine helped me get through mine. I tried to explain their comfort to others and people would look at me quizzically, yes, like I was mad. I guess it was a bond only I would be able to appreciate. So I stopped trying to explain.
I did however manage to get those charming souls in my son’s middle name, so I’d never truly forget that time and what those pigeons meant to me. I called him Avery, ‘Aves’ being the Latin for bird. And I’ve never explained why I was so desperate to have that in his name.
Not until now.
