Not My Baby

I am childless, not by choice. Circumstance and cancer deprived me of the opportunity to become a parent. I’ve the greatest admiration for those who manage to parent alone, just as I was contemplating that course I was diagnosed with cancer and the landscape shifted. My mum, one of the wisest people I have ever known, told me “you’ll be a mum to someone”. And I have, I think, to many; definitely to one, my beautiful friend Katey called me her “second mum”. A role I loved. Still not quite a mum though, and I get that – even if other people’s stories, especially on social media, didn’t bombard me with “the most important role anyone will ever have”, even if I didn’t empathise with the difficulties faced by my friends who are parents; I know that being a mum would have been so much harder and so much more rewarding than anything I have faced.

I have a dog, a beautiful and very poorly German Shepherd bitch called Zahra, who is almost four. Prior to getting Zahra I had another German Shepherd bitch, she died at 2 years old from the same illness, epilepsy; she died in status epilepticus. One of the most difficult situations I have ever had to face. If you haven’t carried a five stone fitting dog to your car, driven 45 minutes to an emergency vet, had your pup sedated overnight and made the heart-breaking decision to have her put to sleep the next day; you probably don’t fully get the horror. That’s fine. That’s my story, not yours. When that dog takes up a big space in your heart, in the way that only dogs can – selfless, loving, funny, oxytocin generators that they are; it’s a difficult loss at any age and more brutal when it’s a two-year-old who didn’t get all the care she should have. Facing the same disease with another oxytocin generator is hard, but at the same time it’s not like losing a child. Facing illness with her is not like the illness of a child – for a start no one would mind if my husband and I left our dog home alone (something we have never done).

I have called her my baby, I have allowed others to tell me “She’s your baby” but as I sit in this moment, where we are facing the challenge of balancing control of the epilepsy and side-effects of treatment; I realise she’s not my baby and it made me wonder why we say that. I think this has application and learning beyond my current situation. I think one reason people say “she’s your baby” is an attempt to understand my life through their lens, a common misconception of empathy. This is not empathy. Empathy is seeing the situation through that person’s lens, not your own. She’s not my baby. My baby/babies are the souls I never got to meet; they’re an ache I have learned to live with, a sore spot in my heart that bleeds every time someone complains about parenthood (and yes, I do move from that and apply my empathy to see their life from their lens not mine). The rest of my lens includes a perspective from my dad and grandfather who were farmers, dogs were very much working resources of the farm, not family pets and a million miles from being their baby. That’s not to say they didn’t love them, respect them, and take excellent care of them. But when my second dog became ill, a thought I had (frequently have) of “I wish I could talk to dad about this” (he died 19 years ago) was quickly followed by “no I don’t”. I know my dad would not be spending £250 a month on medication; he wouldn’t be getting up at 1am, delivering emergency medication through three grand mals back-to-back and driving to the emergency vet. That was his lens. Mine: she never asked to be born; I am so very glad that she came to us; I love her cheeky personality, her intelligence and charm and the way she loves everyone she meets; I am incredibly grateful that I could adjust to part time working (with my 40% pay cut) to give me time to support her and to support my husband to support her; I am super grateful that my husband is retired and (more importantly) that he copes so well with the seizures and takes such good care of her; I am grateful for my own curiosity to understand the situation as best I can, and for my intelligence and organisational skills that provide me with the capability to manage her five times a day medication regime, and to manage all other aspects of her care through an epilepsy lens; I am grateful that we don’t mind the 5:30am start, EVERY DAY, and the no holidays, never having an outing together (NEVER, not just `no nights out’ but we can’t even go and choose a carpet); and most of all I am grateful for every day we make these small sacrifices to see her cheeky face and wagging tail; and she’s a dog, a family pet, part of our family – arguably the kindest and most emotionally sound member of the family; but nonetheless a dog.

I appreciate it’s short-hand but she’s not my baby.