Getting Ready to Fall, Part 2

A Better Woman
by Susan Johnson

(Page 2 of 2)

Meanwhile, my body had its own plans. All the while I was trying to compose a mature intellectual and rational framework in which to answer the question of whether or not to have a child, my body believed it already had the solution. I felt like a fruit ready to burst, ripe with longing: I was pure sensation, physical craving, tangible as hunger or thirst. My body was yearning to be taken over, filled up, my blood longed to feed a living thing not itself.

No matter how hard I tried to think about the effect a child would have on my life and work (and I believed very seriously in Cyril Connolly's dictum that 'the pram in the hall' was chief among the enemies of promise) I could not calm the clamouring in my veins.

I thought of all the woman writers throughout history who had not had children, and it seemed to me that childless woman writers vastly outnumbered those with children. I did not know if having a child would mean the end of my creative life, if a single, irreversible act of physical creation would imperil my inner creative self. My writing was myself, my writing had made me and I did not know who I would be without it.

I remembered too how I had believed for a long time that having a child meant the end of your active life, shutting forever the door to adventure, to daring, to chance.

I knew without doubt that children were messy, noisy, sometimes boring, that they ate up your time, your energy, your very core and yet... and yet ... I wanted one. I wanted something difficult and all-consuming, something powerful and obliterating, some experience of life I could not walk away from.

In short, I wanted to feel the weight of life. It seemed to me that I had always floated above life, above commitment, above responsibility, that I had somehow failed to enmesh myself in the fabric of living. As Doris Lessing wrote of herself in her autobiography, in words that also happened to fit me, I had 'rejected the human condition, which is to be trapped by circumstances'.

And, as if all this wanting wasn't enough, I also wanted the right man to make my imaginary baby with. I wanted love with which to knit our child, soft kisses and warm skin to make his bones. I wanted a baby to grow from the strength and wrap of my lover's arms, an organic offshoot of happiness.

Of course I see now that all this wanting, such a terrible blind urge to be pregnant and loved, carried with it the seeds of disaster as well as of redemption. In a novel by Diane Johnson, a character is described as being 'one of those people whose lives progress like one of those charts of heart attack, serrated peaks and valleys like shark's teeth'.

My life is like that: I got my baby made out of tenderness and a peak higher than clouds, but I also got a husband who feels he did not get as much choice about a baby as he should have. I got my baby knitted with love but I also got a badly broken body and a valley far, far from light.

When I married my first husband on a rainy day in London, my lips trembled. I had starved myself the month before and had practised saying the registry office words over and over. I thought they would halt in my mouth on the day, but they came out entirely whole.

Afterwards we went to a swank London hotel with my best friend Emma's aunt and cousins. Emma's aunt, a psychotherapist, had already tried to warn me off marrying someone I had known only three months but I wanted love to split me open and I heard nothing but the roar of want in my ears.

I had already had a bad falling out with another friend in Australia who had written to suggest that we have the honeymoon without getting married. How dare you? I wrote back. Have I ever told you how to run your life?

I was so convinced I was doing the right thing I would have killed anyone who had tried to stop me. All my instincts were telling me it was right, every nerve and muscle and fibre in my body screamed out that my husband was going to be my husband for the rest of my life.

In Hong Kong six months later a voice inside me tried to announce I had been wrong. I immediately stilled it, but I was flooded with shame, horrified by what was to come.

If my own instincts were so wrong, how could I trust anything again? You can see, can't you, how willing I have been to risk everything, to believe in the one, shining redemptive act. My friend Emma once said she admired above all my ability to take risks, but if daring to leave the safe world of nice, responsible men, of full-time work, the world of sick pay, holiday pay and mortgages had led me to the charm of a tiny rented flat in Paris, holidays in friends' houses in Corsica, whirlwind romances with unsuitable men and a writing life which I mostly loved, it had also led me to broken relationships and relative poverty (those old peaks and valleys). Many times (and more recently than I care to remember) I literally had only a few dollars to my name and I questioned the wisdom of leaping.

I think in many ways I have been an impulsive child, oblivious as any three year old playing catch by the road, heedless of the speeding traffic in her ecstatic dash for the ball.

My first husband and I had quickly spoken of babies. We had identically crooked eyeteeth and the very first night we had dinner together in Paris we joked that so would our children.

I was thirty-two then, and in reality children seemed to me a long way off. In reality I suffered a kind of psychic terror every time I thought seriously of children. It seemed to me that whatever I was made of was not strong enough to bear it, either physically or emotionally.

I was not yet ready either to relinquish the stage, to gladly pass the torch to those coming up from behind. If secretly I felt I could not yet handle the responsibility of children, I also felt a mean-spirited urge to keep hogging the light. My life was still unfurling, I was still having trouble imagining myself fully grown, let alone imagining someone else's growing.

In short, as I'm sure you will agree, I was remarkably self-centred, emotionally stranded somewhere around adolescence. Is it any wonder that my marriage began to fall apart around my head, that my husband and I began to squabble like the children we were?

Some readers (and the occasional friend) think of my novels as my life served up re-heated, but I know my actual life is not shaped like fiction at all. My books are my means of ordering the world to attention: in real life husbands never go in the direction I want them to go and I can never see well enough in the dark.

At some point after I left my husband I slunk back to Australia. If I had been able I would have told no-one of my return and never set foot outside the door, so total was my sense of humiliation. For the first time in my life I felt that I was fundamentally broken and might never heal, that whatever old tricks I had used before to get myself to stand up again were no longer of any use.

Amazingly, I kept writing the novel about hope while all hope inside me was extinguished. While I felt my old self to be effectively dead I kept doggedly writing about a boy whose hopeful innocence saved him.

At some point I went back to Paris again and took up with the Italian-American lover who tried to convince me I was not dead. I believe his own grief was attracted to mine and that he thought he could save me.

I no longer remember the exact steps I took in my growing-up journey. I know only that it had something to do with the collapse of my first marriage and the great jolt that gave me, along with the kindness of my Italian-American lover, even though I subsequently learned that he loved me best when I was grief-stricken and far away, and that when I turned my face towards him he grew afraid.

It had to do, too, with long nights by myself where I stared down my own aloneness and dared imagine that I might be growing old. Somehow I began to feel that I had passed through barren land to end up in a place where I was comfortable enough to invite other people (even a baby) in.

By the time I met in London the Australian man who was to become my second husband, I felt both larger and smaller, calmer and certainly humbler. I no longer saw my life as an endless vista opening eternally before me.

A woman friend of roughly the same age as me had died of AIDS contracted through heterosexual sex, and I had gone through a crazy time of projecting my inner fears onto something outer, even convincing myself at one stage that I too had contracted AIDS, no matter how impossible, no matter how many tests I had which proved otherwise, no matter that a small rational part of me knew all along that I was being wildly irrational. Yet somehow I managed to come out the other side, finally able to experience myself as a fully-grown, middle-aged woman.

By the time I met my second husband I was ready for a baby and, just before I turned thirty-eight, several months after we were married, my body finally got its reward.

In no pregnancy book I read then or since was there a description of what was about to happen to my body. If my body had been impatient for metamorphosis, it was about to undergo its greatest crisis, in a catastrophic change more akin to decay than to fruition.

If I had known then what giving birth was to cost me, would I have ever dared to fall pregnant?

Yes, yes. A thousand times, yes.

Even now, remembering all the pain and suffering I have lived through, I would go through it all again. Even now, knowing that the freakish outcome of Caspar's birth was to make me feel like a freak all over again, I have never once wished him away. Every day I count myself lucky to have him.

I have felt the full weight of life upon me.

Copyright © 1999 by Susan Johnson

About the Author

Susan Johnson, an internationally acclaimed author, has written four novels, including Hungry Ghosts. She lives in London with her husband and two sons.