Tanya Sweeney: Motherhood has made me feel very, very alive

I saw a tweet recently that’s best described as “thumb-stopping”. “You don’t get Michelangelo’s Pietà until you have a child, and then you can’t bear to look at it,” someone offered. Not sure the non-mum Michelangelo would agree with that, but anyway. This is a belief that crops up every so often; this idea that people (specifically, women) who have birthed children have feelings, not to mention a reserve of compassion and empathy, that run deeper than those who never had children.

As a counterargument to this very idea, my friend Anna Carey recently tweeted: “Every time I read someone saying that being a mother makes them more compassionate and empathetic than women who aren’t mothers, I remember that on this basis they think Margaret Thatcher and Rose West were more compassionate than Dolly Parton and judge their views accordingly.”

I’m not sure that becoming a parent sends anyone to a higher plane of emotional literacy, and yet I’ve noticed something. Motherhood has made me feel very, very alive. Which also means I remember more often how close we can sometimes be to death. I have a new thing that’s my greatest fear – that of losing my child – and it colours everything. Read a news story about a family tragedy, and it hits you in the gut, in a sickeningly raw place. It could be that I was just an uncaring a**hole previously, but the tragedy within other families lands in a different way now.

When I became a mum, I joined a number of secret/closed parenting groups on Facebook. The sort of spot where you can ask about washing nappies or weird rashes. But through these groups, I have seen more loss and grief and death at close range than ever.

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More recently, I was scrolling through the “discover” feature on Instagram (a part of the site that shows you accounts that you may not follow, but could be interested in). I see a lot of babies on this feed for some reason, owing, I think, to being a member of these closed groups on Facebook.

As I scrolled and scrolled, an image of a child caught my eye. I took a closer look and it felt like the corners of my body were flooded with cold water. The child was two and a half, and had been diagnosed with Neuroblastoma. I usually hate the vocabulary that goes along with cancer – battles, winning, and so on – but by God, there was fight in those photos. There was pain and there was confusion and there was a warrior. I cried as I watched videos of this beautiful toddler wordlessly take her medication. I watched a video as her head was shaved while she watched Hey Duggee. For a parent, it is an unspeakably cruel world of hospital visits and treatment and trying, trying, trying to make a sick child comfortable.

What in the name of God was I doing, being a voyeur of what is clearly the most awful tragedy to befall this family? But I realised that I'm not alone.

I couldn’t stop thinking of this family for days. A week later, the child’s parents announced that she had died. They posted an image of her from the previous Easter; she was healthy and happy and looked like any child her age. This Easter egg hunt was to be her last, unbeknownst to anyone. I thought of how we all have those pictures of our kids, stored on our phone, and for a few parents, they become the most treasured and precious photos of all.

In that moment, I was more furious with cancer than I ever was when it took members of my own immediate family. The unfairness of it all was scorching. I saw a little of my own two-year-old in those images; in the pink pyjamas, in her small puffy toes and the soft swell of her tummy. For a minute I tried to imagine that kind of loss. I would stand with my face towards it, then recoil. I am certain I could never, would never, withstand it. I cried and cried over a child, mother and father I’d never met, and never will.

Strength from others

And then, I was a bit disgusted with myself. This seemed like such a private, intimate moment to bear witness to. What in the name of God was I doing, being a voyeur of what is clearly the most awful tragedy to befall this family? But I realised that I’m not alone. This Instagram account has 60,000 followers. In sharing this journey, this family are gathering solidarity and strength from others; mostly those who have been there, but occasionally those who haven’t. So many people all over the world are holding this family in their heart. Whether it’s a comfort for them, I cannot say.

That afternoon, I cuddled my child, feeling pathetically, guiltily grateful that she is here and she is healthy, for now. I can’t shake the idea that on this Earth, we are merely the playthings of the fates. They can do what they please with us. And that’s the most terrifying realisation of all.