Omega Francis

This story was read on April 27th, 2024 at the Bocas Lit Fest Open Mic “Stand and Deliver”.

I uploaded the actual reading to my Youtube page here: Heartbeat Bocas Lit Fest Reading

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I want them to no longer call my name, no longer tug at my skirts to ask me a thing. ‘Mummy I need…”, “Honey, can you find…”, “Mummy, please…!”. Always, always being needed. I want to no longer be needed. I want to be able to open my eyes every morning and decide what the day will bring to me, and not have the day decide my fate. Always, always being needed means that my alarm clock is the cries of my eight-month-old, my drill sergeant is the voice in my head that tells me that the endless meals for my toddler and husband need to be made, and made now. I do not have a moment where there is silence in my head, a moment where I can hear my own voice echo inside telling me that I am me, a voice that remembers my name. My inner voice is a mash up of the voices of my children, and the voice of my husband who joins in the cacophony of need.

I go to bed thinking of another life completely. This is the only way the endless stream of thoughts can cease, and I can relax enough to fall asleep. I create worlds in my mind where I am a successful businesswoman who is the toast of the town, a woman of means who can jet set around the world on a whim, my loving significant other on my arm wanting nothing but to make me happy. Visions of myself living someone else’s life is what gets me to stop thinking of the endless to-do list in my head; I fall asleep to thoughts of being able to relax and be happy. Then the next morning it begins again, and I realise once again that I no longer want to be needed, but I want to be wanted. I want that the table is set for me, the meals are made with me in mind and the day is designed with a thought of my needs. But this is the life they say I chose, so this is the life that I will live, constantly being needed and no longer knowing who I am.

Each day is the same day with a different name; at any point I am unsure of the name myself. Is it Thursday or Sunday? The only indicator of a change is laundry day. I do laundry on Saturdays so when I see the piles of clothes, I know it must be Saturday and laundry must be done today. I no longer need calendars and day planners. Those are things of the past. My past. The past life when everyone knew my name and called me by it. The past life where I was lauded for the magic that I could create in the board room. This past life where I remembered what day it was and had distinct and clear plans on how to spend each hour of my day. Those days are gone now, as I decided to take a step up on the ladder of life; or so they say.

The ladder of life where you go from birth, school, meeting your one true love, marriage, children…and then inevitable death. I was on the rung of marriage and children where those of the older generation have proclaimed to me would be the most meaningful time of my life. Forget the past of starched collars, high-heeled, red-bottomed shoes, expensive Parisian perfumes and night outs on the town. Those were not the best times of your life; the diaper-filled, 2am feeding, endless clean-ups were.

In my past life I did not bat an eye at waking at 10am on the weekends or spending boozy afternoons in bed binge-watching my favourite series. Now, by the time 10am has rolled around I have already been awake for 5 hours. I see the waking of the sun; I see the colours of the day painted across the sky while I feed the almost insatiable product of my womb. I find peace sometimes in those moments. As the colours spread across the sky and the earth awakes, I hear whispers of my name. I remember it; I hear the birds sing the name that I had been called for countless years before. I remember it, and I smile as the memories of the time when that name was the only name I was called, become bright like the morning sun. That past life. I lean back and bask in the memories, close my eyes, and listen to the whispered memories. I can feel them pass by like a whisp of gossamer on my skin, then, inevitably, a tear journeys down to my bosom as the sun’s rays illuminate me. I look down on my chest and see one of the small lives that I keep safe each day. The reason for my days; the reason for my tiredness, and loss of self, but also my purpose. I sob for the life I once had and the life I now live that I was told I chose for myself. I no longer know if this was a choice or if this was where the conveyor belt of life had taken me. Did I choose or was this choice made for me? Either way, this is the life I live now, being constantly needed.

I yearned to hear my heartbeat the way my offspring did when they were in the womb; the way they do when I hold them close to calm them down. I want to hear the beat of my unique marker and know what makes it skip, know what makes it flutter, know what makes it gallop. I want to press my ear to my chest and hear the whisper of who I was, who I am, who I was supposed to be. What makes my heart beat? I used to know the answer to this without thinking, now, not so much. The sound of my former boyfriend—now husband’s—voice when he whispered in my ear used to make my heart race in a way, I could not explain it but knew was love. Now, he had no time to whisper. Now, his quick pecks on my cheek as he raced out in the morning to work, and the quick and intense coupling we did in the dark under the sheets was the sum total of intimacy for us. He pushed me off when I tried to lay my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat. I wanted to know how it felt to connect to a heartbeat to calm my thoughts the same way my children were instinctively calmed when placed on my chest. The complaints of me being too heavy or making him too hot were the excuses he used.

A lost connection.

I missed the days when we drank in each other’s very essence from sunup to sundown on the weekends. I missed when we would curl up together in bed, limbs indistinguishable, just speaking on nothing and everything, the days of connection. Memories of those long hazy and lazy Sundays spent sprawled across his King bed looking through his window filled me with sadness, desperation, and loss. Those were the days when I felt wanted intensely, and not so much needed to sustain life. My life was my own then and I shared it willingly, now my life is on lease to others. I exist to be in service of others’ happiness and not my own.

I wanted to find my heartbeat once again. I wanted to know who I was once more outside of the labels of ‘mother’ and ‘wife’, I wanted to disappear and re-emerge as a better and evolved version of myself. A version of myself that was able to cope with the intense need of everyone, a version of myself that knew my heartbeat. However, I could only see achieving this through abandoning my current life. Could I do that?

I stopped sobbing as I made this realisation. To find myself, my heartbeat, I had to cease being that for everyone else, but how can I in good conscience abandon bits of myself to find myself? A decision must be made, but can I make it?

My baby stirred, she had long since fallen asleep in my arms, so I decided to put her in her cot. My toddler was still asleep by some reason of magic, and I could hear my husband going through his morning routine in the bathroom, I had a few moments of peace. I went back out onto the porch and sat in the sunlight. It had gotten hot quickly today, but I did not mind. I looked down at my sleep dress, stained with spit up and breast milk. I smelled it and the sour stench made me wince, but I truly did not know if the smell was only coming from the clothing or if it was also me. I could not remember the last time I had taken a full shower and not just one of those quick ‘wash the important parts’ type showers. My mind went back to the times when I would collect Bath and Body Works’ fragrances and I always paid attention to my overall hygiene; ‘oh how the mighty have fallen’ I think and chuckle sadly. Today I will shower, to hell with everyone else. Put the kids to nap or sit them in front of that television and take a shower, I would have to ignore the tears, but I needed to make some changes. I needed to prioritise myself.

I heard my husband appear next to me to give me the required goodbye peck. He smelled good, (he got to take frequent showers) and his scent reminded me of the good times. I wanted to grab him and hold on for dear life and cry into his chest, offload my worries and have him comfort me as he had done in the past, but I know if I even grabbed for him now, he would shove me off and comment on my scent and unkempt appearance. So I did none of that and watched as he left to go out into the world where he could have conversations and connections with people above the age of five years old. His connections were with people who did not need their noses wiped, or butts swaddled. I watched him pull out of the driveway and I headed inside. I checked my toddler and thankfully she was also still asleep—a miracle! I headed straight for the shower; I was not about the waste this moment.

The hot water felt good on my skin, I had it as hot as I could bear, and I stood for a moment just letting the water cascade down my body. It felt as if I was washing away all my disappointment, all my hurt, all the endless thoughts. There was only the sound of the water, the feel of the heat. I felt myself lighten, as if a weight was being slowly removed from my shoulders and anticipation for it built. I lathered up my bath sponge and scrubbed every part of me, I even washed my hair. Then, out of the silence I heard a cry. It started off as a series of whimpers, almost cat-like meowls. Then the shrill cries began soon after; my 8 month old desperately wanted me.

“It’s okay Melanie! I am still here, I am just taking a shower, Mommy would be there soon. Okay?” I yelled in the direction of the cries.

The sound stopped for a few beats and in that small time I convinced myself that I was going to get a reprieve. Then, the shrill cries started up again, louder this time, more insistent. In the heat of the shower, as the water flowed down my body, the tears came. They mixed so well with the water on my face; hot tears, meet hot water. I curled up on the shower floor and allowed myself to unload all the weight I had been holding in that moment. I cried along with my daughter. I matched her volume and somehow, I managed to burn myself out faster than she could.

I stood up and finished my shower. She was going to be okay. She was safe, I knew that cry all too well. It was her cry for comfort and not her cry for food or changing. She was upset I had not run to her beck and call this time. She was going to be okay, but was I?

I felt like a shiny coin when I emerged from the shower. I walked into the bedroom and checked on Melanie, and she was asleep once again. I got dressed and cleaned up while I waited for her and my toddler to wake up.

Hours later, as I finished feeding the girls dinner, my husband came home, and he went straight to the bathroom to shower without a word to me or the kids. This was normal, I had stopped making it affect me some time ago. I quickly cleaned them up, cleaned the kitchen, and put them to watch some tv. Twenty-five minutes later, my husband was still in the bathroom, and I decided to step outside on the porch as the children were distracted. The light of the sky was gorgeous, the sunset made the sky look like it was afire; the vibrant orange, yellow, and the darkening blue of the evening sky called to me. I suddenly felt a need, an urging. A wind picked up and I could once again hear the whisper of my past. The world was quiet, as quiet as my mornings, but this time I heard a faint rhythmic beating. As I walked in time with the sound I realized where it came from. I touched my chest and for the first time in a long time I felt it, I heard it in my ears; my heartbeat. I kept my pace with it and followed my heartbeat and walked toward the sunset.