I presumed I would be looking after the centenarian women I met. But they looked after me
Edna lives just off the M4 in a tiny brick bungalow with a wheelchair ramp. I crawled to her front door. I didn’t knock; I went straight in and put my head on her knee, pushing the Zimmer frame out of the way. And I cried, and she was still and kind and said: “I think you will always miss him. You lost your son, dear.”
On the way to Edna’s I’d had to pull the car over so the animal in me could thrash the air and grope for my dead baby – a primal scream against the loss, the regret and the pain of it all. The burden shifted marginally, briefly almost felt manageable, when I arrived at her house.