I almost went to my fridge and opened the bottle of Bolly last night.
Almost, but I didn’t and there is a very good reason (maybe crazy reason) why my friend Debbs was served a glass of port, rather than the sparkly bubbles she so deserved after travelling many hours on a train to see me.
It’s The Bad Bolly.
Let me explain.
One week before Elijah was born, my husband sold his business. He came home that evening, 7 days before our lives were shattered forever, clutching a lovely bottle of Bolly given to him by the new owners of Boss Alien.
Being heavily pregnant, we decided we would save the bottle and open it on the day we came home with our new baby. The perfect celebration.
The bottle is still sitting in the fridge. Unopened.
As my husband carried that bottle home, he’d just earnt enough money to pay off the mortgage and his second son was due shortly. As he walked in that night, he’d said to me “life is bloody brilliant babe”.
We now call it The Bad Bolly.
It’s hard to look at that bottle without thinking the Universe gave us a big, fat slap for our vanity.
So what do we do with it now?
I can’t drink it. I can’t give it to anyone else for fear of transferring our “bad luck”. I can’t bring myself to pour it away either. I feel I might be punished again if I do that.
Like I said, crazy! But there it is.
So answers on a postcard please and in the meantime I’ll keep serving up the Port instead.
“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”
Or am I?
Is everything I do predetermined? Is my path in life already set?
Maybe there is no such thing as tragedy if everything is “meant to be”.
Maybe it’s Fate that I love Cheeseburgers.
If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have been sitting in McDonalds, munching my cheeseburger, when the pigeon with one leg flew in and stole a chip dropped on the floor. Maybe that chip saved his life and he’ll now go on to do wonderful things in the pigeon world. Perhaps he’ll be an inspiration to other one-legged pigeons everywhere.
That pigeon could be the next Heather McCartney.
Damn you Fate.
I don’t have the answer but I know that Fate is a tricky bedfellow for someone who has lost a child. Fate means that what happened to my son could never have been different. Fate means that his beautiful little face could never have opened his eyes and lived more than 24 hours.
Regardless, Fate or Foul, I am most certainly changed forever.
“My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.”
and if Mr Shakespeare is right, maybe Fate had better think twice before it F**ks with me again.