The Bath

Some years ago, we lived in an old run-down cottage in the middle of 100 acres of nothing: a few stunted trees, some low growing bush, hard-packed dry earth, a mob of kangaroos, and a concrete water tank… an almost empty water tank.  


The tank should have been full of fresh rainwater but none ever fell over our farm. We’d peer at the sky, hoping and praying, but it never rained. Of course, it was impossible for a family with five children to survive without water so every now and then, we’d arrange for a water tanker to come and bring us supplies. I remember the carrier bumping up our dirt road. Hoses were unfurled and attached and soon our tank was overflowing with precious water. But that tankful had to last us a very long time. 


So of course, we never, ever could afford the luxury of lying in a deep hot bath.

My friend Sarah lived only half an hour’s drive away, but she lived in another world. Sarah’s house was in town and so she had town water. She could turn on her tap and fill her bath as deep as she wanted and as often as she wanted. She had an unending supply of water, regardless of whether it rained or not.

I often dropped in to see Sarah. She was always a very gracious hostess, welcoming me and going out of her way to make sure I felt at home. She’d  offer me a comfortable chair, an excellent cup of coffee, a delicious home-made treat fresh from her oven and… a bath.

“Sue, you are a noble woman!” Sarah would declare as she poured coffee into mugs. “What a sacrifice you’re making! Every pregnant woman needs to lie in a hot bath at the end of the day. Let me fill my bath for you and then you can soak for as long as you want.”

The deep relaxing bath always sounded so attractive but I never took Sarah up on her kind offer. I could never tear myself away from her company and delightful conversation long enough to take advantage of all that water.

One day our water problem came to an end in a most distressing and unexpected way. We found out that our unborn baby had a life threatening problem. Our world turned upside down as the doctor uttered those unforgettable words, “Your baby will probably die after birth.”

I no longer wanted to be a pioneer woman living with her brood of children in the middle of nowhere. The peace and quiet of living in an isolated spot, the kangaroos hopping around our house, the kookaburras chuckling from their perch on our drooping washing line, the acres of land where we could roam free… suddenly these were no longer attractive. I wanted to move back to town, back to my doctor, back to a hospital with good facilities, back to a house with neighbours close by, and back to somewhere where I could turn the tap and not have to worry about water.

The doctor and the hospital with good facilities didn’t make the slightest bit of difference to our baby’s chances of living. His diaphragmatic hernia was as life threatening in town as it had been on the farm. But the water? The water made a huge difference.

My thoughts at that time were consumed with our unborn child. Would he survive? And if he didn’t live, how was I to survive? I had no energy left over for dealing with such mundane matters as water. 


The night we moved into our new home in town, I turned the taps on and filled the bath right to the top. Then I climbed in and lay back, and I thought and I prayed… The bath became my thinking place, my refuge away from the difficult world, my place where I could be alone and my place where I could cry.

Whenever I felt I could no longer cope, I’d fill the bath and climb in. I’d rest my forehead on the cool tiles and let the tears flow. They’d run down my cheeks and drip into the water. I cried all those tears I tried to keep within me whenever I was in public. Locked in the bathroom, I didn’t have to be brave. No one could see me. I could let myself be little and admit I was scared.

We moved to our present home a little more than three years ago. In our family bathroom is the biggest, deepest bath we have ever had. We also have town water. I could fill that bath full every night and climb in and enjoy. But I never do.

I have an older friend who lost a baby many years ago. After Thomas died and my heart was starting to heal, I asked her: “Will God send me more suffering?”

“Oh yes!” she answered very matter-of-factly. “But not before you are ready.”

In the years since Thomas' death I have indeed suffered, but no suffering has ever been as great as that of losing my child. I haven’t yet needed a place of retreat where I can give in to my fears, where I can let my tears flow, where I can sit unobserved, and where I can stop pretending it doesn’t hurt.

 I haven’t again needed my deep bath, surrounded by its rows of cool tiles, behind the locked private door. But it is there… just in case.




For a grief reflection based on this story, please visit The Apostolate of Hannah's Tears
and BeNotAfraid.net FaceBook page