Better the life in hand than dwelling on lives unlived

A surprise guest provides a new perspective on loss and yearning

CHILDLESSNESS and being Jewish don't go together: it's assumed that you'll marry and procreate. There's even a lofty promise in the Bible that we will become a nation "as numerous as the stars in the sky". It's painful to buck the trend.

The past two weeks - the High Holy Days - began with Jewish New Year, in which a curious piece of scripture was read. The story of Hannah concerns a childless woman. She's assured of her husband's love but Hannah is desolate. She promises that if granted a son, she will commit him to God's service. She weeps and silently mouths oaths, appearing drunk. All ends well when she bears a boy, Samuel.

Is this a story about the power of prayer? The shame of childlessness? I don't know. What I do know is that this year, there was a mini-baby boom in my congregation. Mothers rocking newborns matched rhythms with men and women rocking in prayer. Babies yowled loudly at the service's softest, most inopportune moments.

My attention strays; I am besotted with the tiny babies. I note also the toddlers stomping up and down the aisles, enjoying the sound of their shoes on the floorboards, temporarily clean in their new, holiday clothes.

The tweenies wear clothes just like their mothers', from Pucci-print halter maxi-dresses to mini-Chanel tailored suits. These girls, with their glossy, long hair, and the boys in glowing health and crisp, white shirts, are avowedly what all those gorgeous babies will become.

Before I know it, my eyes fill with tears. I flee before the rabbi makes his usual, intelligent exegesis of the day's text.

Like Hannah, I am inconsolable. Babies, toddlers, teenagers, adult kids: I'll never have any and the pain is deep and bitter. As it turns out, I have left in the middle of the service but at precisely the right time for another baby to enter my life.

Back home, my neighbour visits with something to show me. Cradled in her hands, folded in on itself, fast asleep, is a greyish-brown, roughly furred baby animal. Its nose is as small as a match head, its whiskers fan out like fine silk, and its tightly curled tail ends in creamy white. It's a tiny ringtail possum.

Sara's cat had brought the creature to her in his jaws, popping it down like a trophy. There was bloody fur and minute puncture marks.

My first thought was to get rid of it; impossible to care for something so small, so vulnerable, so cute. On the way to the vet's, I was sure it would be taken from me to a reputable wildlife shelter; somewhere skilled people would care for it and nurse it to health.

The vet suggested putting the possum down. Cat teeth contain enough toxins to kill these creatures outright.

Suddenly, I became as fierce as a whale watcher on the Steve Irwin. "Give it a chance," I begged and the vet syringed a couple of millilitres of milky antibiotic into its delicate skin.

That night, I doted on this ball of fur. No mother spent longer counting the toenails of her infant; no father was more rapturous at the coat's fine gradations of colour, from smoky grey on its back to its rufous belly fur. Its back feet were extraordinary, having no claw on the first toe, and the second and third toes joined together. My little bunyip.

I started a learning curve as steep as a new parent's. There were heat packs to change, drinks of water in a jam-jar lid to give, and tiny chunks of banana and apple to feed, every two hours. As morning arrived, I felt sleep-deprived and ghastly. I wasn't even sure if I was nursing a boy or a girl.

In addition, the wee sprog hadn't done a single bit of, well, wee. Or poo, for that matter. I knew enough to realise this was serious. I also knew I wasn't able nor legally allowed to raise this babe.

As I write, the young, male ringtail is in the capable hands of a registered wildlife foster carer, Anita Woodford. Along with three other orphans, he spends daylight hours in a fleecy pouch, warmed by an electric heater. At night, along with his new siblings, he roams and forages for gum leaves in their oversized birdcage. He's about three months old and has a positive prognosis.

Another famous tot in the Bible is Moses, found in the Nile by Pharoah's daughter. Another baby discovered and nurtured, another baby saved.

Many people hate possums, for their garden-eating and their noise. I feel lucky I cared for one, even if only for 24 hours. This frail animal taught me it is much better to save a life than to dwell on the lives you will never lead.