The Flood

11:20 couldn't come fast enough. I grabbed a file and performed some obligatory reporting, but the task that should have taken 10 minutes took about 30. I googled "typing speed tests," hit the 'Start Clock' button and began pecking away. Mrs. Frisby, the head of a family of field mice, lived in an underground house in the garden of a farmer named Mr. Fitzgibbon. . . 68 words per minute, zero errors. I could do much better. I clicked the button for a new test. After several tests I maxed out at 78 words per minute, zero errors. Satisfied, and noting how much time I had been able to pass, I grabbed another file requiring only perfunctory attention until the clock read 11:00. I plastered a look of false bravado on my face as I told the staff I would be back in a couple of hours, and met Marcos in the parking lot, where we got into my car and drove to the doctor's office.

Immediately I noticed there was no ultrasound equipment in the room, and so I inquired of the tech who said no ultrasound was ordered for the day. When the doctor arrived I asked again.

"No. You won't have another ultrasound for quite a few weeks, until later in your second trimester."
I could feel the tears sting my eyes immediately. "But I thought - I thought that's what we would do today. I - I never would have consented to the last one, if I thought we would not do another one this week. I -" and the words from my last blog began spilling out of my mouth, "I need to know if this baby has anencephaly. It takes a great leap of faith to be pregnant again, but I need to know. I am stressed out wondering. I need to know!" and the tears were rolling and my voice was quivering.

"Everything appeared normal at your first ultrasound. . ." but I cut her off. "Everything appeared normal with my son, too, until one day it wasn't."

"I know. . ."  I wouldn't give her a chance to speak, I just kept pleading with her until she finally agreed that if there were a machine available, until she said with resignation that she would perform the ultrasound. "You're right.  It does take a leap of faith to get pregnant again."  She prefaced the impending ultrasound with familiar language to a lawyer: "I'm not a specialist. I cannot rule out anencephaly, especially not at this stage. I'm still going to send you to see the specialist. I can only tell you if the image appears to be normal, in my experience. I can't diagnose, or not diagnose, anything, and we're not going to take any action no matter what I see." With her waiver of liability having been made I said, unequivocally, "I want you to know it doesn't matter what you say today, or what the specialist says. It's not going to change anything. I'm not going to end this pregnancy. I just need to know." She nodded, and we proceeded.  Marcos held my hand, and I held my breath.

And there it was. You can't imagine how much that bright, round image of a baby's skull, taken for granted in so many pregnancies, means. Not until it's been decidedly missing from your child's ultrasound image. Not until you've wished you could simply take your own skull, saw it off of your own head yourself, to give it to your child. But there, clear and bold on the screen was the distinct image of bone forming a skull. Rocco rolled in response to the ultrasound wand, allowing us to see all angles. "As far as I can tell, within my area of expertise as a ob/gyn, not a specialist, there does not appear to be any grossly obvious deformity." I nodded at her conditional language, knowing it just her clinical training, knowing there was nothing gross about my son's deformity, knowing he was beautiful, and his little brother or sister is beautiful too, each in their own distinct ways.

In that bittersweet moment there was at once a flood of relief, and a wave of sadness as I grieved once again the day my world fell apart with my first lesson in anencephaly.  These moments will always be bittersweet.  Like the top of his own skull was missing, so Gabriel's physical presence will be missing from the rest of my life.  I feel it, deep in my bones.  I always will.  Faith, and a rainbow baby, don't replace the child that I carried, that I gave birth to, that I love from somewhere built into my core.  Faith only givea me the strength to believe that even though he is gone, I'll see my son again, and I'll be okay until I do.

Genesis 9: 13-17 "I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth.  Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind.  Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life.  Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth."  So God said to Noah, "This is the sign of the covenant I have established between me and all life on earth.

For years I've felt that I was on the brink of drowning.  I don't know sometimes how I managed to keep from going under.  There were mornings when I would wake up, and wonder why I would, why I should live to see another day and it was only by supernatural force that I carried on.  But my rainbow has appeared.  This time it is not an illusion.

Life will keep sending challenges, will keep throwing curves.  There will always be rain.  But now there's a rainbow in the clouds.


<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/EfAhpX_wIBk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

Before This River, There Comes an Ocean

It takes a huge leap of faith to be pregnant again.

I remember the first time someone told me that I was brave for trying again. It was Randy, over a gin and tonic, with his blunt ways who first said to me after the miscarriage, "That takes courage to try again."

He said it again after Gabriel's diagnosis was revealed. Gabriel hadn't even been born yet, but my desire to have children was already evident and I was not at all surprised when Randy if I would try again after Gabriel. And again, I had no reservations about answering "Yes." Randy noted once more the courage that would be required, but added, "You had one flukey thing happen, then another flukey thing happened, but that's no reason to stop trying, they were flukey things." Randy, a fellow member of the California Bar whom I met in a different kind of bar, is as practical as I am and I took no offense to his description of events. I love my children in Heaven, but I know it is by some natural fluke that they are not with me today. Sometimes, these things just happen.

If I had to describe my level of confidence, I am 99% sure that the baby I am now carrying is going to be just fine. The odds are, he or she will be. Besides, I am a woman of faith. I am woman who is confident that between God and statistics, come May I will be holding a healthy baby in my arms.

It's the 1% that troubles me. It's only 1%, but it represents something so frightening that it can feel like it's consuming me. I don't know that I can handle one more heartbreak.

"This is girl season," someone told me recently. "Odds are, you're having a girl."

"I tend to beat the odds," was my response, the stinging nature of which was lost on this unassuming stranger. She couldn't know that only 1 in 1,000 pregnancies will result in an anencephalic infant and my son Gabriel was that 1 in 1,000; or that of those 1 in 1,000 pregnancies, upwards of 90% of them will result in the termination of that child so that less than 10% of those 1 in 1,000 babies will get a chance to live; or that among those children who are given a chance to live, only 25% of them will live for a day or more and so it was indeed a fluke that my sweet anencephalic baby boy lived for ten days, against the odds. She couldn't know that while I've played the odds and sometimes I've scored big and sometimes I've lost big, I have no idea how this pregnancy will play out when of the 1 in 1,000 women who have an anencephalic baby, 4 in 100 of us will have a recurrence. I have faith that it won't be me. But I know that it has to be someone. And it could very well be me.

With tentative faith I will report to my obstetrician one week and one hour from now and I will hope to hear the words that most people never have to consider: "You're baby's skull is perfectly formed." If you've never had to hear that your baby's skull is NOT perfectly formed, or words of similar effect, I urge you to fall to your knees now and thank God because you can't imagine how much it hurts, and be glad you can't. In that "What to Expect When You're Expecting" book you're told that you can generally expect that your baby will be perfectly fine, but you're not told what to expect when he's not. I could write a book on what to expect with terminal diagnosis and infant loss. I maybe already have.

Randy was right. It takes courage to have another baby. I didn't know, until I was doing it. I didn't know it would take strength to love again, until I was loving. I didn't know I would have to be brave in this time of good news, until I realized how scared I am. I didn't know, because I didn't care, because my longing was greater than my fear. But I'm doing it, all of it. Every day is a little bit easier, with a huge milestone yet to come. I can see this baby, I can almost feel him or her in my arms and against my skin. But, before this river, there comes an ocean, George Michael advises me. As I tread my way through the sea of Fear and Hope, sometimes barely keeping my head above water, I'm reminded that I keep doing it because if I want the reward, I've gotta have faith. A-faith a-faith uh.

The Messy, Risky Business of Love

There are a few times in a woman's life when she is particularly susceptible to allowing love, or something resembling love, to turn her into a complete fool. The first is when she is 16 years old, and some green-eyed boy catches her eye and just like that, she's gone.

The second, in my experience, is when her son dies and her marriage crashes and burns and she wants desparately to love and feel loved again.

The latter is precisely where I was as I sat on the cooler in my average bar on an average Sunday night, when an average looking guy walked in and turned my world upside down. He ordered a Coors light. I asked him for $2.75.

"Can you just leave my tab open?"

"We only take cash. So, you have to pay as you go. There's an ATM around the corner." I stood there staring at him for a moment until he picked up the cue.

"Oh. Right. Um, okay." And he rounded the corner with his debit card. He returned with one of the regulars, Karaoke Chris, in tow, who introduced me. "This is Andrea. She's kind of a devout Catholic, but she's cool, she's not weird or in your face about it."

"And you?" I inquired of the stranger after I'd taken his $20 and returned his $17.25 in change. "You have a name?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. . ." And so I was introduced to Bar Crush. By the end of the night I had indeed been in-your-face with Catholic knowledge. Bar Crush had been able to deduce that I took French in college. I learned that he was a native of upstate New York, and a New York Giants and Yankees fan. Still the attraction wasn't swift, at least not for me.

But as time went on the attraction, and the connection, became obvious to anyone who saw us interact. He said stupid things to me, like "I'm a Civil War guy," and "Every time my daughter smiles, she makes everything bad in the world go away," and my brain would melt and my ovaries would ache and I was just in awe of this fantastic guy that someone foolishly let go of. I was amazed by his capacity to move forward from his former wife, not talking about her, seeming not to think about her or worry about her, except to the extent that they had an excellent co-parenting relationship. And he, he gave me stupid looks and flattered me back, and engaged in the most intimate form of interaction with me that I could imagine - He read my blog entries, with fair regularity. Like an idiot I tumbled head first in lovei wth Bar Crush.

The relationship that I thought should have developed was obvious to me but Bar Crush was reluctant. He was not too far removed from his eight year marriage, and hesitant to start dating again. And I was a mess, recovering from my own broken marriage and broken babies. I was characteristically me, determined, focused, sure of what I wanted, and sure that I should have it. I wasn't quite sure why he was denying himself what I was certain a relationship of 19th century literature proportions. We'd both been released from marriages where we were underappreciated, so why wouldn't we move on with someone who would appreciate us now? Why would we wait? After all, life is short - ten days is a lifetime. Why wait even ten days?

The - uh - friendship? - waxed and waned as we each sometimes accelerated, sometimes pulled back, always at a different pace from the other. I was sure that when the time was right for Bar Crush, he would look to me first. I had, after all, put in the effort. So the words on my computer screen were all the more devastating in the light of my certainty: "I've been hanging out with someone." In the moment, I was grateful for his cowardly, online disclosure, at the time having thought of it as merciful because the tears welled up so swiftly and spilled so uncontrollably that I would have been ashamed for him to see such weakness in me.  Now I know he should have had the guts to tell me to my face.

"Oh." Hanging out? What does that mean? What is this hanging out? We've hung out. . . What was happening?

"It's nothing serious, and I don't know if it will turn into much, but I wanted to be honest with you." He at least recognized that I was fragile enough, and that, whatever the nature of our relationship it was certainly of the type where he should rightfully disclose this information to me.

"Well, I guess whatever it is, you should figure it out." And we ended the conversation on some baseball small talk, and I retreated to the backyard to cry as the pain sunk further and further into my chest.

Ultimately, he cut off contact entirely, and it made no sense for me to ask why, if we were only friends before, we couldn't just be friends now. The truth is, there is no good reason why we can't be. The truth is, he never really saw me as a friend. I still can't figure out of it's because he was simply using me to build-up his ego in the aftermath of a bad relationship, or if, as I believe, the attraction was so strong that it would be difficult to be just friends. Or maybe I'm just the fool who believes that the man who pushed the woman he was married to, the mother of his child, to the back of his mind, would remember me even in passing anymore.

A good person would simply wish him well. But I'm not a good person. I hope he's gloriously happy right now. And I hope that shortly, his heart is ripped from his chest cavity and pounded with a mallet - metaphorically speaking, of course. I hope the Red Sox win the World Series this year, just out of spite, and I hope he cries over it.  There are rebound moments. There are rebound relationships. But any decent person would have seen - SHOULD have seen that I was special. I was to be handled with care, and somewhere along the line, he just stopped caring - He had to have just stopped, because I don't believe for a moment that he never did. And maybe you'd ask - certainly the friends who saw me through the devastation will wonder - why I would give him the benefit of a blog entry, when I never have before? I guess it's because nothing really feels dealt with anymore until I blog about it, and besides, it's not like he'll see it now.

Of course, I can look at my life now, falling more in love with Marcos every day, with a highly anticipated baby on the way, and simply be happy with what I have in front of me. It's just not simple. This love doesn't remedy the hurt. This new baby doesn't replace my son. I just wanted to love, and to be loved, and I wanted that love to stay and I never thought it was so much to ask to have either without taking an emotional beating. I took a chance, on loving Bar Crush, on loving my son. I'm only vaguely sorry for Bar Crush, and I'll never be sorry for loving Gabriel. But they both hurt. They both left me pretty tattered.

Then one day, Marcos picked me out, damaged goods from the bunch. I find myself having to take another chance, trusting that our baby will be okay, trusting that no matter what happened in the past, that Marcos will always handle me with care.

Color

The morning was running smoothly, right on schedule.  I was set for a deposition and already knew what I was going to wear.  The dogs went outside with little fuss.  I'd completed the test, and as I brushed my teeth all I had to do was wait for the Clear Blue response.  Only problem, as I brushed, unmarried, reflecting on my two-month long relationship with Marcos, I wasn't sure what I wanted the answer to be.

Soon, there was no reason to think about what I wanted.  The truth blinked across the digital screen:  "Pregnant 2-3," indicating that a 2 to 3 week old baby was growing inside of me.  I spit.  I rinsed.  I cried.  I prayed.  I thanked.  I begged.  I went about my day.

When I presented the news to Marcos that evening, he smiled, hugged and kissed me, and said teasingly, "I guess we're not going out tonight."

"Yes!  I still want to go to karaoke!"  So we did, and I drank club soda with a lime out of a silly hurricane glass and sang a couple of songs and the night was full of promise and hope.

But by the next day, I resumed my self-admonishment.  I had compromised my principles.  I'd given up and given in to the grief that I'd long been suffering.  I'd stopped binding myself by rules and conviction.  My arms had been empty for too long.  My heart had been broken for too long.  The rules no longer seemed to apply.

Maybe it seems like I took the easy way out of grief.  I can promise that the physical part of this process has been the only thing that's been easy.  True to form and now at nearly nine weeks, I've yet to experience any symptoms beyond fatigue.  It's only the fear and anxiety that handicap me.

Two years of gathering information about anencephaly have informed me that 1 in 1,000 pregnancies will result in an anencephalic baby.  Among us 1 in 1,000 women, 4 in 100 of us will experience a recurrence. As I swallow my handful of folic acid tablets I remind myself daily that I'm reducing even further that already slight risk of experiencing that rare defect again.

So when I first consulted with the nurse, when I first heard the words "high risk" fall out of her mouth, I was stunned.  I had never considered myself high risk.  Miscarriages happen, they're common, even.  Anencephaly just happens.  Sometimes it just happens.  And I'd been reassuring myself, soothing my irrational fears, only to have this nameless nurse resurrect them again.

"Ordinarily, you'd meet with a nurse practitioner for most of your visits, but the doctor may want to see you personally throughout.  You know, because of your history.  We have a perinatologist come down a couple of times a month, and they'll probably want him to scan you.  Also, you'll be getting a call from the genetic counselor."

"Why?"

"Because of your history."  I scowled.  I hated her.  I hated her for reading some segment of some chapter in some nursing school textbook, and thinking she could talk to me like she had a clue.  I guarantee I know more about anencephaly than she does.

I recalled briefly flipping through the pages of my barely-used copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting" at 22 weeks pregnant with Gabriel.  I had stopped referring to the book when I found that I just didn't need its assistance.  But in the bleak, grey wake of Gabriel's earth-shattering diagnosis, hungry for information, I demanded to know what kind of heads-up this pregnancy bible would have given me and I found only a small gray box with general information on birth defects.  I learned only that anencephaly was a defect that resulted when the neural tube fails to close completely, resulting in developmental failure of the skull and brain.  My doctor would give me the option to terminate my pregnancy.  I learned from other sources that carrying an anencephalic infant posed no more risk to the mother than any other pregnancy.  I learned that anencephalic babies could live for days, weeks, months - I met mothers whose babies had lived for years.  I learned that if I continued the pregnancy, I could plan to participate in Duke's study to learn the causes of anencephaly.

I learned that my baby was a boy.  He was strong-willed and brave.  He's not just history.  He has a name, Gabriel Michael Gerard Cude, and he lived for ten days, and he changed the world.  He is deeply, constantly missed, by many.

And he is going to be a big brother.

Every once in a while, the weight of the experience really comes crashing down on me.  As I sat one evening watching the season finale of "So You Think You Can Dance" with my family, the announcement of beloved contestant Fikshun as America's favorite male dancer brought me to tears.  Gabriel would never win "So You Think You Can Dance." He'd never sit on the Supreme Court, or play in the World Series, or learn the alphabet or to count to ten, or to sit or crawl or walk.  And I don't have the nerve to dream that the baby I am carrying, already affectionately nicknamed "Rocco," will do any of the above.  I can only dream of a round, whole skull, a fully developed brain, a first breath, a first loud cry, a glimpse and a touch of the rainbow I've waited so long and endured so much to see.  Every day without Gabriel has been a challenge.  Every day until I hold Rocco in my arms will bring its own challenges.

My rainbow is on its way.  And the troubles haven't melted like lemon drops.  This yellow-brick road that I must travel to get to the other side of the rainbow has already been harder than I ever anticipated.  Still, it's the road I want to be on, with all of its challenges, with all of my fears.  For the first time in such a very long time, I can finally see in color.

Shattered

That particular Tuesday night didn't seem to be any different than any other.  A young woman, a fairly regular customer who typically comes in with her boyfriend, came in instead with a girlfriend and ordered drinks at the bar.  Noting my bowl of food  and a notepad set up in front of the two nearest barstools, the girls elected instead to occupy a booth just behind me.  They were joined shortly by two guys, who crammed into the booth with them.  Nothing illicit appeared to be happening.  They were just a group of friends, out for a middle-of-the-week cocktail.  My only qualm was regarding one of the guys, who didn't have money for drinks and kept going back to his friend for cash for drinks and for the jukebox.

I was standing at the other end of the room chatting with a group of friends when I heard yelling coming from the booth.  I looked up to see a woman standing before the "U" shaped booth, her back to me while the two girls in the booth stared in shock and the two guys looked simply dumbstruck.  The subject of her rage was clearly the penniless patron.  Before I could act I saw her fling her arm across the table, knocking the collection of glasses the group had been building for an hour or so into their laps, then she lifted the table and whatever was left fell on them as well.  I started to dash across the bar when I heard her say, "Leave me alone!  I'm six months pregnant!"  Sure enough as I approached I could see her rounded belly resting above the waistband of her sweatpants and protruding from her tight black tank top.

The memory came flooding swiftly back to me:

I was probably about seven months pregnant, waiting at my parents' house for Ben to let me know he was coming home.  There was no response to my messages.  He couldn't be working that late.  The kitchen was closed, and besides, he'd been there since early in the morning.  I excused myself and walked back to my house, where I promptly climbed into my car and drove down the street to Amestoy's.  Ben's truck was parked out back.  

I walked into the bar, and the voices ceased immediately.  A collective breath was held by everyone in the bar as they burned me with their stare.  It was like a scene from a Kenny Rogers song.  Ben was sitting next to the daytime bartender, Jessica, and they appeared to be sharing a pizza.  

By then, the news of Gabriel's condition was well-known.  We were carrying a terminally ill child.  And my husband had lied to me about where he was, leaving me at home to mourn my child's impending fate.  I walked over to him, shaking.  I could feel the sympathetic eyes of Jaron, the night shift bartender, on me.  No one tried to stop me as I quietly but firmly spoke the cruelest words I have ever said to anyone:  "You're a terrible father, and I wish you were dying instead of my son."  I turned, and left. 

I gave the pregnant girl a minute to speak so I could assess the scene.

"You lied to me!  We had a fight, and I find you at the bar with two girls I've never seen?"  I approached and put my hand on her wrist and her boyfriend said to her, "You have glass in your neck."  I looked at the glistening pieces and began to pick them off of her.  She glanced at me and her face began to crumple.  She held strong.  "Who are you?"  she demanded of the girls.

The regular was quick to speak.  "We're friends.  I've known him since high school.  He was just showing me your ultrasound picture."  I grasped her wrist and said softly, "You need to take this outside."

I turned to her boyfriend with blazing eyes.  "Take her outside and fix this." Blood was leaking from his hand, but I didn't care.  I hated him in that moment.  Besides, three other innocent bystanders were sitting under shards of glass that wouldn't have been smashed to bits, but for his lies.

We began putting the shattered pieces of the night back together.  Shane helped me clean up the glass.  The girls picked the pieces off of themselves, and Shane pulled the table back so they could stand and shake off whatever remained.

"She was crazy," one of them said.

"Yes.  But he shouldn't have lied.  Not right now."  The expectant mother had my unwavering sympathy that night.

"No.  He shouldn't have.  But we weren't doing anything wrong."

"I know.  I know.  But she doesn't know.  She's pregnant, and she feels unattractive, and she feels alone, and he lied to her, and you can imagine how that looks, right?"  The girls nodded.

I reflect often on that night at Amestoy's.  I regret my cruelty.  I regret allowing myself to momentarily jump to conclusions about Jessica and Ben.  I regret indulging in "If I could change things. . ." kinds of games, because I couldn't do a damn thing to change any of it.  The path had been set many months before and we were on course and there could be no going back, no do-overs. Whether I was alone at home, in a crowd at the bar, in the aisles of the grocery store, behind the bar or in a courtroom at work, everywhere I went with my son tucked safely in my pregnant belly, Gabriel's condition and the result of that condition were inevitable.

The pregnancy was so public.  Gabriel's condition was so well-known and my blog entries were being closely followed.  I think people must think that they knew exactly what I was feeling.  The thing is, I can say it, or write it as much as I want, but none of us can really begin to imagine what goes on in others' lives and minds when we're not watching.  The grief that weighed on me throughout that pregnancy was greater than I ever let on.  What went on behind the closed doors of my home and my heart was unimaginable, and I'm still trying every day to put the pieces of my shattered life back together.

Profile of a Victim

The atmosphere is tense among women in East Bakersfield.  A serial rapist, who has left a trail of three known victims and perhaps additional unknown victims, is on the loose.  He's broken into his, victims' homes.  In once instance, he restrained her and her child and proceeded to rape her, threatening her with a gun.  He raped another victim in the middle of the day. We've been told, as if we need to be told, that he is armed and dangerous.  We haven't been told if he has a "type," whether he prefers women of a certain build or race or hair color - The only criteria seems to be "woman."

The heightened sense of panic has affected more than just the unfortunate victims.  There are women all of Bakersfield looking over their shoulder, purchasing handguns and pepper spray and large breed dogs and generally living in fear, because women my have come a long way in the last 100 years, but we are still the overwhelming majority of adult sexual assault victims.

I'm situated a little differently.  Having managed in the last twelve years to really tuck the memory of my own rape securely into the back of my mind, I still carry with me remnants of the experience.  I'm always sort of hyper-aware of what's going on around me.  If this armed and dangerous perpetrator and I should encounter one another I would expect a face-off between his violent inclinations and my sheer determination to never be a sexual assault victim again.

As the women of East Bakersfield wait with trepidation for the rapist to be caught, the rest of America continues to discuss Miley Cyrus' performance with Robin Thicke at last week's Video Music Awards.  The footage of Miley flopping her tounge around Gene Simmons-style, motor-boating the butt cheeks of some back up dancer dressed like a teddy bear, stripping down to a nude-colored bikini, thrusting and shaking her butt at Robin Thicke, and grinding against a big foam hand is now famous.

Maybe I'm a hypocrite.  I grew up as a devoted Madonna fan, and seriously believe that she helped form the person I am today. Madonna's own VMA performance of "Like a Virgin" nearly 30 years ago was controversial in its own time.  Maybe I am an even bigger hypocrite because I love the unrated version of Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" video, featuring three women in flesh-colored thongs and nothing else.  I guess the difference between Madonna, the topless girls in the Robin Thicke video, and Miley Cyrus is the confidence with which the former two performed.  Madonna of course famously told us all that she wanted to rule the world, and she practically has. She has never, in my recollection, showed us that she is anything but completely sure of herself.  The same holds true on a smaller scale for the women in Robin Thicke's video.  Their expressions of indifference while the male singers in the video vie for their attention always make me wonder if those girls even know they don't have any clothes on.  They are in charge of themselves, and of what happens to them.

There was nothing bold or confident about Miley Cyrus' performance last week.  She appeared needy and desperate.  And I get it.  I get that she was in a sense used and manipulated and never allowed to develop a proper sense of independence, and now she's clutching at what she thinks is control where she's never had control before.  I get it because I remember a time in my life when I felt similarly, and I remember the needy and desperate ways that I acted out.  I'm scared for girls that I see acting out in the same way because I remember what a long battle I fought with myself to get to a healthy place again.  I remember the hurtful things I did to myself and other people along the way.

I'm not proud of the things I did or the person I used to be.  I'm not proud of the way I handled myself after I was raped, like I was nothing more than a victim.  I was probably more vulnerable in the first few years following the rape than I ever had been in my life.

I'm proud that I'm not that person anymore.  I'm very proud of who I am now, that I am a good mother, daughter, big sister, friend, employee, and attorney.  I wonder frequently if I could have endured the experience with Gabriel so well if I hadn't already been through some adversity and I value the experience of recovery from that horrible violation.

I wish I could tell myself from 12 years ago, and Miley Cyrus today, that there's a big difference between not being forced to do something you don't want to do, and behaving in a way that is completely out of control under the guise of taking control.  That's not brave behavior.  That's not confident behavior.  Bravery and confidence shine through when you act with self-respect, in a way that commands the respect of people around you.  That's when you've become a grown-up.

Unarmed Conflict

I feel conflicted. To say the least.

Marcos and I have been dating for almost 2 months. In that short period it's become routine for us to spend time with his sister, Jessica, and two nieces, Alissa, age 3, and Arianna, age 2. Saturday afternoon we trucked our way to Southwest Bakersfield for another such occassion. Alissa and Arianna were thrilled, as always, to see their Uncle Marc. Immediately, Alissa grabbed me by the hand and pulled me down the hall to show me the makeshift house that had been built out of blankets in her room. I "ooo"ed and "aah"ed before moving to the kitchen to join the grown-ups at the table.

Alissa scaled the length of my leg and the pub-style chair to place herself in my lap. She's an active child and already I've learned that still moments with her are rare and so I enjoyed the brevity during which she leaned her head against my shoulder before she resumed her squirming and squealing. Arianna, a more introverted sort, watched quietly from Marcos' lap but was quick to join in Alissa's proposal for a game of hide and seek. I was instructed to close my eyes and count. I accepted the instruction graciously and obediently counted to ten before wandering down the hall, loudly acknowledging that I was on my way, ready or not. Both of the girls were curled up conspicuously in the open and shrieked with amusement when I "discovered" them. I was then informed that Alissa would count next, and I should hide.

"There." Alissa pointed to her same hiding space. "Hide right there, okay?"

My forehead wrinkled. I didn't really see how I could win the game if I hid exactly where she told me to. "If I hide there, you'll know where to find me." Alissa regarded me skeptically. At three years old, Alissa's face is well-defined, and so are her facial expressions. She never hesitates to show me that she thinks I'm full of nonsense. "Okay, okay," I concede. "You count. I'll hide." She disappeared in a scurry down the hall and I moved swiftly to wedge myself behind her bedroom door. Arianna followed me behind the door. I looked down at her, and she peered up at me with striking blue eyes, and I ignored the constriction of my heart from the longing for my own son as I tried instead to enjoy this moment with a child who is almost exactly the same age Gabriel would be. I pressed my index finger to my lips in a signal to stay quiet, and Arianna tucked her neck into her shoulders with a shy giggle. I could hear Alissa return to find that we were not where she expected us to be. She finally found us when Arianna, limited to the patience of a two year old, wandered out from behind the door. There was more squealing and more laughter as we returned to the kitchen.

The night before, Marcos and I had taken Jessica out to celebrate her birthday. Her opportunities to go out have been severely limited since she's been home caring for her two children and working on a second Master's degree. She was clearly paying the price for a night of fun with a post-fun headache. I thought to myself about all of the nights that I have been out since Gabriel passed. I thought briefly of the ways that my life would be different today if he had lived. I wondered if I am selfless enough to give up the fun and the friends and the bars for another attempt at motherhood.

That evening I made my Shakespearean trek to Tehachapi to visit Marcos. I was thoughtful as my car climbed its escape from Bakersfield to the small mountain town. I miss my son. I want another chance to share my maternal love with another baby of my own, but I'm afraid. What if it happens ten more times? What if there are ten more miscarriages, or ten more fatal defects? Can I survive?

Can I even survive what might be necessary to get myself to the possibility of another family? I want love, I want to be in love, and I want to be loved, perhaps even more than I want more children. I want someone to grow with. I want romance. I want companionship. I want a partner for the rest of my life. Yet I find myself resisting my chances. I'm scared. I've been abandoned by way of suicide and by divorce, and I don't know what's left out there that can hurt me anymore but I can't help but fear what comes next. The scars I've obtained from the years of faithful trust in the idea of true love have begun to thicken and I find myself guarded. When I think of cold dead eyes and a cold dead body and the pieces of my warm and beating heart that they each stripped from me I, a woman who has never been afraid to feel with abandon, now become closed off.

As I laid with my legs and feet stretched across Marcos' lap while we watched a movie I caught my eyes wandering towards him.  I admonished myself not to mess this up, not to let this man get away. My heart wants to leap, and take any chance to find what I feel I've been searching for my entire life. But my head shakes furiously in warning, scolding me not to put us through all of that again. My body is at war with its conflicting, visceral needs to be both loved and protected. I know that there's a cost of doing battle and a price to being victorious. I know that I will inherently lose if I don't fight for what I desire - and I've always been willing to fight for all of this before, and fearless when it came to laying all I had on the line armed only with an exposed and vulnerable heart. I guess I'm just not sure anymore how much more my weathered heart can afford.