Go Blue

My annual "blueberry" entry seems to get further and further away from June every year.  The entry is my way of checking in on my feelings after the anniversaries of Gabriel's birthday and passing.  As the years go by, I don't really feel fewer emotions, but I have a more difficult time putting them into words.  The feelings and memories seem to get more complex as I watch the girls grow through the lens of a grieving mother, who cherishes her daughters, but mourns the baby she miscarried, the baby who died in her arms, and the babies she longs for but may never get to see.  

I don't really know how to identify what I am feeling today so I guess it makes sense to talk about baseball until the thoughts come to me. 

I've been a Seattle Mariners fan for over 20 years now.  Softball was the only sport I played growing up so it makes sense I enjoy baseball as an adult.  But there are a couple of concepts that really inspire my love of the game.  In high school I had a history teacher, Mr. Warner.  I took his class in summer school and didn't really get to know him well but what I recall starkly are his words, "If you want to know what is happening in American history, look at American baseball."  That's one reason I love baseball. 

The other reason, the more important on a personal level, is the hope.  Hope holds on to the last minute in baseball.  Unlike football or basketball where you may see a team just running down the clock at the end, in baseball the game simply isn't over until that last out, until the ball is securely in the glove after a pitch or a hit or play.  As a fan, you get to hope right up to that last second. 

The Mariners have had an unexpectedly good year.  They were a solid team with a future at the beginning of the season, but have proven themselves to be playoff contenders.  They are currently 2.5 games back from a wild card slot.  They are fighting hard.  The trouble is, their playoff hopes are significantly impacted by the performances of the teams above them.  The AL East has been a force all season, and currently holds the wild card slots.  The Mariners could win every game until the end of the season, but they also need other teams to lose to keep the hope alive.  

But they can't do anything about those other teams right now, can they?  All they can do is play with that hope burning inside, with the confidence that it's not over until it's over. 

I have tried, but have been unable to control so many things in my life.  I couldn't control being raped.  I couldn't control Sean killing himself.  I couldn't control losing my baby in miscarriage.  I couldn't control Gabriel's condition.  I can't control my infertility now.  I can't control or change the fact that I just turned 40. 

I can hope, and I can play life with that hope.  I can live by that hope.  I've tried to.  I persisted in my hope of finding love after Sean died, and I did.  I clung to my belief that i would have my rainbow baby, and Eden and Delilah are my hope come to fruition.  It hurts, but I continue to envision myself with another baby in our home. I envision myself reunited with my lost babies.  I am Catholic, I have faith and I have hope. 

Please don't take this to mean I'm not struggling.  I cry EVERY DAY.  I am at perhaps the lowest emotional point I have ever been, I just don't have the time to let it show.  Eventually, when I am far enough removed, I will talk in depth about the experience of subfertility and treatment but I can't let myself feel those feelings right now.  

For 10 years, my life has gone on while my son's life has not.  That's an extremely painful road and words are insufficient to describe this hurt.  Perhaps hope seems to others to come easily to me, but it doesn't.  It is an active choice, and it's a hard choice to make every day.  I just don't know what else to do but keep on dreaming, even if it breaks my heart. 

More Than Words

I always have words.  It's my thing, my gift.  When all else fails, words can rescue me; when I am drowning, words are my air.  When I am stuck in the trenches, words offer me a rope to get out.  Writing things down is how I release the toxic, dead weight from me.

On Thursday January 28, 2021 at approximately 3:30, I had to let my beloved Gideon Wainwright Hernandez-Cude go. 

Well, let's back up.  I didn't have to.  I made a decision.  I could have just dodged the issue and waited for him to pass at home and he could have lived days and maybe he would be miserable, but he would have had love, and life.  Or, I could have let him go two days prior, when I took him to the vet.  Dr. Utt has been his doctor since he was a puppy, and has performed three hip surgeries on him.  When I brought him in on January 26, 2021, the tech who collected him said "We have him down for possible euthanasia.  What are your thoughts?" 

"If Dr. Utt says it is time, I will accept her advice.  I know the time is closing in.  But I never want to let him go because it's hard on me to let him live.  But look at him - He still has light in his eyes.  He still wants to be here.  If I can buy him even one more day, I want to do that. I'll do what Dr. Utt says."  

I had to wait in the car. They tried to carry him in on the gurney, but he was just too big and restless.  So he walked in.  

Dr. Utt called me as I sat in the parking lot. "He's struggling.  I can try a steroid injection.  Sometimes it helps.  You'll know within 24 hours.  Do you want to try?" 

"Yes." 

Gideon walked back out to my car.  At home, Marcos lifted him out of my cargo space, but he walked into the house.  He tried to lay in our front room, but I coaxed him up to lay on his orthopedic bed.  He didn't walk or stand again.  

The next day he laid on his bed all morning. He ate, and he looked happy to have our love and attention, but he didn't stand.  The weather was beautiful, so I dragged his bed to the backdoor and let him lay in the open doorway.  A breeze blew by, and he urinated on his bed.  He looked at me saddly, and I grabbed wads of paper towels to soak it up.  I kissed him and told him it was okay.  I called the vet, and made the appointment for the following day.  I slept downstairs on the fold-out bed that night.  Throughout the night I woke up to see him panting, in pain, but he never cried.  In the morning, I put chicken thighs in the crockpot for him and Noelle. I spent most of the day sitting next to his bed.  He was offered, and chomped at the chance, to eat bits of food.  When the chicken thighs were ready, he devoured the first one I offered him.  I packed another two to take in the car with me, and then it was time to go.  

Marcos had to pick him up, and he let out the first and only painful cry I heard from him.  I carried his bed out right behind them, and stuffed it into the cargo space of my car.  Marcos set Gideon down on top, and off we went. 

Marcos and the girls were home in quarantine for COVID.  I had just made it through my ten days in time to take Gideon t othe vet a couple of days prior.  I still felt bad for going, but I didn't know what else to do.  If I had waited even one more day, Gideon might not even be able to eat.  So, as it was, we sat together in my cargo space and on my tailgate.  I offered him the chicken thighs I had packed, and he ate heartily.  I kissed him repeatedly through my mask, trying to do "my part" but also thoroughly resenting my part on that particular day.  

When the tech came to get him, she asked if he could walk.  I said I didn't think so, and she asked me to back my car up to the back door.  She and another tech brought the gurney out.  They tried to lift him - He was huge, almost 100 pounds.  We finally worked togther to lift the bed onto the gurney.  I kissed him again, and said I would see him soon. 

Soon enough, a tech came out, and I prepared to follow her inside.  

"Um.  He's very restless.  Dr. Utt wants to know if we can give him a sedative.  He just - he won't calm down."

"It's not time," I said frantically. "Maybe it's not time.  He's not ready, maybe today isn't the day." 

She touched my arm. "No.  It's time.  He's just scared.  You don't want him to be scared.  Can we give him the sedative?  It will be mild."  

"Yes."  

When they brought me in, there he was, his massive body on that table, his eyes already vacant.  I realized I had said my last goodbye in the parking lot, without knowing it, and maybe it was better that way.  I stroked his coarse fur. Dr. Utt came into the room.

"It's the right thing to do, right?"

"It's not the wrong thing.  This is so hard on a big dog. He's a very special guy." Ever the doctor.  I just wanted some reassurance that we shouldn't just turn around and go back home.  She couldn't give that to me.  I just had to trust my heart.  

As she injected him, I kissed him relentlessly, whispering in his ear, "You have been such a good boy.  I love you so much.  Thank you.  You've been such a good boy."  The medication took a long time to course through his giant body.  My strong boy, to the end.  

And as I stood there, I was transported to that June day, 2011, when I said goodbye to my only son.  I recalled the tears I had cried into that wiry brown fur.  The times I held him because I couldn't hold Gabriel.  The weight of 10 years of struggle - 10 years of loving and caring for this beautiful dog and all of his medical issues, 10 years of loving my medically fragile son who could not stay to be cared for, 10 years of putting on a brave face, 10 years of exposing my brokenness but ploughing ahead anyway - the weight of my grief came crashing down on me as my dear Gideon took his last breath

I proceeded to get very drunk that night.  Selfishly, I had hoped Gideon would make it to the following week, AFTER I marked the 10 year anniversary of Gabriel's Diagnosis Day, January 31, 2021. 

What is it about 10 years?  Is it because we have a name for it - a decade - that makes that particular year so rough?  If I were celebrating 10 years of marriage, or 10 years of sobriety, or 10 years at a job, or 10 years since I graduated high school, the celebration make sense, and others would join me. But grief - We don't treat it that way.  10 years of grief means you grieved 9 years too long.  That should have been put on a shelf long ago.  10 years means you can let go now, FINALLY.  You don't have to count birthdays.  You don't have to think about the what ifs.  You don't have to make note of the empty chair at the table.  You don't need to hang his Christmas stocking anymore.  

But grief doesn't work that way.  Motherhood doesn't work that way.  I can't table the biological connection to a little boy that I carried inside of me, who changed the makeup of my body, and who made me a little more aware of the soul that I was created to be long before I was born.  

When my Aunt Naomi told me she had a litter of puppies, and one male left that I could have, but he had a "lazy leg," I didn't ask what was wrong with him, I just took him.  I wanted him, without condition.  And when I found out on September 28, 2010 that I was pregnant with the baby that would be my first and only son, by that point his neural tube already abnormally developed, I did not ask what could go wrong.  I wanted him, and I loved him, and I love him without condition.  I would not give up on Gideon or Gabriel because it was hard.  And I won't stop grieving them now just because it is hard, or it is "time," or because I have surviving children and a surviving dog. They are part of me. Words cannot express how they changed me, how they have both imprinted my soul.  I could never describe it; it takes more than words.   

Blue

Less than three minutes.  The walk from our new home to the public elementary school the girls were supposed to attend this year takes less than 3 minutes.  That's the number one reason we chose the home, which is lovely and suits us well but we had a perfectly lovely home that suites us well before we moved, except that it wasn't a three minute walk away from the school.  We didn't live in the neighborhood with their would-be classmates.  

Marcos first raised interest in living in the neighborhood surrounding the school during Eden's kindergarten year last year.  I was easily sold on the idea, as I was bussed out of my home school neighborhood starting in the 3rd grade.  I rarely got to go to a friend's house after school, and even less frequently was able to have friends over to my house.  I loved the idea of cooking dinner in the kitchen for the girls' friends once in a while, and being able to walk their friends home down the street.  

Like a fool, I honestly believed we would be returning to school in two weeks - Maybe after Easter break.  As we signed the closing documents on our home, I certainly didn't think we would not be returning to school in the fall.  Sitting on the school campus, reviewing enrollment documents for Delilah with the staff, I believed that this Wednesday, August 12, I would be taking that three minute walk, the girls' hands in mine, to their first day of 1st grade and TK.  

Things aren't going to play out the way I had hoped.  

The school, along with all of the other schools in the district, will be starting the fall with distance learning.  We've made the very difficult decision to withdraw the girls from the public school system for now.  I still find myself vacillating as to whether we are doing the right thing for our children, just as I am sure the people who made this decision for the public schools have wavered themselves.  I don't know what the right decision is this moment, and I know that we will still be seeing the repercussions of today's decisions many years down the road.  My only goal is to mitigate the disruption to Eden's and Delilah's lives.  5 months ago they were abruptly shut out of school and other public places, isolated from their grandparents and their cousins and friends.  The same thing that every other child was going through, except every other child isn't mine - Eden and Delilah are mine.  They sacrificed without being asked if they were willing to sacrifice.  And now I am angry that we couldn't pull together as a community to sacrifice for all of our children and I'm driven now by what is best for them.  

I do understand that everyone's plans for this school year have changed.  

But I'm tired of having to change my plans.  And even more than that, I'm tired of being told I just need to change my plans and roll with the punches, as though the punches don't suck.  

Having my children attend school, just as I attended school and my parents attended school and as we have structured our society for decades now, didn't seem like so much to hope for. 

Having my son live for 11 days didn't seem like so much to hope for.  

9 and a half years ago my dreams for my son were shattered with three words:  "Incompatible with life."  So why should three words, "All distance learning," be so devastating now?  But they are.  Words can't express how defeated I feel right now.  Why can't shit just go right?   That's about all I can come up with. 

This is my annual "Blue" entry.  I usually write this entry in June, around the time of Gabriel's birthday or anniversary of his passing, depending on the time, and when the words find their way to my brain and out through my fingertips.  Two months have passed since Gabriel's 9th birthday, and I still don't have the words.  Every ounce of my brain power goes to my job, which has become increasingly stressful as we still have not been permitted to return to in-person appearances.  Every bit of my creative thought goes into figuring out how to reassemble a  sense of normalcy for my daughters.  Every day I find myself teetering on the edge of a hideous breakdown and wanting to flee, but there's no where to go and so every day I find myself resenting the trap I am in, but knowing that some degree of lockdown is still what the community needs.  I would go to the bar and have a drink and a think on the issue, but, you know. 

I think some people find the response easy:  We definitely should be locked down, or we definitely shouldn't be locked down.  I envy them.  But I think most of us are somewhere in the middle.  I don't know what's best.  I know I worry for my mental health every day.  For as long as I can remember, I spend most days fighting thoughts that I am worthless, and now our culture is largely telling me, "Yes, Andrea, you are in fact worth less than the person who you may or may not infect."  So I tell myself, "They're right.  You're not that important."  Every day, I have to look for a reason to live.  Sometimes the reason comes easily, when I first hear the girls stir in the morning.  Other days, it's not so easy to find, on those days when I genuinely believe the girls would be better off without a mother who has to regularly claw her way out of depression and anxiety.  On those days the reasons may be as big as fear of hell, to wanting to know the judge's decision in a pending trial, to the season premier of The Handmaid's Tale being so close if I could just not kill myself today. I always find a reason and I suspect I always will but my guess is I will always struggle.

So maybe that's why I like a plan.  A calendar of deadlines to keep me from dying so that there's always one more reason ahead of me. 

I was really looking forward to that first walk to school with my girls, and even if I mark my calendar for next year, I'm not sure how I'm going to make it there.  

My Will Surives

Roll over.

Throw the blankets off.

One foot on the floor.

Two feet on the floor.

Walk.

I will myself to start the day, because that is the hardest part.

Soon, the girls will wake up and I'll be too busy to notice that I am grieving, but I will feel it with every step.

Though some days are harder than others, not a day has gone by since this day 9 years ago that I haven't struggled just to keep living.   I wonder daily what right I have to breathe when my son cannot.  I wonder why I simply couldn't take his place and give him, with all the potential of a new life, the opportunity to live.

But I did give him life.  I carried him, even under circumstances where most women wouldn't, and every single day that I carried him I knew he would be something special.  Even when those dreams shifted, even when I knew his life would be short, I knew it would be meaningful, because he was unique, his own person, with his own destiny and his own purpose in life.

Some days those thoughts carry me.  We aren't promised a long life.  Not a day is guaranteed.  It's cosmic.  It's scientific.  It's the way things go.

Other days - today - I can't understand how the world keeps spinning, how the sun goes on shining, why business is still conducted, why people still drive the streets and still drive like such assholes and I hate them all, every single one of them because they dare to be on the road with me on this day that the world ended yet still somehow went on.  How is my heart still beating with this tremendous hole deep inside of it?

Nothing makes sense.  My baby had just started moving; how could he be dying already?  My son has died; why am I still alive?  My heart is broken; how can it still love?  My daughters are healthy and thriving; why isn't my son?  The world ended 9 years ago today; so how is it that life has gone on?

Determination.  Hope.  Gideon.  Will power.  Promise.  Whiskey.  Noelle.  Clients.  Mock Trial.  Marcos.  Eden.  Delilah.  Spring Training.  Love.  Every day I search for a reason, and every day for 9 years I have been able to find one.  I search for the reason, I will myself to start the day, I get through the hardest part.  Life is hard.  It is fragile.  It is unfair and imperfect and sometimes it's short.  So I take every day I am given.  I take every day because my son only got ten of them, and I take every day because I pray my daughters have thousands of them.  I take every day, the weight of Gabriel's death weighing deep in my bones, bleeding from my heart, eased by the hope that I will see him again some day.  That is how I get by in this post-apocalyptic world - Finding the beauty in what remains, and hope in what is to come.

The Couches

One fine day, I reported for an ultrasound.

The baby was not cooperating, and I should go walk around a bit.

"Something's wrong," my child's father asserted.

"You're paranoid."

But actually, he wasn't. A few moments later the tech told me to wait for the doctor and a few moments after that, a doctor who ruined my fucking life brought my world down with three words: "Incompatible with life." In two weeks we would see a specialist, who may or may not confirm the diagnosis.

So I did what anyone would do.

I shopped for couches.

"We're having a baby. We need something to bring a baby to."

With all the moronic faith in the world I turned over the pittance of a tax return, our first as a married couple (and as it turns out, one of only two we would file together), to buy a sofa and a loveseat. 

How stupid of me, to believe. 

It didn't fix anything. Not long after, a specialist confirmed the words of that bitch ass whore slut idiot doctor. My baby had anencephaly. He would die.

I had options, but there was no choice for me. I did the only right thing, and I carried my baby, and I had my baby and 2 days after his birth, Gabriel and I were discharged from the hospital and sent home.  We laid on those couches and lived and cuddled and loved and fought and snuggled and after eight days on those couches, he died. In my arms. On the couch.

I waited long hours on those couches for Gabriel's father to come home, drunk. I crawled from the depths of my despair, some days dragging myself from my bed only to get so far as those couches.  When I was divorced and needed a roommate to help with the rent, I relinquished the couches to a stranger as a part of communal living space.

One day, sitting on the sofa writing thank you notes my baby shower, I became quite aware my unborn child would be born that day, and Eden came barreling into the world hours later.

Those couches were picked up and moved to our new home and the memories of my son were stretched thinner as I built a new home and a new family and new memories of those couches.

We decided to buy new couches, and I could handle that. But the old couches, The Couches, must stay in our living room until we were sure that the new family sectional was a good fit.

So every morning the memories and couches greet me, assaulting me with reality. People live, but people die. My beautiful daughters don't know how every breath I take both rewards and punishes me. They still jump and play on the old couches, unaware how The Couches are haunting me.

It's January. And I'm fucking sad. I'm sitting on my new reclining sectional, plugged in to its power source, with my cocktail in its built-in cup holder, grieving the 9 year old couches in the next room.  Grieving the Andrea who died the day she learned her son would die.

Countdown to D-Day has begun.

The Possum

About two weeks ago I saw a possum that had been struck by a car, lying dead on the painted center divider on Truxtun extension.  For a week I passed by that possum, watching his little body get flatter and flatter.  I passed by him every weekday and wondered how he came to be crossing that main road alone, and who struck him on the center divider.  Why hadn't animal control come to clean him up.

One night I woke to the sound of rain and I started to think about the possum.  I thought about his tiny body decomposing as the water dumped on him.  Did he have a family?  Do they wonder about him?  Was a possum waiting for him on the other side of the road? 

He was still there today, just a flattened carcass.  If you drove by today, you wouldn't know he was a possum.  He's got a story.  He lived a life.  Then one day he was killed, and he never even got a proper burial.  It's like he never even mattered. 

That's gotta be the worst thing.  To die, and disappear, and it's like you never even mattered. 

For the first time since he passed, I did not go to the cemetery to visit Gabriel's headstone on Thanksgiving.  'They' say visiting the cemetery isn't as important as keeping his memory alive.  And I know that Gabriel's memory lives on and that I am the one keeping it alive.  But I hate the thought of him not having flowers at Thanksgiving.  I hate the thought of somebody passing by his plaque and thinking, "That poor little baby.  He only lived ten days, and now, he's forgotten. It's like he never even mattered."

Because he did matter.  He was my whole world.  The whole world ended the day that he died and while I managed to crawl from its ashes, I'm living in a whole new world, where love is fragile and guarded and life is uncertain and the rain pours down on a possum who never even knew what hit him. 

Fade Into Blue

It niggles at me a little every day, and has for the past almost two months.

I never did write my annual "Blue" entry for Gabriel's birthday or passing.  The tradition began on June 12, 2012, one year and two days after he was born, with an entry called "The Blueberry Bush Revisited," and is a reflection of another year since the birth and death of my first born child and only son.  

Eight years into this process, I seem to have simply faded into blue.  Every morning, I spend at least some time searching for motivation to get up, to breathe, to live.  Every morning, it would appear, I find it, somewhere, however nominal it might be that particular day.  One foot in front of the other, I make my way to the bathroom to get ready for the day, to raise Eden and Delilah, to maintain a career, to tend bar, even to tap dance.  My life is full of joy, but a big part of the experience of joy, for me, is sheer grief.  

Two days ago as Eden lined up with her new kindergarten classmates to walk with her teacher to her classroom for the first time, tears slid down my face.  Tears of pride in the bright, strong, healthy girl that brought the color back into my world.  Tears of mourning, over the two children before her that won't go to kindergarten, the siblings that she'll never get to meet on this earth.  Tears of desperation, over the high likelihood that she and Delilah will be my only children that I will get to see off to kindergarten, and the speed with which this all seems to be happening, my family not at all what I imagined it to be.  One foot in front of the other, she walked with a lightness that has long left me, with a carefree ease I pray she is able to keep.  

At about ten minutes to noon that day, shortly before I was to leave to pick her up after her first day, I sat alone at my kitchen table, eating what I wanted to eat and watching what I wanted to watch in a rare moment of quiet in my home.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, I began to sob.  Nothing is louder than a quiet house and the absence of voices and footsteps that you expected would fill your home.  My miscarried child and Gabriel would have been in the third grade this year.  I thought there would be at least two more children following Delilah.  The hollow sound of what might have been. 

Though the years have gone by quickly, the days are long, and busy, and rarely is there time to feel these things in a dedicated moment of grief.  Instead, it just lives in me, in the soles of my feet, in the crevices of my broken heart, in the weight on my shoulders, in eyelids that burn to cry while still holding back tears.  This is it.  The Fade Into Blue. 

Grey Joy

*Heads up:  This entry will contain spoilers for the final season of Game of Thrones





















Only twice in my life of television viewing can I recall drastically changing my opinion of a character from loathing to championing.

The first was Todd Manning, introduced to viewers of the long-airing soap opera "One Life to Live" when he and his frat brothers gang raped Marty Saybrook at a party.  Over the years, the sincere remorse that his character showed for what he had done to Marty, as well as the odd friendship that he developed with her, led me to let my guard down and learn to care for this character too.  I kept the events with Marty in the back of my mind for the many years that I continued to watch the show, but allowed myself to be swept up in the storylines that gave dimension to his character such that he was no longer defined, for me, by that one gravely criminal act.

The second has been Theon Greyjoy.  In the first season of Game of Thrones, he shows us no redeeming qualities.  He is a shallow, oversexed, callous teenage boy, and the complexities of being raised by one family while being the heir to the lord of the Iron Islands isn't explored.  By the second season, he's demonstrated himself to be an uninspiring leader, a traitor to the family that raised him, and willing to kill two young boys to earn his father's favor.  In the beginning of season 3, the average viewer is probably thinking that the torture Theon suffers is exactly what he deserves, but for me things started to turn when Ramsey Bolton uses two women to tempt his shell-shocked prisoner Theon, only to castrate him.

I really don't know what someone could do to make me believe that they deserved the life that unfolded for Theon after that.  Even as I would recall Theon having killed the two farm boys, lying and trying to pass them off as Bran and Ricon Stark, I found myself applying Game of Thrones realism - That the act was part of playing the Game of Thrones, which is deadly and brutal.  Torturing Theon, abusing him into submission, mutilating him, and stripping him of his identity was sadistic, and went beyond just trying to be a lord or king.  For me, it was one of the most painful storylines to watch.

It only got harder when Sansa Stark returned to Winterfell to marry Ramsey.  There's a case to be made that Theon should have acted sooner to defend Sansa from the disgusting brutality she suffered at Ramsey's hands.  But everything in Theon's presence - from his posture to his appearance to his limited dialogue - indicated that he was truly Ramsey's slave.  He even slept in the kennels, with Ramsey's hounds.  I should probably find the housing appropriate for his crimes but the thing about Game of Thrones is that your normal sense of morality is suspended and your sense of justice changes to accommodate the violent series backdrop.   No matter what he had done wrong, I couldn't accept that Theon deserved what happened to him.

As the series went on, I started to think Theon would never redeem himself in the eyes of those who knew him.  Ever.  He killed Myranda and saved Sansa from certain death if Ramsey had caught them.  He helped her flee, pushing her to keep going through the winter snow, through an icy river, until she had been safely delivered to Brienne.  From there he returned to the Iron Islands and conceded the throne to his sister Yara, and conspired with her to thwart Yuron's attempts to take the throne.  But for every two steps forward, it seemed he took two back.  When Yara's fleet was attacked, he jumped ship (like, seriously) while Yara was captured.  And when he rescued her, she thanked him by punching him in the face.   He might have deserved that.

When Theon returned to Winterfell once again to fight during the Long Night battle, I unexpectedly cried when Sansa greeted him with a hug.  The Game of Thrones world is strange and complex and in the real world Sansa might never want to see Theon again, but in the Game of Thrones world, relationships are strange, allies are few, and friends are fewer so you take them.

During the Long Night, Theon was assigned to guard Bran.  He was the first character I heard say, "Make every shot count."  It seems so small, but most of the battle was futile and Theon seemed to be the only person who was battling thoughtfully.  He seemed to understand the gravity of his role.  For me, the most powerful moment of the Long Night episode was hearing Bran say to Theon, "You're a good man.  Thank you."  I didn't think Theon would ever get to hear those words.  They seemed to set him free.  He died in a pointless attempt to kill the Night King, and I was disappointed in that.  But I was happy that he was at rest.

I think every day about the many, many, serious mistakes I've made in my life.  They are the kinds of mistakes that I can't really talk about.  Things that will likely haunt me until I die.  Things that lead me to believe that the tragedies I've suffered are just what I deserve.  My friends and family will say to me, "That's ridiculous.  That's not possible."  But I think maybe it's not impossible.

My joy is always shadowed with grey.  It's always weighted with sadness and regret.  I love my children so very much, but I also know that they have been given a mother who is burdened by her mistakes, who has been damaged by her own actions, who isn't the best mother she could have been because she's already sent herself down a broken path.  My life is full and my blessings are many; still, I know I'll live my life of grey joy and regret, hoping that at the end of it all I will hear, from the One Who Matters, "You're a good woman." And I never rest easy, believing that I will. 

Moment to Moment

I recently had the most proximate experience with roadkill that I have ever had.

The dog must have been hit a car just two or three cars ahead of me.  His entrails lay in a fresh heap on the freeway and I was able to safely swerve but no one ahead of me seemed to do the same, which lead me to believe it had to have been one of them.

I'll never get used to it.  I'll never be unaffected by the sight of a dead animal on the road.

Death should affect us.  Whether it is an animal or a person, death should prompt us to appreciate life and acknowledge our mortality.  After all, death is coming for all of us.

Death worries me and fascinates me and preoccupies me and kinda scares me.  A defense mechanism developed after experiencing traumatic deaths in my life, is that I consider every day that it might be my last day.  I at once anticipate it, and fear it.  I don't want to die yet, but experience tells me that death is indiscriminate.

I feel confident that there is a life after death, but occasionally I wonder if I'm wrong about that.

More frequently, I worry that I haven't done enough to earn life after death.  And I know that, whether I have or haven't, I won't know it until I am dead.  Which really freaks me out.

In my boundless interest with death, I find Good Friday to be one of my favorite days of the liturgical year.  Christ died, even though he didn't want to, and even though he didn't have to.  He chose to die, even while asking if that really was the only way for his mission to be accomplished.  That fascinates me, too, and humbles me, and makes me so incredibly sorry for all of my wrongs. For the small ones and especially for the big ones.

A lot of people find that the devil's attempts to derail their faith increase during Lent.  I find the opposite to be true, that my faith automatically grows stronger and vascilates less in this time.  I never have more faith in Christ than when I consider His death.

When someone I know dies, I always find myself struck by the realization that I will never see them again on this earth.  It's a huge concept to wrap your mind around, and a strange one.  They were here, and now they are not.

Every Good Friday, I find struck by the idea that one moment Jesus was here, alive one moment, and then dead the next.  I allow myself to be burdened by His crucifixion, to think about it, to grieve it, to walk under the weight of that wood.  I don't deserve His sacrifice, and meditating on it seems like the least I can do.  It was an excruciating, humiliating death that his mother and closest friends had to watch.  And He chose it for me, personally.  And for you, personally.  For each of us, personally.  We each matter to him.

Death should affect us, because each of our lives have effect.  We each change the world by being in it, and the world is a different place the moment we are gone.

Just Dance

"From the top!"

Every time Mr. Marvin says it, I feel like a star, even though I am the worst dancer in my class, with the least amount of experience.  But for one summer for a few weeks at the YWCA, I had not had any tap dancing training.  When I started taking classes 5 weeks ago I figured I was too old to learn and would promptly make a fool of myself and in fact, I do, every week when we learn a new and more complicated combination.  And I love it.

I love learning.  I love growing.  For the first time in my life, I sincerely love being corrected.  I love the patience Mr. Marvin extends me.  I love the students who encourage me even when they are already so good.  Most of all, I love that for an hour every week, I am just dancing, the satisfying, rhythmic (when I can manage it) tap of my shoes distracting me from the incessant dialogue in my mind over my responsibilities, my shortcomings, my trauma, my grief.

A sign in the studio reads, "Life isn't about hiding from the storm.  It's about learning to dance in the rain."  8 years ago today I "came out" with Gabriel's terminal diagnosis.  Looking back it was perfectly timed and carried out, but back then I was really just flying by the seat of my pants. I always want everything to go according to my plan, and the situation I was facing was nothing like what I had planned.   For nearly 6 weeks I carried the painful burden of knowing my son would die, with a growing belly that was increasingly being met with smiles and words of congratulations.  And I smiled, and carried on, but inside my storm was raging.  And then I opened up to my friends, and there I was, dancing in the rain.  There were days I cried and days that I laughed, but I was living in a way that I never had, and enjoying every minute with my son.

Life since then has been a roller coaster of experiences, and emotions, and long bouts of depression, and moments of great joy.  And I'm tired.  I am tired on Tuesday nights at 7:15 when I leave for dance class.  By then, I have wrangled two kids and dropped them off at two different places, having had to remember which Dr. Suess dress up day it is, and to pack Delilah's lunch and grab her therapy binder.  I feel a sense of relief when each child gets to her respective location, and I am on my way to work, but I immediately begin missing them.  They are on my mind even as I listen to my clients, argue with opposing counsel, present my case to the judge, and think about getting dinner on the table for them in the evening. After work our home is a mad rush of dinner and dishes and laundry and baths and playing.  Marcos and I are in survival mode, just trying to keep our heads above water.  And at 7:15, I head out, and once again I begin missing my girls, wondering which stories they will choose at bedtime, and about the funny things 'Mr. Bear' will say that night.  Then I put on my tap shoes, and we do some shuffles to warm up, and I am dancing.  I am dancing because my son can't, so I will.  I am dancing because my girls are learning, and I want to teach them.  I am dancing because it feels good.  It doesn't come naturally to me.  I have to think about my steps, I am training my body to do things it hasn't had to do.  It's work, and I love it.

In June, two days before Gabriel's 8th birthday, I will perform in the same recital as my girls, on the stage in the East High auditorium where I performed in plays and concerts and received scholarships and awards when I was in high school.  I'm nervous already - More than I ever was to do any of those things.  What if I mess up?

One of the most important things I am learning in dance is that inevitably, I will mess up.  I make mistakes, my plans get off track, and things don't always go as I want them to.  I can practice, I can prepare, but life will still happen.  So what I'm learning, is to recover, and keep dancing, even in the rain.

Fighting to Be Warm, Finding Shelter in the Storm

"You can just put it down."

A ten pound weight sat in my lap, and Renata was sitting across from me, just waiting.  Although we spend most of the hour just talking, this is not talk therapy.  I've exhausted its effectiveness, without relief.  So every other week I see Renata for somatic bodywork therapy.  We meet in a yoga studio and sit in two chairs, face to face, just a couple of feet apart and we talk in a way that is meant to elicit a physical response, so that I can learn to recognize my emotions, and control them.  Or some shit like that.

And on that particular day, we were talking about Sean.

We were talking about the guilt that I have carried for 14 years.  We were talking about my regret over the last words we said to each other, and my regret over not answering his phone call later that night.  We talked about my sense of duty, to remember him and to pray for him. The ten pound weight in my lap was supposed to represent it all. Renata, in her new age wisdom, was giving me the freedom to let it all go.

"If you want to.  You don't have to.  But if you keep it, it's your choice."

"I don't want to let it go."

"That's okay.  But know this:  You're choosing to carry this weight, because you are helping Sean.  You're helping to carry his burden.  You are taking this on for him out of love."

We had just finished talking about Purgatory.

"I don't know if he's safe yet.  I don't know if he's made it to Heaven yet.  And we believe - I believe that our experiences on earth and our thoughts and our prayers can help to release the souls in Purgatory.  We don't know how long we are there and it probably varies for each person, but we do know most of us are going to end up there at some point. I don't know.  And because I don't know, I can't give up."

I don't have to pray for the souls of Gabriel or my miscarried child.  Their fate was certain.  But a 26 year old man with his share of struggles and sins, who exits this earth so suddenly and shockingly - I don't know what the sentence is for that.  And I am not sure what my responsibility is, as the last person to see him alive, the last person to talk to him - Likely, the last phone call he ever made.  And the first person to find his lifeless body.  I hurt him, and he hurt me. And what we can each do for the other now to make up for it, is uncertain.

So I carry this weight to say that I am sorry - Not because I didn't save him.  I know I couldn't.  I'm sorry for the things I said, the things I did.  The way things were left between us.

Inevitably, at this time of year, Sean seems to speak to me through the radio.

"It's just a coincidence," people have said. Or, more commonly, "You just notice it more this time of year."  That's certainly not true.  EVERY time I hear "We've Got Tonight," EVERY time I hear "Against the Wind," EVERY time I hear "Fire and Rain," "One More Day," "The Dance," "Wild World," or any Bob Dylan song, I think of Sean.   It's no accident.  As the rain pelted my car windows this morning, I knew there was a reason I was hearing "Shelter From the Storm" just then.  I'm just not sure what it means.

I do know that, as has become an annual custom, tonight I will smile and have a great time.  I will sing and enjoy the annual Anti-Valentine's Day event with my friends, in the very place that I first met Sean Nathan Talbert and one of the last places I saw him alive.  And as I laugh and smile and sing, my heart will still be heavy with regret and a sorrow that is rooted in care.

As the night draws to an end, as is tradition, I will make my announcement. "I throw this party every year in memory of one person.  I know tonight we've joked a lot about love and how little use we have for it.  But on this day, I lost someone I love.  So when you love someone, say it.  You're not promised a single day, so don't let a day go by without telling someone you love them."  I will then sing, as I always do, "Long Trip Alone" by Dierks Bently, fighting the tears as I say, "So maybe you can walk with me a while.  Maybe I can rest beneath your smile.  You know we can't afford to let one moment pass us by, 'cause it's a short piece of time."

When he died, he taught me how to live.  I found a strength I didn't know I had.  If not for my experience with Sean, I don't know how I would have survived the loss of my son.  Only after he was gone did I realize how much he had helped me work through having been raped - All while he was wrestling his own demons.  I owe him.

For that, I'll carry the weight.

Dancing in the Rain

"Chapter 1:  Surviving the worst news you'll ever get."

I closed the book and set it down.

Fools.

8 years ago today, my mind started writing a handbook that would have been aptly titled, "Surviving the Worst News You'll Ever Get."  8 years ago some tech, who wouldn't recognize me if I walked right up to her, told me to wait while she got the doctor, and then that doctor, who wouldn't recognize me if I walked right up to her, brought my world down with a sentence: "The condition is incompatible with life."  Anyone in the anencephaly community will tell you they can recall the date of diagnosis day just as they would recall the date of their child's birth.  It's the day we start living a new life, the life of a grieving parent.

Since then, there are days that I live, but there are days I'm only surviving and throughout every day there are moments of both.  Shortly after that news was delivered to me, after traveling a long road that still went by too quickly, my only son died in my arms.

So as I sat there, reading Overcoming Autism, my patience threshhold was low.

But I guess you will want to know why I was reading this book.

About a year ago, Marcos began to suspect that Delilah wasn't developing at an appropriate pace.  He suspected autism.  I thought he was insane.  She looked me in the eye, laughed with me, played with her sister.  She had hundreds of words to her vocabulary.  She knew her alphabet and her numbers.  I mean, she recited it all the time, along with scenes from movies and responses from Mass and it was cute the way she did the priest's part too.  And when she has to get in and out of the car three times to do it 'right,' it's quirky. Okay.  Maybe he was on to something. 

We began the long process of diagnosis that is still ongoing today.  Delilah has been provisionally diagnosed with autism, and has been receiving behavioral therapy for about 2 months.  Her team of therapists and supervisors call her delightful and intelligent, and a cutie.

I know that we are fortunate.  Delilah is verbal and social and affectionate and an excellent dancer, and I would still describe her as quirky.  She's perfect.

January is a tough month for me, and it's capped off with Diagnosis Day, and leads right into another personally difficult month.  It is also a month of odd moments of clarity.  I was devastated by Gabriel's diagnosis of anencephaly, and by the news that he would not live long after birth.  I also find it annoying that in light of all of Delilah's strengths and talents, she still has some delay and we need help getting her caught up. Having strangers in our home two to three nights a week is sometimes frustrating too.  Yet, it's all a blessing. We have incredible access to treatment, and we have a little girl who strides more than she struggles. The 'strangers' become less and less like strangers, and more a part of our lives as we raise a child with some yet-to-be-diagnosed issues.

The pregnancy with Gabriel and the pregnancy with Delilah couldn't have been more different.  But for that huge hiccup 8 years ago today, my pregnancy with Gabriel was uneventful.  When Gabriel was born he was missing his frontal and both parietal bones - things, it turns out, we need to live, but he was otherise perfect.  With Dee, on the other hand, we experienced arrythmia, and a "normal variant." When she was born she had torticollis, and a tiny fold in her ear that is still there today.  With each of those conditions, I insisted Marcos be the one take her to the doctor for what seemed to be to be his own ridiculous, nitpicky worries.  His concerns seemed silly to me and I wouldn't trouble a busy professional with them.  She was living, breathing, with a complete skull, and it seemed silly to me to complain. When she was prescribed physical therapy for the torticollis and photos of her ear were reviewed by the genetic specialist to make sure the defect was merely cosmetic, I had to eat my words and consider that maybe I shouldn't go through life brushing off concerns because they weren't as obvious as an open skull. 

At the same time, I don't want her to struggle.  At all.  With anything.  I want to take every one of her burdens from her and ease them in any way that I can.  I regret, now, dimissing the concerns.  The idea that she doesn't have a missing chunk of skull, doesn't mean she doesn't need me.  I worry constantly about how much I set her back with my skepticism, despite the fact that she has sailed through her treatment so far.

I long to have conversations with her, the way I do with Eden.  When I ask her, "How as your day?" "Who did you play with?" or "Did you sleep well?" I long for her to answer.  For now, I am satisfied that when I say, "I love you, Delilah," she answers "I love you too, Mommy."  I do love her, so, so much.

Here's what I do know, in the crystal clear moments of D Day:  If my child had to have anencephaly, I sure lucked out with one who was as strong and healthy as a baby with anencephaly could be.  He lived 10 days, and that was a gift.   If my child has to have autism - And she may, or may not - I feel tremendously blessed to have this particular (and, she IS particular) little girl.  What I know is that the worst news of my life, twice now, has still been two of the best things to ever happen to me.

The links to some of my favorite D-Day and Dee-related posts are:

https://gabrielsmessagelives.blogspot.com/2017/01/d-is-for-diagnosis-day.html

https://gabrielsmessagelives.blogspot.com/2015/06/shades-of-blue.html

Lacks Foundation

"Your Honor, would you like me to lay foundation?" Tyler asked.

"Yes," responded the judge."

His back was to me as I sat behind my student during the second round of mock trial competition, but I know him well enough by now to know the look on his face in that moment.  He slowly, thoughtfully launched into a series of three questions, then said, "Your Honor, motion to move Exhibit C into evidence."  This time, unopposed, his motion was granted, and my heart swelled with pride.  I scoured the audience to see if Tyler had a parent present to share in the joy, but found none.

When I was asked to be the attorney coach at West High in January 2013, I was told that as a Hispanic woman I would be relateable to my students, most of whom are young Latina girls.  They would see themselves in me, and believe in themselves.  I am hard on my students.  I criticize their accents, their grammar, their presentation, their articulation, their appearance, all when it's appropriate.  I dress for them - I take care when I know I will see them to look presentable.  More than presentable.  I try to look nice.  I want them to know that someday they can walk in my shoes, and that one of the benefits of the hard work is that the shoes are pretty.  I challenge them, because they are better than they often realize, but not as good as they sometimes think.  The practice of law has a way of reminding you almost every day that while you might know a lot more than the average person, there's always something more to learn, and that's why it's always just 'practice.'

But when I look around to find that most of my students do not have a parent there on competition night to support them, I realize that I might look like these kids, but their experience is far different from my own.  Many of my students, don't have a parent who works 'normal' hours and is able to come to their extracurricular events.  Many of my students have parents who don't understand English.  A surprising number of my students have parents who simply don't support their academic endeavors, either because they don't understand them or because they don't think those skills will ever pay off for them.  My role becomes more than 'coach;' I am their cheerleader, their believer, the person who sees them in a real trial someday, as a real lawyer.

Still shell-shocked from the death of my son and subsequent divorce, the students of West High gave me a reason to live again when they invited me into their lives.  They probably didn't think I would be as mean as I am - But I hope someday they'll forgive me.

I place great hope in Mayra, a sophomore when I first met her in January 2013, but now ready to graduate with her Bachelor's degree.  I've never doubted that she will go on to do great things and I follow her progress so I can enjoy her success.  Watching her grow reminds me that this is worthwhile.  Valuable time with my young children is sacrificed so that I can continue to coach and I tell myself that my children have an edge with two parents with advanced education, that many of my students do not have.  There is a machine supporting these students that they do not see, consisting of my children, my husband, my parents who help with Eden and Delilah when my husband and I aren't available, and my employers who support me and work with me in these volunteer efforts.  Our teacher coach, Carrie, and my co-attorney coach Sarah are making the same kind of sacrifice, with spouses and family and obligations that are deferred so we can help these kids succeed.  They are going to improve their lives and their families' lives, and we get to be a part of it.

I realize now that I took for granted the support of my parents and teachers and coaches along the way.  The oldest of four, I always felt that I didn't get the kind of attention and support that I wanted, especially when my baby sister came along during my junior year of high school.  Now I see that my parents moved mountains to make all of us feel equally loved, supported, and encouraged.  I see the challenge that went into raising four very different people with very different interests which pulled their time and attention into four very different directions.  I recognize, now, that they are still the people who believe in us the most and who hope the most for our success.

The phrase "It takes a village" is no cliche.  I recently expressed my interest in taking West High to the state mock trial competition, and was met with the kind of look which suggests that I might be the only person who believes we can go to state.  Every May, four months after the mock trial competition season has ended for us, as I sit discreetly in the auditorium to watch my students receive their senior awards before they move on with their lives while I plan for another year that hopefully ends at state, I wonder if it's true that I am the only one with this hope and dream.  Then common sense prevails.  Every year, there is at least one senior student who is hoping this, their last chance, will be the year.  Every year I know my fellow coaches, as tired as we are, want the same.  I know my family believes in us too.

In the bleakness of January, a month that has been so very hard on me for so many years, these dreams are my ray of light.  To the outsider, the dream may seem hopeless, may seem to lack foundation.  But with a little bit of inquiry the outsider will see that we are still on track to make our dreams come true.

Part of Their World

I woke Saturday morning and, as has become my custom, I scrolled through Facebook before getting out of bed. That's when I learned that Eli, who recently turned 5 years old after having been diagnosed with anencephaly before birth, had passed away.  I knew he was sick, but still, this seemed to happen more suddenly than when Baby Vitoria, Baby Pearce, or Baby Angela passed away.  In the 7 years since Gabriel was diagnosed with anencephaly, our community has lost so many special children.  When our babies survive for years, the rest of the community tends to live vicariously through his or her parents.  At a meet n' greet held earlier in the year, parents who had lost their children years ago were able to hold Eli, and through him, hold their baby one more time.  It's hard to explain how much they mean to us - Because it's hard to even explain to most people what it is like to lose a child.  It is inexplicable, and unimaginable. 

I got up, and went about my day with a heavy heart.   

The girls had dance class.  A new girl was in their class, probably about Eden's age.  Her dad sat among the other parents, holding his two other children in his lap.  One of them was a girl, apparently about Delilah's age.  She clapped with delight and narrated the dancers' actions. She laughed at Delilah, who just sorta does her own thing for most of the class.  She moved her arms to show that she could do what the other dancers were doing.  So, I asked her father, "Why isn't she in dance?  She is probably old enough."  He answered, "Well, she's. . ." and he gestured, but I wasn't sure what he meant.  Her mother filled in the gaps, pointing at a small wheelchair.  The little girl doesn't have use of her legs.  Embarrassed and sad, I tried to keep my foot out of my mouth for the rest of class.  In my heart, I know her parents weren't offended or angry with me.  But I know they probably experienced a little sting in their hearts, mourning for the things there little girl would never get to do.  I know, because I have felt the sting in a very different set of circumstances.  

After class I took Eden for her first haircut at a little turn 'em and burn 'em SuperCuts type of salon.  Her hairdresser, Lily, graciously saved the hair she trimmed for Eden and put it in an envelope for me.  She smiled with a whimper when she saw my tears, probably thinking that I was crying because my little girls was growing up and an inch was being trimmed from her long, beautiful hair.  She couldn't have known that I was thinking about the lock of hair from Gabriel, tucked away in his memory box, cut as we prepared his body for transfer to the funeral home.  

We had a quick lunch at home, and I loaded the girls in the car for a quick trip to the park.  There were very few children on the playground, and the girls immediately rushed to the closest play structure, where another little girls was playing and being monitored by her teenage brother.  It took me a second to realize that the gray sweatpants she was wearing were no covering her legs, but two small stubs where her legs would be.  She was moving herself around using her stubs, one longer than the other, and her arms.  Still, she was able to haul herself onto the equipment and use the slides.  "She's pretty amazing, huh?" I said to her brother.  He smiled, and said thanks.  The interaction must have caused her to take notice of me, because she crawled over to my feet and smiled.  I learned that her name was also Lily.  Her brother was loving and doting, but also a teenager, and I could tell he was on some sort of conference call with a girl.  I asked if it was okay to play with her, and he said yes, so I watched her, Eden, and Delilah climb and play on the slide.  Lily asked me to catch her at the bottom of the slide, and she smiled with so much joy when I did.  She chased me, I chased her, she let me hold her to help her with one of the toys.  The park has a baby swing that has a regular swing attached, allowing mothers to face their baby and swing with them.  Lily's brother put Lily in the baby swing and swung with her for a bit, but when Delilah approached he allowed her to take his seat, and he pushed them both on the swing while he kept up his video call.  The tears welled in my eyes, watching Lily and Delilah sit face to face, swinging contentedly, and as always happens in moments like these, I could see the shadow of the 7 year old boy who should have been with us that day.  

The day was full strange coincidences.  Two Lillies.  Two little girls who couldn't walk, couldn't run with legs like most of us have.  

A birthday party was being hosted at the park that day, with a mermaid theme.  For personal reasons I have become more enamoured with the movie "The Little Mermaid" than I was even as a little girl, so my mind drifted easily to the song "Part of Your World." I wondered if either of the little girls I met that day wondered what it would be like to walk, to run like a "normal" person. I wondered if I had it in me to care for a special needs child for 5 years, like Eli's parents did.  I know that I will tell you firmly that I would take my child here with me, even with special needs, any day, but I also know that is quite easy to say when you are not living the struggle that those parents live, and your heart isn't breaking for the things your baby will never get to do.  

Recently I was asked to imagine seeing Gabriel again.  I always see him with a bandage on his open skull.  I always see him as he was here.  That's who he is, to me.  That's who I love.  But my faith teaches me that he is whole now, that Lily will be hole, that the girl in dance class will walk.  They will walk, they will run - God has made a place for them, and for us, that is beyond what we can imagine.  Despite our legs and our abilities and our good health that we enjoy here, we are not whole ourselves.  I long to be with Gabriel, with Eli, with the friends and family I've lost - A part of their world. 

Dedicated to Elijah Sly, Warrior.  

Every Heartbeat Bears Your Name

I'll never forget that day, 8 years ago today.  I can close my eyes and see the orientation of the room, remember the direction my feet were facing.  I was just under 10 weeks pregnant with Gabriel, but since health care professionals count the two weeks leading up to conception as part of the gestational period, really, it had only been 8 weeks since he was conceived.

"It's still early, so I don't want you to worry if we don't hear anything."  I couldn't agree to that, having miscarried less than 6 months earlier, but I nodded. The Doppler wand had barely hit my abdomen when a smile stretched across her face.  "There it is."

The tears flowed freely from my eyes.

I didn't know then, how many tears I would shed over the course of the pregnancy, and during the short life of my baby boy.  I didn't know that he had already begun to grow deformed, that the hourglass had already been turned.  I prayed for God to send me this child, but I forgot to pray for a perfectly formed skull.

What I did know in that moment was that he was strong.  He was there, he was alive, he was my baby.  He was created in the image and likeness of God, a human being, ensouled from the moment of conception, and long a part of God's plan for this earth.

I'm sure it wasn't coincidence that in the few years before Gabriel's birth, God lit a fire inside of me for the unborn.  My voice grew brave and loud and I thought, I could never be silenced on the issue of abortion again as long as I was alive.  And that fire burned in me while the words "incompatible with life" were hurled at my heart, and while I lay in the labor and delivery unit for two days, and as I drove my son home under hospice's care, and while I held my smiling baby boy in my arms, while I cradled him in his sleep, and when I held him in his last hours through seizures.  When his tiny heart stopped beating, I feel like mine did too, but just for a moment.  It jumped started again, alive with passion for my son's legacy and a hunger to help the world to see the value of each human life.

I still feel that fire inside of me, but I'm tired.  I cry for the lives lost in abortion, and I cry for our fallen world.  I feel hopeless.  I'm worried most people won't see the heinousness of this injustice until it is too late, until we are standing before God trying to explain why we allowed this to happen.

"If you don't like abortion, don't have one."  Well, okay.  I won't.  But what am I doing to help the world to see that no one "has" to have an abortion?  That in addition to ending the life of that unborn child, with every abortion we do damage to our own souls.  We pit mothers against children, and we call it a right, when it is oh, so wrong.  We sell it to our women as a solution, instead of assuring them that there is no problem with bringing a new life into the world.

Someone asked me yesterday, in furtherance of her justification as to why it is okay that she is Catholic and vociferously pro-choice, how many unwanted children I care for.  That's what it's come down to:  If I can't fix the world, I shouldn't argue that it shouldn't be destroyed.  It's absolutely illogical.  And it's discouraging, and it weighs on me, and I start to think maybe I should just fold and be silent and let the world have its abortions and trust that God knows I know that it's not what He wants.  The thought of hearing, "You should have done more," eternity with my son out of reach, is unbearable.

We all know social media is no place to debate.  I guess sometimes, I just can't help myself.  I can't see lies and misinformation about the most critical injustice of our time, and let them be.

I don't get to kiss my son goodnight, I don't get to pack his lunch or wash his laundry or drive him to school.  I have some pictures and a lock of hair and a footprint to cling to, and a hope that his life will continue to change hearts. His heart doesn't beat here anymore, but with every beat of mine I carry him with me and I just pray that someday, for all that I've done wrong and still do wrong, I will get to stand before God and hear those words we should all long to hear: "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

He Said, She Said. I Listened.

If you are just tuning in to my inconsequential life, here's what you missed:  On May 7, 2001, when I was 19 years old, I was raped by two men while a third man sat and watched.  I knew the two who raped me, but had never met the third guy.  I believe the second guy to rape me was a ringleader, and that the event wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been there.  I waver between being really angry with that third guy, and understanding him because I was too scared to fight for myself so why should I expect more of him?

Today has been a hard day.  I felt a bit dramatic this morning, being so effected by the testimony of Christine Blassy Ford.  As the day went on I learned through social media that I wasn't the only one, that this was a trigger for a lot of women.  Coincidentally, I was scheduled for a counseling appointment at noon, before Brett Kavanaugh had testified.  She told me many of her clients had shared similar feelings in the last couple of weeks.

I'm having trouble because I want to believe them both, and maybe they are both to be believed.  Maybe she misidentified her attacker, or maybe he really doesn't remember and if that's the case, and if he's never done anything like that again, then I don't think he's a terrible person.  And I don't think I'm a terrible person for thinking that.

This is the problem, right now.  If I say I don't think he's terrible if that's what happened, I feel like a traitor.  Like I am supposed to want him to suffer forever for what might have happened 36 years ago, before he was even an adult, but I can't say that is what I would want.  I went to law school because I wanted to be a criminal defense attorney, I love criminal procedure, i love the checks and balances of due process, I love the presumption of innoncence, and I believe our flawed system to still be the best in the world.  In some ways, I think I will never be able to give him a fair shake because I was able to catch at least part of her testimony live, and on television, and his I have still only heard over the radio.

But here's where I get tangled up - If he's guilty, I can forgive him, but if he's guilty, I want to hear him say it.  I want him to admit to what he did, and I want him to promise that he has never done it again and never will.

He hasn't done that.

So either he is deceiving us all, or he is telling the truth, and she's lying, or she is incorrect in her recollection.  And especially if she is lying, then I will feel like a fool for saying, "There's many reasonable explanations as to why she did not tell."  She was scared.  She was ashamed.  She just wanted to move on.  It wasn't rape.  It's something she should get over.  It's not worth the fight.  I'll feel like a fool for saying "There's many reasons she waited until now."  He is about to be appointed to the highest court in the land.  It is unlikely his reach will ever grow beyond what it would be from that bench.  Better late than never.

I believe all of those things.

Most people don't know the identity of the men who raped me.  I only know the first name of the first guy, but I know him when I see him - And I've seen him.  I could tell you the first and last name of the second guy, the ringleader.  I've shared it with a few people, but I once made the mistake of sharing it with the wrong person.  The next thing I knew, he was sitting in my bar, ordering a screwdriver from me, chatting with me as though we were old friends.  So why did you serve him, you ask?  I;m either really weak or really strong, because I just couldn't, or wouldn't fight with him.  I guess that all depends on how you think I am supposed to act as a victim - or a survivor - of sexual assault.

Today I looked up his criminal history on the Kern County website.  Since he raped me he pled no contest to an unrelated violent crime, and he has had one domestic violence restraining order.  I feel guilty, because I wonder how things would be different, and for whom, if i had reported him.  I wonder if he had hurt someone before me.  I've recently read that women who don't report should be considered guilty of a crime too, but the law doesn't really work that way.  The law doesn't generally tell us what we have to do, it tells us what we cannot do.  We can't go around raping people

Did you read that?  You can't go around raping people.  It's not okay.  Its illegal.  It's illegal because it infringes on the rights of another.  You don't get to intentionally put your hands or your penis on or in someone who says no, or someone who is resisting you, or someone who hasn't expressed to you that she or he wants your physical contact.  Your right to your bodily autonomy ends where mine begins.

Speaking of, that's the whole concern for prolife advocates.  Your right to your body begins where another's fragile, voiceless, defenseless life begins.  I wanted Brett Kavanaugh to be our next Supreme Court Justice, because I believe he will rule consistently in favor of the rights of the unborn and that issue is critical to me.  I don't want him to be guilty, but if he's not, I am afraid of what that means for me.What if the day comes that i have to tell?

People standing at either extreme are going to say that is exactly what the other side wants.

I'm just seeking the truth, and I don't think we'll ever get it here, but what I think is that we have to be honest in our search for the truth.  Reasonable minds might reach different conclusions but I suspect the journey is what matters.

Throughout the day I had a lot of thoughts on what I would write tonight, but most of them couldnt make their way to my fingertips.  So in the next few days I plan to look for the two most honest pieces I have written about being raped.  One is called "Orange Dreams" and one is called "The Night I Died." I wrote them both in the two years following my rape.  I had moved away to San Diego - Knowing I was going to move soon was one of the reasons that I chose not to report and in some ways I escaped, but in other ways, lost in a big and unfamiliar city, I had the freedom to be honest.  I love those pieces because they show a pain that hasn't been demonstrated here.  Being raped changed my life.  It didn't just hurt me, but it hurt my family.  And I don;t just mean my parents and siblings then.  I will never know how my relationship with my husband and daughter today would be different if that had never happened.  I don't get to know that, because I was raped when I was 19 years old, and you don't know who those men are, or where they've gone, but they did it.  I had my chance to report them, and I didn't take it, and the consequence is that they have not been punished for what they did to me and I run the risk that i have to encounter them at any given moment.  I respect - I love - the process enough to protect their names, and I am not sure what it would take to make me give that up.  What I do know is that 17 years have passed, but what they did was as wrong today as it was yesterday.

Me & A Gun

If you haven't heard the song, take a few minutes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RN3zdTXOQAM

It still makes me cry and maybe doesn't seem to make a lot of sense, unless you;ve been in a situation where you have had to check out, go somewhere else, just to get through it.

But that's not really what I want to talk about today.

About three months ago, I took a ladies' handgun course as part of the 10 day celebration of Gabriel's life.  The challenge for the day was to step outside of your comfort zone.  I had never fired a gun, only held one very few times, and to say the class and the opportunity to fire 8 different handguns took me outside of my comfort zone is an understatement.

I'm not asking you to think it's rational, but I hate guns.  I am not asking you to agree, but I know that if Sean didn't have a gun in his home, he wouldn't have died the day that he did.  And you can give me the perfunctory response, that people who are suicidal will find a way to kill themselves, but I will give you my perfunctory response, which is that suicide by gun is one of the most effective ways to kill yourself - More so than hanging, overdosing, slashing your wrists, or jumping from high places.  People who shoot themselves are dead before they even know they've pulled the trigger.  So yeah, maybe someday Sean would have killed himself anyway.  But if he didn't have that gun, he'd have to set up a noose, and that's a pain in the ass.  Or he would have to make up his mind and then go out and find an adequate number of drugs, and in the interim someone might say something to talk him down.  And slitting wrists just wasn't a very Sean thing to do.  Guns were a Sean thing, and a perfectly legitimate thing for him to have in his home.  How very poetic for him to be holding it when he died.

These were the things running through my mind as I sat in class on a Friday evening for approximately two hours of lecture and one hour on the range, including dry shooting 12 handguns followed by live shooting of 8 handguns.  More than once during our class, the instructor looked at me and asked me if I was okay.  Somehow, during a break, it was revealed that I identify as a "liberal" and I was asked what brought a liberal to a handgun course.  I told him that maybe people who identify one way don't have to fit his stereotype, and he seemed to accept that.  I was an excellent student in the classroom, taking diligent notes that I still have on a legal pad. 

When we got to dry shooting, I struggled.  There was a lot to remember and a lot to coordinate with my body and that kind of stuff doesn't come naturally to me.  The guns were heavy.  I had a hard time remembering to keep my finger off the trigger, which is still strange to me because it seemed to be instinct to slip my finger on to the trigger even though I have no experience with guns.  And they tell you to always assume a gun is loaded, which meant around me there were 11 other loaded guns and a bunch of women who had no experience in using them.  But, I managed.

Then it was time for live shooting.  We were able to select a stall with the gun we preferred for dry shooting.  It all happened really fast.  Through my ear protection I could hear the muffled sounds of the instructor telling us to square up, aim, and fire, and the next thing I knew, faster than I realized, I had pulled and there was a bullet hole well above the shoulder of my target, missing the human outline completely, and the tears were streaming down my cheeks.  A ring hovered in the air, probably not for very long at all, but long enough to take me back to that day that I pulled into the parking lot of Sean's apartment complex, ran to his studio apartment, peaked through the blinds, and began pounding the window and tearing it open.

"I have to get out of here."

"What?  Why? Are you okay?"

"I have to get out of here."

I was directed to a booth where I could observe the rest of the live shooting, if I wanted to, and I chose to do so.

Later, the instructor told me the gun I had fired was the most powerful of the eight we were shooting.  It was a Glock 23 in 40 caliber.  Maybe I should have started with something more manageable.

But that wasn't the problem.  The problem is, I hated holding the ability to take a life in my hands.  I have seen too many lives end to want that kind of responsibility.  I've brought life into the world three times, and that's what I prefer to do.  And I don't want to drink myself into a stupor and blow my own head off someday and when considering the possibility of A) Live shooter, B) Armed intruder, or C) Drunken Suicide, C seems the most likely to arise.

Maybe someday I will find myself in a situation, wishing I learned to fire a weapon and had a permit to carry one concealed.  I hope not, but it's not outside the realm of possibility.  Maybe I would be a different person today if I had a gun back when it was me dreaming of Barbados and the soft sweet biscuits of Carolina and the Senior Prom and whatever I had to think about to survive being raped.

What I do know is that who I am today, is not someone who wishes to carry a gun.

My mom asked me I would do something, knowing it would upset me.  Well, I didn't know it would upset me as much as it did.  I also think being afraid of something isn't a good reason to not do something - Even though there are a lot of things I don't do because I am afraid.

I don't get to say anymore, "I've never fired a gun," and that's changed me because that fact was such a significant part of who I was.  For the first few days after, I thought I had compromised myself by undertaking that experience but I don't feel that way anymore.  I chose to challenge myself and I what I've thought for years I now know with certainty:  I hate guns, and I don't want to shoot one again.

Blue Is My Color

Define irony: 1) Ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife; 2) I've got the booze, she's got the chronic, AND the Lakers beat the Supersonics; 3) Being "anti-choice," and not given a choice.

I would absolutely describe myself as anti-choice when the choice is whether or not to have an abortion, because I don't believe that should ever be a choice. 

The irony stems from the fact that for the last year and a half, it has been my choice to have another child.  Neither my choice, nor physical disability, have prohibited this from happening. Rather, it is someone else's choice that stands in my way. 

Ironic. 

I long for another child. For seven years this blog has been a platform for my heart's fears and desires, and for seven years readers have followed me from the death of my child, to my dreams for another, to the realization of not one but two rainbow babies.  But I have now reached the biggest gap in any of my four pregnancies.  3 months between Baby Cude and Gabriel.  2 years and 3 months between Gabriel and Eden.  9 months between Eden and Delilah.  And Delilah is now 2 years and 8 months old.

My heart and my eyes cry daily for another child.  I do not NOT have another child for lack of longing or for disability, but as a product of choice.

The black fly in my chardonnay. 

Blue is my color.  It's in every step and every breath I take.  My soul seeks my missing children even while it meets the obligations before it.  I hate to say that I am looking for a tie breaker, but I will concede that I am conflicted.  My heart cries out to be with the children that are a part of me, yet so far away.  The longing is powerful.  Overwhelming sometimes. 

Yet here I am.  Blue.  Sad.  Incomplete. Heartbroken.  Giving kisses.  Giving hugs.  Loving.  Living. Brushing hair.  Brushing teeth.  Buckling shoes.  Changing diapers.  Buckling car seats.  Admiring crafts.  Reading books.  Singing songs. Feeling the weight of children lost, children never to be, but still walking. Feeling the weight of every step, but forcing myself to take it.  A free ride, but I've already paid.

Ten Days that Changed the World - Seven Years of Sisterhood

This year to celebrate Gabriel's 10 days of life, I wanted to celebrate some of the wonderful women I have met on this journey since Gabriel was diagnosed with anencephaly 7 years ago. June 10, 2018 - Gabriel's Birthday!  It is only fitting that this day I honor my due date buddy Jenny Lees, whose son Palmer was born 10 days before Gabriel on June 1, 2011.  Palmer's heart valves were donate, saving the life of another child.  In Palmer's honor I will be donating blood the following Monday, June 11, 2018.  I invite you to join me in donating.  Local friends, I also invite you to celebrate Mass with me at Christ the King, at 9:30 AM.  Although I was too late to have him included in rememberances, my family and I will certainly be celebrating Mass for Gabriel.

June 11, 2018 - Gabriel's One Day.  This day I want to honor a group of young women who were in their teens/early 20s when their babies were diagnosed with anencephaly.  I still think of them as babies, though they are strong, young, amazing women and mothers:  Lacy Sanchez, Holley Billet, Keely Riffe and Katie Green. In honor of Kolton, KayLynn, Noella, and Lhiam, I will be donating some items to Dress for Success, an organization that assists low-income women in wardrobe needs to help them improve their job opportunities.  I invite you to do something similar for your local Dress for Success, women's shelter, or crisis pregnancy center.  I was motivated to choose these ladies on this day because my "baby" sister, now 20 years old, will be visiting Vanguard University, where she will begin classes in the fall, on this day.  How I look up to the inspirational young women in my life.

*We also have cupcakes every year on this day, to celebrate Gabriel "turning 1."  We never got to have a first birthday with him - One day will have to last us a lifetime.  I invite you to enjoy a cupcake too.

June 12, 2018 - I love baseball.  I have for years, and it's that thing that I thought I would share with my son someday.  This year, at 62 games into the season, my favorite team has performed spectacularly.  Mitch Haniger, who last year had the best rookie season in Mariners history, went on a home run streak early in the season.  In May, James Paxton threw a no-hitter.  In June, the Mariners are leading the AL West, and are third in the American League overall.  Despite their success, I haven't seen a game all season.  Early on I verbalized to many that I didn't have a lot of hope for the season, and as they started looking better and better I was afraid if I tuned in to watch them, my early skepticism would jinx this winning team.  But even while I said, "This isn't the year," somewhere in my heart I always believe this will be the year.  Eliana. The Lord hears our prayers.  Even when they are just a whisper of the heart.  This day will be day 2 of a critical series for the Mariners against the Angels.  So on this day I honor Melanie Larsen Sinouthasy and her daughter Eliana.  The Lord heard Melanie's prayers and let her family keep Eliana through Christmas.  The Lord heard my prayers and sent my Eden Eliana.  Say your prayers, cross your fingers, and hope with me for a Mariners win, or anything else that seems hopeless.  Feel free to send my your intentions publicly or privately, and I will keep you and your hopes in my prayers.

June 13, 2018 - School is out for summer but when you're a lawyer or a doctor, school never really ends, and all you ever do is "practice."  Though not teachers by trade, three special women that I have met through the anencephaly community, Missy Hilzdenger, Lucy George, and Bethany Conkel, have used their experiences to teach and educate others including the medical community about anencephaly, carrying twins to term when one is anencephalic, and neonatal donation.  People seem to be afraid to ask questions about anencephaly or our babies - What was the pregnancy like, did the baby move in utero, did the baby breath, urinate, eat, make noise?  Don't be afraid - We love to talk about our children.  I invite you to celebrate this day and Gracie, Christopher and Amalya by learning about anencephaly or by reading the story of one of the children on the anencphaly.info website.  I'd love for you to share what you learn with me!

June 14, 2018 - Something I distinctly remember about this particular day in Gabriel's life is that we really thought we were going to lose him.  He seemed to be struggling, and we were thankful for the four days we had with him.  The knowledge that your child could pass at any minute is stressful, but reminds you how delicate life is, and that it's not in our hands.  For nearly 4 years, Sonia and Rony Morales lived with this knowledge as they loved and cared for their daughter Angela, who passed away in December.  They have inspired me with their dedication to God's Will.  Trusting God is what we are called to do, yet trusting what we cannot see is so hard to do.  God is all around us, loving us and guiding us.  George Strait sings "I know He's here but I don't look near as often as I should.  His fingerprints are everywhere.  I just look down and stop and stare, open my eyes and then I swear I saw God today." On this day, look for God's fingerprints around you.

June 15, 2018 - I've scheduled myself to do something very challenging this day: For the first time in my life, I will fire a gun.  I've enrolled in a ladies' handgun course and will spend 4 hours learning about and testing 12 different handguns.  This is HUGE for me - Because when I see a gun, hear a gun, think of a gun, I think of the gun lying next to Sean when I found his lifeless body after he had killed himself.  I think of the many desperate and hopeless times in my life, the times I've thought very seriously about ending it all and even now, the times that I know I won't end it all but also know that depression is something I will battle my whole life - A life that I still expect to be long and full.  This day I will honor Keri Harris Kitchen and her daughter Carys Rainn, a twin with anencephaly. Keri is a LMFT who has faced her own struggles even while helping others through theirs.  She's written and published a book, a huge milestone for her, which is why, in addition to her work in mental health, I have chosen to dedicate this day to Keri and Carys.  On this day, try to jump your own hurdle.

June 16, 2018 - The threads of our lives weave together in ways we didn't anticipate.  20 years ago when I was in high school with Melissa Pankey, whose name I knew only through mutual friends, I had no idea that I would become friends with Melissa Wiggins, my former classmate now married, when her daughter Imogen was diagnosed with anencephaly.  I have wanted to plant violets to honor Imogen Violet Wiggins for some time - And Bakersfield in June is no time and place for such an endeavor.  But this year I think I'm going to take a chance.

June 17, 2018 - Father's Day. On this day I will take a step back from honoring the very special mothers that I've met through my journey, and honor some very special fathers.  I will honor God our Father, and "I will praise the One who's chosen me to carry you," and the trust He had in me in selecting me to be Gabriel's mother.  I will celebrate my own dad, who loved my little boy SO MUCH and was prepared to retire to care for him, if the need arose.  And I will celebrate my husband, who took a chance on a single mother to a deceased child, who loved my broken heart, and who has given me two beautiful rainbows.

June 18, 2018 - This year marks the 18th birthday for Anouk and Makenna - The daughters of two very special women who have had tremendous impact on the anencephaly community.  For 18 years they have been aware of, and as a result, raising awareness for anencephaly.  Monkia Jaquier founded the anencephaly.info site, which is one of the top links one is provided when they do a search for anencphaly on Google.  Because of her work, families facing this diagnosis have information to provide hope, rather than fear, when their worlds are shattered by this devastating news.  Amy Hale has founded Makenna's Memorials, through which she creates memorial pictures to honor anencephalic babies.  To celebrate 18 years following the short but meaningful lives of Anouk and Makenna, and their amazing mothers who have done so much to change our world, I invite you to find a way to change the world today.  We are small in the grand scheme of things, but the little things we do can be huge to someone else.

June 19, 2018 - Day 10 was reserved, but I wanted to celebrate a special mother of 10, Tabitha Say, whose daughter Elizabeth was born in May 2011, the year Gabriel was born.  Elizabeth was Tabitha's 6th child and first girl.  I admire Tabitha, who has a life I have dreamed of but don't think I could handle. She is a stay at home mother to 9 living children, and manages to treat them all as the unique human beings that they are.  She is witty and intelligent and hard working, an incredible wife and mother.  The work of stay at home mom's is immeasurable - It doesn't contribute to our GDP and doesn't get the credit it deserves, though I believe our culture has come a long way in its appreciation for the value of stay at home mothers and fathers.  Our culture certainly doesn't appreciate large families as we should.  On this day, think of a large family you know and consider the struggle and sacrificeof such a family in these times, and consider helping them in some way.

June 20, 2018 - After 10 days, God called my sweet boy home and shortly after that, he sent a special woman and her very special little boy into my life.  Kelly Alvstad's baby boy Andrew has become Gabriel's brother from another mother.  Born at 3:20 compared to Gabriel's 3:19, on January 10, 2012 compared to Gabriel's June 10, 2011, Andrew also lived 10 days, passing on January 20, 2012.  Through Kelly, I held my son again, and through Kelly, I let my son go again.  Every year we celebrate together and every year we grieve together.  I will release balloons again this year for Gabriel, as I do every year, and just as we have done for 7 years now, I know that somewhere in Montana, Kelly will share my joy and my pain.  As always, I invite you all to join me in releasing a balloon or lantern to celebrate with me the day Gabriel was called to sainthood.