The Mighty Warrior

"He has a lazy leg," my aunt told me of the last remaining male from her dogs' recent litter of German Shepherd puppies. The puppies, born on July 6, 2009, would be ready to go to homes just about the time I finished taking the bar exam and moved back to Bakersfield. There were only two males in the litter and one had already been promised. I wanted a male puppy, so I accepted the one with the lazy leg.

I named him Gideon Wainwright Hernandez-Cude. He was named for the courtcase Gideon versus Wainwright. I later learned that his name meant "mighty warrior," an interesting observation given that what little I know about Gideon from the Bible suggested Gideon was not exactly a mighty warrior though he won a mighty battle.

My Gideon seemed to get along on his leg just fine, but at one of his early vet visits x-rays were taken that revealed Gideon suffered from hip dysplasia. The vet recommended that we take Gideon to a doctor in Los Angeles, as she suspected he would need a hip replacement and she was unable to do those. Giddy's hip couldn't be replaced until he was full or nearly full-grown, so I postponed the trip until last summer when Gideon's dysplasia seemed to be causing him severe pain. Added to his own pain was my grief from having recently lost Baby Cude. I couldn't bear to watch Gideon struggle to move or to hear him whimper in pain, so I cashed in my quarter collection and took him to Los Angeles for the day where a series of advanced x-rays were performed on him, a diagnosis made, and a surgery recommended.

I had often joked that it seemed to be against God's plan for me to have a healthy pet. Our family dog Twink was put to sleep nearly two years ago after a four year battle with diabetes. Last July I put my cat Mickey, who had always been sickly, to sleep after he was diagnosed with diabetes also and I weighed his quality of life and determined he could not handle the disease the way Twink had. Just one month after that was when Gideon hit the growth spurt that caused the struggle that resulted in enough worry for a road trip.

The surgery recommended for Gideon was not a hip replacement, but a less severe FHO. Surgery was performed on January 3, in anticpation of an eight week recovery. We thought we would get Gideon all fixed up, then enroll him in obedience classes before our little Pumpkin arrived.

Gideon's recovery proved to be very difficult. His hip was, as the doctor described, being held together by suture material, and we were to keep him as confined and undisturbed as possible. Harnessing the energy of a one and a half year old, 90 pound puppy is not an easy task. Little things like taking him to the bathroom became a challenge. He was confined to a carpeted area most of the time because he slipped on our hardwood floors. When we were home, we would permit him to lay on his doggy bed beside the couch to chew a rawhide, but he would often become restless and try to get up to walk around. Taking him to the bathroom was difficult, because he would have to be leashed and then a towel looped under his waist so we could help him support his own hind end. He seemed embarassed at having to potty in front of us, so I gave him the courtesy of looking away while he went. If a dog can have pride and dignity, his was wounded by the care he demanded but he was dependent on us and we were committed to facing this challenge with him.

Less than a month after Gideon's surgery and while he was still in the early stages of recovery, Gabriel was diagnosed with anencephaly. I started to see our struggles with Gideon as preparation for the even more difficult challenge we were suddenly thrust into. Gideon, who had always been attentive especially during my pregnancies, became the creature that I leaned on and cried on in my private moments. He has seen more of my tears than even my husband has seen, I have held him and wiped those tears on his fur, and leaned on him even while he leaned on us in his recovery.

In March Gideon went for what I hoped would be the last of his follow-up visits, and the vet confirmed what I suspected: Gideon was not improving but digressing. During his surgery he had contracted a staph infection and a new surgery had to be performed to clean up the bone spurs that had started to develop and take a sample of fluid from his joint to determine what type of infection he had and how to treat it. His recovery started all over again and this time I was also head-deep in the emotional turmoil that had come with Gabriel's diagnosis. We had only just announced Gabriel's condition to our friends and family and were dealing with questions and still filling in those who had not heard the news. Every day was a struggle and the last thing I wanted to do was to care for this dog who I loved very much but who was starting to become a burden to me.

But Gideon was trusted to my care for a reason. I wanted a male dog, just like I wanted a son. I wanted Gideon despite his health problems, just as I prayed for a baby boy but failed to pray for a baby boy with a skull cap. I wanted Gabriel and Gideon just as they were, for as long as I could have them and I often think that if they had ended up in another home with just a little less faith, neither of them may have lived as long as they did, have, or will. Many people would have given up on both of them, but I loved them each too much to let them go before I had to.

In the wake of Gabriel's death, I leaned on Gideon more than he ever had to lean on me. There are times when I look into his beautiful light brown eyes and I know that he feels my sadness and that he is sad with me too. Sometimes, Ben would even look at Gideon and ask, "Do you think Gideon might be God?" I have to say he probably isn't. Of course God can take any form, but if God were to come to earth as a dog I don't think He would be the kind of dog who chews up sprinklers and water hoses. God would be better behaved than that. But I think Gideon was sent to us from God, that he is a messenger of God just as Gabriel is. His message is one of compassion. Gideon shows compassion as much as he requires compassion. He has taught us much, and paved the way for our precious boy who taught us even more.

Perhaps one of the most exciting times for me during Gabriel's life at home was the day Gideon and Gabriel met. I didn't know if that day would ever come. I still smile at the photo of my two boys, Gabriel and Gideon, both mighty in their own way.

A New Heaven

The concept of Heaven is one that evolves constantly within us and around us. As a child I remember imagining Heaven the way many children probably do. It was like Care-a-Lot, the world that the Care Bears live in, where the ground is covered in clouds and there are rainbow slides everywhere. The occupants are able to view what is happening on earth and intercede where they are needed. Of course in my childhood imaginings the occupants were humans with wings, people who had become angels and now watched, guided and helped us.

As I got older I began to think maybe my previously held concept of Heaven was boring. Though I might like to slide along rainbows and float on clouds sometimes, I wasn't sure if such activities could entertain me for eternity. My idea of Heaven started to evolve into a world that looked more like earth without the turmoil. After all, life on earth is beautiful, even if there is pain. An eternity that looked like life on earth without the sorrow or hurt seems appealing. I thought that maybe everyone's Heaven is different. Maybe Heaven is a place where you can fulfill your life's dreams.

My Heaven for many years had me working at Charly's/The Wright Place. That idea might seem strange to some -- Why would anyone want to work in Heaven? -- but my Heaven still has stores and restaurants and most of the business that earth has. And I enjoy working. But in Heaven, my feet never get tired. No one ever gets drunk or argues. My friends have more free time to hang out with me, because they don't have to work if that's not part of their Heaven. No one needs money, because in Heaven there's no place for the corruption that wealth can bring. The time goes by quickly and my shifts are only as long as I want them to be, then I can go home to Ben, who only has to work as long as he wants to also. We can vacation anytime we want. We can visit his family in Arizona and South Carolina frequently. Arizona and South Carolina exist not as political entities, but as destinations, beautiful places.

Some might ask why I'm not a practicing lawyer in Heaven, but the answer should be obvious: There is no conflict there, and no need for an adverserial business like legal practice.

Some people say there are no more tears in Heaven, but in my Heaven I can finally cry with abandon, and it feels good because they are tears of love and joy.

My view of Heaven continues to be simple and a bit childlike. I suppose to imagine a world where there is peace requires us to think like children. I look at a drawing made for Gabriel by his young cousin Mackenzie, and I envy her Heaven. The older we get and the more complex our lives become, the further from Heaven we seem to remove ourselves. My Heaven is limited by my world view, distinctly American though it is probably a culture of its own influenced by the many cultures of this world and perhaps the cultures of other planets. There are animals in my Heaven, pets that I long to see again as much as I long to see some of my human friends and family.

Imagining Heaven is always speculative. Though there are accounts of people who claim to have temporarily visited Heaven, if we accept their accounts as truth they are still only telling of Heaven from their perspective. Heaven may take an eternity to explore. I have always looked forward to Heaven.

Then Gabriel happened. Heaven somehow felt more real and within reach. Life got harder, but the desire to reach Heaven got stronger. There was something beyond just Heaven to look forward to. Someone.

I have always believed that we'd see our loved ones again in Heaven and I have lost many people that I hope to see again, but none of them have pulled me towards Heaven the way my children do. When we lost Baby Cude I knew that my baby would be waiting for me in Heaven. Baby Cude is such a mystery. I do not know if Baby Cude is a boy or a girl, though I suspect a boy. I do not know what he or she looks like, if he has blonde hair like Gabriel, or brown hair like his parents. I do not know if he or she has been given a name in Heaven, or if he is known as Baby Cude their too. I know that I am excited to learn.

Gabriel, though, I held in my arms and have already seen face-to-face. I imagine that in Heaven he looks just like he did here. He toddles around, just 19.5 inches tall, wearing the navy blue pants and baby blue onsie that he sports in everyone's favorite pictures. Sometimes he still wears a bandage around his head, and he moves with a sense of importance, as I imagine he has important work that he does in Heaven. Sometimes I imagine him carrying a small file folder under his arm, filled with notes about his important cases that he's been assigned to on Earth. But no matter how important he is to others or how vital his work is, when I get there he will never be too busy or too important for his Mommy. I imagine him crawling into my lap and leaning on my chest, kissing his face and telling him how much I love him. Sometimes, when I go to work in Heaven, I get to bring him with me, and he rides in a sling close to me and we chat with our friends who all love him too. My arms are never too tired to hold him and my back never aches from rocking him. When he can't be with me, Baby Cude is. My arms never have to be empty again.

I dream of Heaven often and I know that my dreams, even if they are close to the truth, are just a glimpse of how spectacular Heaven must really be. Catholics believe that somewhere between Heaven and Earth there is a state of Purgatory, a time for introspection and a chance to cleanse the soul in preparation for Heaven. Purgatory is a gift and because of Purgatory, someone like me may see Heaven someday though I am not worthy as I am. My sister Monica believes that our Earthly life is Purgatory, and indeed the Church teaches that some of our earthly struggles may be a form of Purgatory and have redemptive value. I think of them as credit for time served. My concept of Heaven is informed by my lawyer's brain. In any case, whatever Purgatory is, I know that the hardest part is knowing that Baby Cude and Gabriel are within reach though not attainable yet.

I look for Heaven in the world around me and find it in the beauty of the California landscape, in Gideon's face, in my sister Victoria, in music, in Mass, in my husband's arms. Heaven is not always so easy to see but if we look for it, it will be there. I continue to reach my arms towards Heaven.

"Life's Not Fair"

When I was a kid, the cry "That's not fair" was responded to by my mother with, "Life's not fair." I hated that response, but I heard it often growing up. While it never seemed like a very good explanation then, I see now sometimes no other explanation really fits. Now I realize that as harsh as the explanation is to a kid, life will continue to find me in situations that just don't seem fair, and it's not a punishment or a curse. It's life.

Lately some of my fellow anencephaly moms and I have been decrying the injustice in a world where women can abuse their bodies and still have perfectly healthy babies, sometimes babies they don't even want, and we have done everything right to have the babies we long for yet they are not here or cannot stay. I see it everywhere. I see it in the woman who came into the bar last weekend, visibly pregnant, and knocked back a couple of glasses of wine. I see it in the grocery store, where parents' carts are loaded with children and unhealthy foods. I see it on TV. And it hurts.

Without even realizing what I have done, I have developed an attitude of entitlement myself. I don't have a right to a child. God doesn't owe me a baby. Both of my children, who are no longer here, are gifts. I was trusted with them, and I had a duty to do what is best for them but I had no right to keep them. They are God's to give and take and when I am thankful for His sharing I am blessed, but when I slip into a self-pitying moment where I cry "It's not fair! Why me?" I am only hurting myself.

My sister-mommies are an inspiration to me. We build each other up in our weakest moments. I consider them one of the many gifts Gabriel brought into my life. Some of my fellow anen mommies are so young, yet so strong. I am amazed at the selflessness of some of these young women, part of a generation of increasingly self-absorbed people, but themselves a light in a frighteningly dark time. Most of my fellow anen mommies, for one reason or another, never considered giving up on their babies even in their darkest hour. Even those who, like myself, thought about letting go early, reconsidered and proved to be the parent that God was asking them to be. While I have difficulty knowing that there are so many "bad" parents in this world, I shudder to think of our children having been given to someone who would not respect their lives, rather than to those of us who loved our children enough to let them live, even though it would hurt. We took care of our babies and our bodies, knowing that even the best care wasn't going to give them the long life we would want with them. We held them while we could and accepted that maybe we don't always know what's in store for us, why some things happen, and why life sometimes seems so unfair, and when God asked us for them, we gave them back to Him, trusting that only He could care for them better than we could and that he would hold them safe until the day we will see them again.

No, life is not fair. On this day, Gabriel's two-month birthday, I must celebrate without holding him, or kissing his precious face. Still, I celebrate. Because even a life that is not fair, that is short and sometimes painful, is beautiful.

Ashes

One week ago, Ben and I placed Gabriel's ashes in his niche at Greenlawn cemetary. At 2:00 on Monday July 25, 2011, we met Monsignor Frost at Greenlawn for this private ceremony. Two members of the Greenlawn staff joined us in front of the wall where Gabriel's niche is located. A tent was set up along with about ten chairs for family, but Ben and I were the only members of Gabriel's family there.

Monsignor Frost, who baptized Gabriel, officiated over the brief but beautiful ceremony. A Greenlawn staff member named Sandy, who sat in the second row of seats, sang "On Eagles' Wings." We then took the small box containing Gabriel's ashes to his niche in the memorial wall. I had never taken much notice of these walls on previous occasions at Greenlawn cemetary. With the marble faces removed, the wall was just a cement structure with openings. Gabriel's box was sprinkled with holy water, I gave him one last kiss, and Ben and I placed his ashes in their space, along with a St. Gerard prayer card. We were given a crucifix, which pleased me as I didn't know if we would get one since Gabriel was cremated, and the crucifix was blessed too. The crucifix, which rests on the blanket where Gabriel's ashes laid in our home, will be hung above the door to our nursery, the room that I was only able to rock Gabriel in one time, but which I believe will sleep our babies in the future.

Monsignor sang the first verse of "How Great Thou Art," and Sandy, who has a beautiful voice, sang along.

I cried on Monday more than I have at any one time since Gabriel died. There, in the privacy of our ceremony I finally felt free to let the tears flow for a while, and they did. During that ceremony, which lasted less than half an hour, my mind finally wrapped itself around the idea that my son is dead. Though he took his last breath in my arms, though I've noticed the empty feeling since he's been gone, I didn't dare believe it until that moment.

I will not often cry when talking about Gabriel in public. I want the world to know that I stand by what we did with him, that I believe carrying Gabriel to term was the only right thing to do, and that carrying him gave me a strength I didn't know existed. But making the right decision was not easy -- only easier than the alternative, letting my son go without giving him every chance to live. So I finally cried, with my husband, Monsignor, and two strangers in a cemetary that has seen many tears.

But I would not let the tears flow for long. Before we'd left the cemetary I collected myself. Our day had started early, with Ben having to go to the Marriott one last time to clean out his office, and it would be a long day as I still had a closing shift at the bar ahead of me. Ben and I left Greenlawn and went to Target, where we purchased a gift for my co-worker who had recently learned she was pregnant with a girl. We presented her with the gift, a two-pack of pink sleepers, and learned that we were the first people to give her any apparel for the baby. It was a bittersweet moment as we toasted Gabriel and also celebrated the life of a new baby girl who I pray will be perfectly healthy. Another reminder that life goes on.

Today I visited Gabriel's niche. The marble faces have been put back in place, but evidence that the section that covers his was recently removed still remains. The cement hasn't been filled in completely around the section, though the curtain that covered the empty spaces is long gone. Gabriel's nameplate won't be in for two to three months, so only Ben, Greenlawn cemetary and I know that Gabriel's ashes lie behind that marble. When his nameplate arrives any visitor will know that in that space rests the remains of Gabriel Michael Gerard Cude, who lived from June 10, 2011 to June 20, 2011. They will see that he was just an infant when he left this earth. They will see a third line with a term of endearment, a secret that we are waiting to reveal with his nameplate, which will tell the most important detail of the life of Gabriel Michael Gerard Cude.

Empty Nest, Empty Arms

When a couple's children move out on their own, the couple is sometimes said to experience the empty nest syndrome. After 18 or more years of raising a child, a couple sometimes has trouble going back to relating to each other as husband and wife, rather than as a co-parent. Sometimes they find that the children were the only thing keeping them together, or that they are strangers to each other after all those years. While being a dedicated parent is of course admirable, if one or both parents build their whole world around their children, that world is doomed to fall apart when the children are gone. There is danger, then, in making one's children the center or their world.

At the other end there is the empty arms syndrome, the experience that occurs when a couple loses an infant that they expected, in a perfect world, to have to hold.

Ben and I seem to be experiencing a combination of these symptoms. We are each suffering from Gabriel's absence, and we each suffer differently. Ben and Gabriel did their bonding in the early morning, while Gabriel and I tended to enjoy our moments together late at night, even during pregnancy. I find myself missing the feeling of carrying Gabriel during pregnancy, whereas Ben seems to miss Gabriel when he thinks of things they will not get to do together. In addition to missing Gabriel's presence, I find that I had created a world that was centered on Gabriel. Since Gabriel's diagnosis my time has been spent learning about anencephaly, preparing for his birth, and creating a legacy for Gabriel. Ben had slipped into his role as a provider, focusing on work, and I felt alone in my world with Gabriel.

Now we are struggling to again become familiar with each other as husband and wife. We are changed people, a different man and woman than the one we each married. We are still parents, but we are parents without a child, parents with both an empty nest and empty arms and a permanent hollow in our hearts. The experience of losing Gabriel touches us each differently and has made relating to each other difficult, but all the more necessary. The statistics for couples following the death of a child are against us. We know that we must work hard to defy the odds, as hard as Gabriel worked to stay with us for ten days. Yet we are exhausted and sometimes it only takes one day where neither of us feels like putting in the work to undo several days of progress. We are facing an uphill battle.

Last Friday Ben came home from work early to report that he had resigned from his position at the Marriott. Looking back, I suppose I saw it coming. Just one week earlier we had a serious conversation about his desire to find another job. At the Marriott Ben enjoyed a comfortable salary, medical benefits, and discount hotel rates for those rare occasions when we were able to get away. I had the luxury of being picky about which cases I would take and how much I had to charge, and I was able to work part-time in a job that I love. Selfishly, when Ben reported his resignation to me, I immediately thought about how all of the perks would now come to an end. We always knew that when Ben left that Marriott he would take a reduction in pay. I see now that he was under tremendous pressure, to be the husband that I needed, the provider that I wanted, and the employee that the Marriott demanded. He hated doing banquets, but banquets were the lifeblood at the Marriott and he had to focus on them, all while also running a restaurant, and with no sous chef. A 12 hour day was not unusual for him before Gabriel was born. Even while Gabriel was alive, he was touching bases with work, doing food orders and fielding phone calls. He burned himself out, and I stood back and watched.

My first response to Ben's resignation was anger, but I tried to take a step back and find the opportunity in the situation. Thanks to generous donations for Gabriel's care, we were able to hang on to some of our savings, enough to ensure that at least one more month's rent would be paid. Now that Ben had no job, he would be forced to look seriously at what else was out there, but we knew that our savings had bought us a month if we needed it.

Weekends are not an appropriate time to seek employment in the restaurant industry, so Ben took last weekend to formulate a plan. Monday morning he went to the Marriott to clean out his office. He reported that turning closing his office door for the last time saddened him a bit. He was closing the door on his first executive chef position, and as there are few such positions available he did not know when or if he might have one again. He grew considerably at the Marriott, even if the Marriott and Ben ultimately outgrew each other.

But when one door closes, another eventually opens. After leaving the Marriott Monday morning, Ben went to two restaurants to speak with the managers. By Tuesday he was scheduled for two Wednesday interviews. By Wednesday evening, he had a job offer. I cannot express enough how very proud of Ben I was. He moved to Bakersfield and started to develop his reputation as a chef less than three years ago. In that time he has established himself as a valuable asset to a restaurant. Ben starts his job with Moo Creamery, a small, locally owned restaurant with a modern soda-fountain/creamery concept, next Monday. He has been interested in learning more about the operations of Moo Creamery since the first time he set foot in the place and he will learn as much from the experience there as he will be able to bring to them. I strongly believe Moo is exactly where Ben was meant to be at this point in his life, and that what seems to be a step down in title will actually be the catalyst for much future success.

I'm not quite sure how I could have ever doubted that everything would work out just fine. God has held us closely and given us everything we needed especially in the last year.

When Ben starts his new job next week, our empty nest will get a little emptier. After Gabriel's death Ben never did go back to work with the same drive, and accordingly to work the same hours, that he did before, but I know he will approach his new job with full-force. In a perfect world Ben would have Gabriel here and he might be hesitant to work so many hours right now, but in a world where parents lose their babies those parents have to find a reason to go on and Ben has found some reason in Moo Creamery.

I don't know where life will take my professional career next. Nearly three weeks after my interview I still haven't heard from the Public Defender's office and I have lost nearly all hope for a job offer this round. I have faith in the perfection of God's plan, even if it's not my own and I will go where He leads me. He hasn't steered me wrong so far.

Just the Way He Was

A few days ago while we were out, I played a song on the jukebox that made Ben look at me and ask, "Really?"  It wasn't the kind of song that I would normally play, but while I was pregnant with Gabriel the lyrics in the chorus started to stand out to me.  Among the many songs I sang to Gabriel the morning that he died was the chorus to this song, Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are."  Though I'm not normally one to adjust nouns and pronouns in a chorus to suit the situation, I did change this one up for my perfect little boy.  The following are the lyrics I sang to Gabriel early Monday morning, June 20, 2011:

"When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change,
'Cause you're amazing just the way you are.
And when you smile
The whole world stops and stares for a while,
'Cause Gabe you're amazing just the way you are."

For ten days my world did seem to stop when Gabriel smiled. For ten days at 3:19 PM, Pacific Time, hundreds of people stopped to celebrate another day of Gabriel's too-short life. For ten days we stopped and stared at this little creature who changed so many lives.

Many Christians believe that when Christ comes again, our souls will reunite with our bodies in their perfect form.  I think of Gabriel's form while he was on earth, how beautiful he was. I remember his lips smacking together in rhythm and his eyes, which were not as bulbous as some of the pictures I'd seen but were still the characteristic bulgy eyes of a baby with anencephaly. He didn't open them often but when he did, we could see that they were lighter than both of ours and would be even without the film that sometimes disguises the real color of a newborn's eyes. They were blue, blue enough to stay that way for a while. He had a chin that was unusually defined for a newborn, and the notorious Cude nose, which was smooshed at birth but started to protrude while he was alive. His skin went from the bluish-purple that many anencephaly babies experience to a healthier tone somewhere between mine and Ben's, with a jaundice yellow tinge that we laid him in difused sunlight to treat. The skin around his right eye suffered some bruising during his delivery that never did go away. His limbs were long and slender, and he had long, graceful, perfect fingers and big floppy feet with long, finger-like toes. I was prepared for his open skull, but much less prepared for the shock of long blond hair that he was born with. I still wonder if all of our children will be born with blond hair or if Gabriel will be our lone blond.

Even his exposed brain came to be beautiful to me. He appeared to have suffered no brain-damage in utero (though some developmental failure of his brain seemed to occur) and I was able to see what a human brain looks like and marvel at God's masterpiece. There was a maturity in his face, a sense that he had some wisdom beyond his time on earth. When he stared at what appeared to be nothing, I wondered if he could somehow see God. There was something almost alien to his appearance with his little brain growing outside of his skull, but after a few days even the alien came to appear natural to me. He looked at once like strength and vulnerability. He was quite the conundrum; how could someone look so perfect to me, yet not be perfectly okay?

I sometimes wonder if perfect form for Gabriel means with a skull cap, but often I hope that when I see Gabriel again he looks just like he did in his ten days on earth.  He was amazing, just the way he was.

The Proper Way to Grieve

A stranger in the grocery store probably doesn't know that as I put my groceries in the cart, I am missing Gabriel.  When I am shopping in Target and sneak by the baby aisle, they probably don't know that the Gerber onsie set they are looking at is the same one that Gabriel had, the five little onsies that he wore for ten days.  Upon my return to work when patrons say, "It's good to have you back.  How are you doing?" I wonder if they know that my response, "I'm doing okay," isn't completely honest.  And when they see me out having a drink -- or several -- myself, it might not cross their mind that I am just trying to avoid my empty home with its empty nursery.

I miss Gabriel every second of every day.  I pour through his pictures to remind myself of what he looked like, felt like in my arms, even to try to bring back the smell.  I find ways to bring him into conversation just so I can talk about him.  People are uncomfortable asking me about Gabriel, but I wish they would.  Talking about him keeps my memories alive. 

I think a lot these days about Casey Anthony, arguably the most despised woman in America right now.  Some have suggested that her party-girl lifestyle, which continued after her daughter went "missing" (we know that her daughter was never "missing," but dead, and that Casey Anthony very likely knew she was dead), is somehow evidence that she killed little Caylee.  Casey's actions, some say, lacked remorse or sadness, which has lead some to the conclusion that she must have killed her daughter.  But I'm not quite sure how one is suppsed to show remorse or sadness.  If grieving means crying all the time, then I guess I'm not grieving.  I don't cry much at all.  If going out and putting up a front are evidence of wrong-doing, one could conclude I've done something wrong to Gabriel.  These are mostly rhetorical "ifs" but I do have my moments where I wonder if I really miss Gabriel like I'm "supposed to" because I'm not a wreck over his death.  Should a real mom even be able to go on living when her only children are not? 

The truth is, I've carried emotional pain with me for a long time now.  Maybe I've just learned to cope with it.  For years I've served patrons who carry unimagineable pain themselves, and at times I've carried it with them.  An outsider might think we are just a pathetic bunch of drunks.  We're just trying to make our way through this life as best we can.  We don't cry, we just sort of exist.  Maybe some of us are even just waiting to die.  Suffering is not always visible in a way we would expect or in a way we might choose to suffer ourselves. 

Two days ago I interviewed with the Kern County Public Defenders.  After much deliberation, I decided to disclose that I was pregnant at my last interview, and had that morning received the devastating news that my baby had a fatal defect, and that he would die shortly after birth.  I didn't want to exploit Gabriel's life, but I knew the possiblity that someone had noticed my pregnancy either at the courthouse or at the last interview.  I explained that I was not looking for sympathy, rather that I wanted them to know I am the kind of person whose personal life can be crumbling but who can still do the job.  "I can roll with the punches," I said. 

For the rest of my life I will miss Gabriel and Baby Cude, every second of every day, some days more than others.  Gabriel and Baby Cude will always be the something missing, but their absence is not something I can control.  Accordingly, I will spend the rest of my life rolling with the blow that their death dealt to me.