Sometimes, You Win

When I was 14, two of my teeth were ripped out of my mouth when I was fielding a softball in right field, which I missed and instead struck me in the face. I had 14 hours of oral surgery; first, eight hours of emergency surgery the day after, then a few months later another six hours. Several lesser procedures were also performed, for which a local anesthetic was administered, but the most painful moment that I can recall is getting several stitches in my gums without anesthetic.

Every year after that when I visited the dentist, he would without fail say the same two things: "What a shame, you had perfect teeth before the accident. So do you still play softball?" In fact, that was the last year that I played on a real competitive team. I was a freshman in high school and my vanity was shattered by the mess the accident had made out of my mouth. Besides, I had found other things to do and I was never very good at softball. I was actually afraid of the ball -- a fear that proved justified but only because I didn't listen to the years of instruction warning me to cover my face with my glove when fielding. But I wasn't afraid to play the game. I still played now and then for fun, even joining a team with a few co-workers. The accident was devastating at the time, and even life-changing as when I stopped playing softball a world of other opportunities opened up to me. But I don't regret playing the game.

Sometimes you lose. Before I met Ben, I loved others, and had my heart broken. I took my relationships seriously and as a result sometimes suffered serious heartache. I am a person who loves deeply and without abandon and that can be a risky endeavor.

But sometimes you win. When I met Ben there was an immediate connection but I think he felt it faster than I did. We met in the bar that I worked in during law school, and it wasn't long before my co-workers started telling me about Ben's interest. I had sworn off dating men from the bar but my mom convinced me to go on a date with Ben when he asked, and now here we are. I was apprehensive and even a little afraid but once I resolved to go on that first date I opened my heart to the possibility that I could find love with that man, and I did. Ben was worth the risk.

I am afraid now, as we struggle. I am afraid because our relationship is rocky and difficult and sometimes it hurts to love Ben. But I don't believe I should quit something because it gets difficult or is sometimes painful or uncomfortable. I am more afraid of the heartache of living without the man I love, even though I know that if he breaks my heart too and walks away from me I will not give up on romantic love, than I am afraid of the difficulty of loving him. I'm not easy to love either; but I think I'm worth the risk too.

Life is never going to stop giving us lessons in heartache and pain. Just as I began to feel secure in my future, at 21 weeks pregnant with what I thought would be our rainbow baby after miscarriage, I received the most devastating blow that my heart had ever experienced, when I was told my little rainbow would die shortly after he was born. Though my faith guided me in making the decision to carry Gabriel to term, my heart always told me that loving this baby was worth the risk. I had waited so long for him, and I never regretted loving his brother or sister before him that I had never met. That miscarried mystery baby only made me more passionate in my love for Gabriel, and so Gabriel will only make me more passionate in my love for future children. Gabriel was worth the risk.

I was that mommy who, immediately after Gabriel was born, was ready to do it all -- pregnancy, labor, delivery -- over again just to get to that moment when I could first hold my child in my arms. I have said often that I would love to be pregnant ten more times, because I loved being pregnant with Gabriel so very much. If, God forbid, the Lord sent me ten more anencephalic babies, I would make the same decision in every instance that I made with Gabriel. Love is worth the risk.

But I don't believe that is God's plan for me anyway. I have an abiding faith that the Lord has healthy, perfect children waiting for me and waiting for Ben too. And even those children will come with their share of heartache. My sister Victoria has grown up before my eyes and it always makes me a little sad to see her pass so quickly through life's stages. Now, as she gives away her dolls for good and prepares to begin high school next fall, I can hardly believe she is a teenager when it doesn't seem like that long ago she was my snuggly baby sister. It's hard to start to let her go, but it's been worth the sadness to watch her become such a beautiful young woman, inside and out, and for the moments when she'll still rest her head on my shoulder.

Life is painful and risky and sad and sometimes you lose. But it's also beautiful and satisfying and worth taking chances on. Because sometimes, you win.

Letter to a Ghost

Dear Sean,

So here we are again. Another year, another Valentine's Day Eve. It's hard to remember what this day felt like seven years ago, before my last fateful encounter with you. I remember knowing I would see you the next day, and feeling nervous and excited about what it would be like to see you again after four days. I never imagined I would see what I saw.

I wonder if you knew I would be the one to find you, and how you imagined that would be for me, if you thought about it at all. Did you know I would pound and pound on your window, begging you to rise from the dead? Even I couldn't imagine how long after that Valentine's Day, seven years ago, I would still be ripped from my sleep when the image of your dead body, lying next to that gun, your legs stiff with death, would pop into my head.

Maybe I seem a little angrier than I have been with you before, but I'm not. I've never really been angry at you. Some people would say that what you did was selfish, but they don't really know how much you felt like a burden, like a sinking ship pulling everyone else down with you. I've never doubted that you thought you were doing me and your parents a favor. I wish I could have told you that you were absolutely a handful, hard to get along with sometimes, and clearly spiraling out of control. But I still didn't want you to go. I sure didn't want you to go like you did.

There's still so much that has been left unsaid between us. There are so many unanswered questions. I guess I know now that we weren't meant to be together. I was meant to be with Ben today, and we were meant to have our son -- have you had a chance to meet Gabriel? I have often wondered about your soul, where it landed, and how much Purgatory time you got. I feel sometimes that I am serving my Purgatory time right now, between you and Gabriel and everything else going on. But I like to imagine that after all these years of praying, your soul has been set free. I won't stop praying, though.

I wonder how things would have been different for you if you could have met Gabriel before that day. How would it have changed you, to watch that little boy cling to this life until his very last breath? Would it have made you fight for your life, the way he fought for his? In a way, you both have inspired me so much to live. Though he fought for his life and you ended yours by choice, I have found in both of you an opportunity to grow. When I lost each of you, it could have broken me. Instead, I made a choice of my own to keep going. Losing you when I did, the way I did, prepared me for the greatest challeng of my life: Carrying and caring for my terminally ill son. You helped make me a person who can brave what seems nearly impossible.

But I wonder if when it comes to Ben, you broke me. Because to this day regret for all the things I didn't do to save you haunts me. And when I see Ben, and the things you two have in common -- from the John Wayne movies to the drinking -- I get scared. I can't lose him too. Nothing else that's been thrown my way has broken me beyond repair, but I have a paralyzing fear that losing my husband would. That fear, that desparate love, drives me to the point of irrationality sometimes -- I couldn't keep you. I couldn't keep my son, my beautiful boy who brought out the very best in me. I HAVE to keep Ben. I have to. I will not lose him too, and I beg you, if you have any clout up there, please find some way to help us.

Even if I have never forgiven myself, I forgave you instantly for leaving me like you did. I still smile when I hear your favorite songs. I still laugh at memories of you. Sometimes I can still see you, sitting in the bar in your same old seat. But it's such a different place now -- it's strange to think of how few people remember you. There are times when I still struggle to believe seven years have gone by, but when I think about all that has happened in those seven years and what a different person I am it feels like it must have been even longer. I'm a lawyer. I'm a wife. I'm a mom. And I might not ever know what went through your mind in those last days, hours, minutes. I might never know on this earth if you thought of me as you took your last breath and pulled that trigger. But I thank you, because in my heart I know that you were just trying not to pull me down too -- I wish you knew that it didn't have to be that way. Sean, it didn't have to be that way. Thank you for letting me go. I have Ben to hold, and he is hard to handle sometimes too. But I love him, and I'll hold him as best I know how. I don't want to let him go. I don't want him to go, too.

Sincerely,
Andrea

Singing A New Song

Growing up, I loved music, and to sing. But my parents, though they don't remember this and I don't believe they meant to be cruel, pointed out to me every time I sang that I wasn't very good at it. My sister Monica was an excellent and trained singer, and I should stick to debate because that was more my thing. So I did, and here I am, a lawyer -- depending on the day of the week -- and it would seem sticking to debate, mock trial, mock congressional hearings and the like worked out for me.

Except I feel like a failure, a little more every day. I'm a lawyer who can't find a job in an office. For a while, I didn't mind not having a full-time law job. The flexibility of practicing only when I want to was enjoyable; it still is, really. Besides, I wanted to be a mom more than I wanted to be a lawyer, and I wanted to stay home with my children. One failed pregnancy, one fatal defect, zero job offers, two unruly dogs, and a crumbling marriage later, the flexibility I once enjoyed sometimes seems more of a reminder of my failings than a privilege. I can't even grow a fucking herb garden. My self-esteem is on a steady decline, as my self-pity grows, and every time I've traveled this kind of emotional path in the past it has led to disaster.

So I decided to do my best to cut it off at the past. I started taking a creative writing class to get my brain geared up for the book that I have every intention of writing. I joined the team for the Res Ipsa Loquitor, the Kern County Bar Association's monthly magazine; after our first meeting I discovered that not only had I found kindred spirits (I'm still disheartened that more people don't care about the rules governing when to use a colon), but this team could help me make the connections I need to really use my license to practice for something positive, like to coach my high school's mock trial team, or be added to the list of court appointed minor's counsel, a newly developed goal of mine.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by my ventures in self-improvement. Gideon and I are enrolled in a basic obedience course. Gid is by far the largest dog there, 91 pounds of stubborn, restless, and unguided doggy energy. I knew that Gideon and I were likely to be the only pair who didn't practice throughout the week -- with three dogs to wrestle with and little help in distracting the other two, finding an opportunity to practice was challenging. Though Gideon can perform basic commands when he is focused, walking on a leash has always been a struggle for us. Naturally he fought and pulled in class while we were walking in a circle today, the other dogs obediently following their owners' lead. His six foot leash wrapped around my hand tightly, squeezing off the circulation as I fought my naughty dog to keep him from embarassing us. It got to be too much for me, and I started to cry. "Don't cry. Your emotions will travel right down that lead, he'll feel it to and you won't get him to do anything. He's just a dog." For a moment, I thought, "Exactly. He's just a dog. And I can't even do this right. I can't do anything right." But none of that was really the point in the moment. The point is, Gideon and I need help, and we'd taken an affirmative step in reaching out for that help. We were there to improve our lives. Gideon deserves an owner who knows how to handle him, so we can have fun, go on walks and other outings, and I was just going to have to suck it up. Gideon still might be the worst-behaved dog in the class, but today he got a little bit better.

In another effort to improve myself, I also took a voice lesson. One night after more than a few cocktails, I admitted to my friend Lindsey that I liked to sing but had been told I wasn't good at it. I told her that I really enjoyed singing to Gabriel, and want to sing with confidence to my children in the future. We agreed that I would take a few voice lessons with her.

On Thursday we had our first session together. Lindsey, much like my sister, is a trained vocalist, and now in possession of a degree in music. Singing in front of her, and sometimes along with her, was intimidating, but exciting. And confidence-building. And at moments, even exhilirating. And the most fun I've had in a while. And the most challenged I've felt, aside from working with Gideon, in a while.

The curve balls life has thrown at me, and my on-again/off-again marriage, have me realizing that I don't really know what direction my life is headed. But life never stops throwing curves, at any of us. And we have control over very little. Just about the only thing we DO control is ourselves. I've decided to fix what I can and trust that the rest will work itself out.

D-Day

I am your Strength and Shield. . .I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go.

I couldn't make sense of what the doctor was saying. We were just there for an ultrasound, and we were worried the tech would slip and tell us the baby's gender. Now, my doctor's partner, who was handling her patients while she was away from the office, was trying to explain the incomprehensible to me.

Just moments ago, when the tech said, "I have to be honest, there's a problem," I assauged myself with hopes like, "It's okay. It's just Down's Syndrome. We can handle Down's Syndrome. Please God, let it 'just' be Down's Syndrome." I wondered then if anyone had ever prayed for a Down's baby before, but now I know that all-too many have. But even that hope was fleeting, crushed when the doctor entered the room.

"We see this every five years or so. This condition is incompatible with life."
Still, her words were unbelievable. She explained that somewhere in my baby's development, something went "wrong." His spine developed, but his skull failed to develop completely. Without a complete skull, his brain would also fail to develop completely. He would be blind, deaf, mute, have no consciousness, and he would not be able to feel.

"But he's not DONE developing yet!" I wanted to scream. "He's only been in there 21 weeks, he's not finished growing. It will just grow in, his skull will just grow in, you stupid, stupid doctor. Why are you telling me something so stupid, and so wrong, and so evil? You're telling me my child is not going to live, and that's impossible! It's impossible, because we have been dreaming about this child, and longing for this child, and praying for this child. This child has a bedroom, with a crib, and clothes, and diapers, and blankets, and a puppy, and a mommy and a daddy! And now here you are, telling this mommy and daddy that this child is going to die and. . ."

I just wouldn't believe it was true. I was a person of new faith, confident in the power of God, and more importantly, certain that I didn't deserve to live out what this doctor was diagnosing. I would simply pray, and I would ask everyone I knew to pray also. Though Ben was in shock, and my mother was in tears, I was in what I know now to be a strange blend of trepid faith and utter denial.

If the doctor said "Anencephaly" that morning, I didn't hear it. In fact, I wouldn't have anything to do with learning more about this condition, this farse that the doctor was trying to convince me of. Doctors think they know everything, but they don't. That afternoon we scheduled ourselves for an advanced ultrasound in Fresno, to be performed in two weeks. The ultrasound would determine whether the first diagnosis was correct. I gave myself two weeks to hope. If, after two weeks, the diagnosis was confirmed, I would accept the cross that Ben and I were given with grace.

That afternoon, I packed myself into my favorite suit, and the only one that still fit over my 21 week baby bump, for an interview at the Public Defender's Office. "You don't have to go," Ben told me as I tugged my skirt on. "Yes, I do. I have no idea where our life is taking us right now. I have no idea what's going to happen to this baby. We need to keep all of our options open." I went to the interview, and to my closing shift at the bar that evening, with a phony smile plastered on my face. My world was crumbling around me but I wasn't going to fall with it.

Over the next two weeks, I organized a novena on Facebook to St. Rita, Patroness of Impossible Causes. Joining in the novena were both friends who I had told in confidence about my baby's diagnosis, and friends who had no idea something was potentially so wrong. I knew the likelihood that the first ultrasound and diagnosis were mistakes but I prayed anyway. And as I prayed, the impossible began to happen. I came to realize that, no matter what a doctor told me, I would love my child. No matter what adversity we were about to face, I could handle it. Even if I were being asked to carry my child only to have to say good-bye, I would do it.

It was in these two weeks, unbeknownst to Ben, that I made a commitment to find out this child's gender and if she were a she, to name her Margaret, in dedication to both St. Rita, and to my my maternal grandmother whose birthday was the same as Gabriel's due date. If the baby were a he, I would name him for St. Gerard, who I was looking to to bring my child through birth alive.

On February 15, 2011, a diagnosis of anencephaly was confirmed. On February 28, 2011, we learned that this special child we were carrying was a boy. Our son. Our baby boy.

The refrigerator had been housing pieces of paper with our chosen boy and girl names, and the middle names we had been toying with. One of the middle names was Gabriel. I looked up the name's meaning in our baby name book again. "A hero of God. God is my Strength."

Gabriel.

Five pounds and nine ounces of heroic strength. A miracle. An activist. A bright light. A symbol of hope. Our precious baby boy.

If someone had told me one year ago what I read in my daily devotional book today, that God promised "I am your Strength and your Shield. I am with you and watch over you wherever you go," I suppose I would have believed it on some plain level. Now, one year after my world was shattered around me, I have built a new world, one built on a foundation of true hope and the deepest of human love, with walls held in place by a mighty God who turns even the darkest of moments into opportunities to draw closer to Him.

I am reminded of the closing sentences in my personal statement that I wrote for my Whittier Law application: "My life has not unfolded according to the plan I drafted when I was a young girl. Today I walk the path of a woman who knows life does not always turn out according to plan, but still, I keep walking."

I thank God for every step along the way.

Giddy Says

"What does it mean when someone creates a Facebook profile for their dog, and uses it to say things she doesn't want to say herself?" Ben asked Amber.

"They are passive-aggressive."

"That's not entirely true," I corrected Ben. "I don't just use Gideon's profile to say things. I also use it to play Cafe World."

Fellow psychology students might agree with Amber. I've been known to log in as Gideon to back myself up in an argument about politics -- As if posting from a different profile somehow gives more weight to my argument. I do use Gideon's profile to play one of those Facebook games that never ends. And sometimes, I use Gideon's profile to say things that I can't say myself -- not because I don't want to, but because sometimes the feelings are so strong that I need to express them twice.

Today, if Gideon could write a blog, it would look something like this:

"I sure miss my baby brother Gabriel. I wish he were here to pull on my ears. I wish he were here to make my mom smile; I'm starting to think no one can ever make her smile again the way she used to smile.

I wish mom and dad would stop fighting. Don't they love each other anymore? Why can't we all just play? Are we still a family?

I wonder if I'll ever have a new brother or sister again. We have Noelle, but I wonder if dad knows she's just not enough. I wonder if dad knows how much mom cries."

I find I explain myself to Gideon often. "Mommy just misses Gabriel, Bubba. Mommy's sorry she's so sad, I know it upsets you. Mommy is sorry she just doesn't have the energy to play like she used to. Mommy hopes she gets better soon too. Mommy wishes the fighting would stop too."

The fighting seems to have stopped. It's been replaced by silence. And the silence is even more frightening.

Sweet Dreams, Sweet Andrew

My heart is heavy today, after reading this morning that another anen mommy, Kelly, has had to let her baby go. Though I love all of my sister-mommies, I find myself connecting especially with certain mommies or sometimes certain babies.

Through the course of Baby Andrew's life, I couldn't help but relive my precious Gabriel's life too. Gabriel was born on June 10, Andrew born on January 10; they were their mothers' first born children; Gabriel was born at 3:19 PM, Andrew was born at 3:20; though anencephaly occurs more commonly in girls than in boys, both Gabriel and Andrew were struck by this defect; when Kelly brought Andrew home and was able to introduce him to his canine brother, I remembered the joy of introducing Gabriel to Gideon in a moment I thought would never come; like I did for Gabriel, Kelly prayed for Andrew's suffering to end though it would mean letting go.

Gabriel lived 10 days, passing on June 20 and Andrew lived 10 days too, passing on January 20. For those ten days, the world stopped its hustle and bustle to follow the progress of those little lives. Mommies who lost their babies much sooner lived vicariously through Kelly and me and I continue to be amazed by their genuine love and happiness for us even when their own time had been so short. Mommies and daddies of children of every kind -- healthy, disabled, living, deceased, boys, girls -- held their children a little closer in their arms or in their hearts, thanking God for their own blessings. That is part of the beauty of the life of the anencephalic baby: Their ability to bring glory to God, even amid sadness and despair.

I am ashamed to admit to my envy over the past ten days. I am but a human being, with a selfish heart at times. I thought so often in the last ten days about how much I wish I could live the ten days with my precious Gabriel, over again. Though I celebrated Kelly's joy and today mourn her loss with her, I am still consumed with longing for my son. How is it I have been given so very much to be grateful for, yet I still want more?

But even as I witness Kelly's love and strength on this day, I know that her pain is tremendous. And I know that many other mommies are celebrating the life of Baby Andrew, but also remembering their own babies' lives, all much too short. For it is never easy to let go of one's child. Whether we are 30 or 80, or our baby is born still, lives for minutes, hours, days or years, to watch them leave this earth before we do is unfair. And I think it must be the deepest hurt there is in this world.

Kelly, I thank you for your selfless example of love. Thank you for sharing your precious boy with us. Thank you for allowing me and so many others into your world, into your heart. Thank you for bringing back so many memories for me, though the scars from losing my own sweet boy are still raw and tender. Thank you Kelly, and all sister-mommies, for opening your hearts to God's will, and by your example, changing this world and making it a little bit better. That's what we are doing - Making this world better, one precious life at a time.

*The picture of Gabriel's hands was chosen for this entry after reading the following from Andrew's mommy: " I fell asleep and so did you holding my finger tightly." Sweet dreams, sweet Andrew.

My Little Crusader

This year marks the 39th anniversary of the landmark decision in Roe vs. Wade, the court case that ruled that the right to privacy under the 14th amendment extends to a woman's decision to have an abortion (with some limitations, still), and states may not keep a woman from exercising that right. Though abortions occurred legally before this decision, and will occur legally even if the decision is reversed, the case and the date of its ruling, January 22, are memorialized by pro-choice supporters as a day of victory, and mourned by pro-life supporters for the part Roe v. Wade has played in the destruction of so many innocent lives, as well as the devastation abortion has caused in the lives of so many women who were falsely led to believe that abortion was an answer they could live with.

There are a number of annual pro-life marches that take place on the weekend of January 22, including a very large march in San Francisco, which I had hoped to attend last year. Circumstances didn't allow me to participate last year or any previous year, but I couldn't have known on January 22, 2011, that I would be asked to be a walking, talking billboard for the pro-life movement just one week later.

After Gabriel's initial diagnosis, I gave myself two weeks to hope. For the two weeks leading up to the advanced ultrasound that would or would not confirm a diagnosis of anencephaly I allowed myself to believe that the initial diagnosis was wrong. I made a promise to God that if our worst fears were confirmed, I would accept Gabriel and his fate with grace.

I like to think I did a pretty good job of representing the decision to choose life. People who learned of Gabriel and his story before he was born, knew that Ben and I had chosen to carry him, though he might not even be born alive. I never dreamed that Gabriel would be so brave and bold and far-reaching in his earthly mission.

Gabriel's life is not somehow more meaningful or valuable because he lived significantly longer than many anencephalic babies. Ultimately, he would share their fate. Before Gabriel was born I was advised by others who had walked in my shoes to remember that anencephaly would claim Gabriel's life, not something that I did or didn't do. Now, I give others taking this journey the same advice.

But as Gabriel held on, day after day for ten days, he showed so many people that his life is worth fighting for. Yes, he was here in part because I believe with all my heart that abortion is a moral wrong, an irreversible and destructive choice, and a plague in this country. Gabriel taught the world so much more about life, though. He taught us that it is worth fighting for. Life is not ours to take. And living is worth doing.