Shattered

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

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

The memory came flooding swiftly back to me:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She was crazy," one of them said.

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

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

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

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

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

Profile of a Victim

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unarmed Conflict

I feel conflicted. To say the least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nine Lives

Valentine's Day, 13 years ago, a tiny gray bundle of fur made her way into my life.  Lily.  She was my companion, even traveling with me to law school and staying for about a month, before her practice of clawing my roommate's couch earned her a ticket back home to my parents' house.  When, on Valentine's Day eight years ago I celebrated the holiday with the discovery of Sean's dead body and a brief police interview, Lily was my comfort as I tried to make the best of a grizzly day by celebrating her "birthday" with her.

"I didn't even know you had a cat," someone mentioned recently.  After she got the boot from my place in Costa Mesa, Lily never left my parents' house again.  Some might say she was no longer my cat; but she was always my cat.

It became evident a few months ago that Lily wouldn't be with me much longer. She'd suffered from stomatitis, an inflammation of the mucous lining in her mouth, for which she was treated with periodic steroid injections.  At what I thought was a routine visit for an injection just a couple of months ago, the vet warned me that the injections were becoming decreasingly effective.  The injections no longer held her over for months at a time, but one month, and each time she came in she weighed less.  She recommended I have Lily's teeth extracted, but at a visit last week for yet another injection, the vet informed my dad, who had kindly taken time off from his vacation to take Lily in, that it was time I start "considering Lily's quality of life."
Those were exactly the words I didn't want to hear, and exactly the kinds of considerations I wasn't ready to make.  The tears poured from my eyes.  She couldn't have many more injections - the next one could kill her, as she was requiring them closer and closer together.  She couldn't undergo surgery - that could kill her too.  Her nine lives were exhausted.  Lily was at my mercy and I was at a loss.

I'd joked for years that if anything happened to Lily, it would send me over the edge.  People would say, "She was always so strong. . . Until Lily."  This would be it.

For a week we observed Lily.  I knew the decision to put her to sleep was impending, but I also didn't want to deny her a few more good days.  On Wednesday night it was clear that Lily was ready for me to let her go.  I spent the night at my parents' house, slipping in and out of sleep and trying to check on Lily, to make the last hours of her life as comfortable as possible.  Wrapped in a towel and my arms, we rode over her vocal objections as my dad drove us to the vet's office.

"It's kinder this way.  You know that though, don't you?"  I sniffled and nodded at the doctor, my hands still stroking her bony, feeble body.  Lily, who had always had a kittenish look to her, suddenly looked old and weary.  She'd been my solace for so many years, but now it was time for me to comfort her.  I whispered into her ear simply, "I love you."  

The procedure was over very swiftly.  I cried until I ran out of tears; I cried the tears I didn't cry and hadn't cried for things maybe I should have cried for sooner.  I emptied myself of a great deal of grief over the soft, lifeless body of my Lily.

I noted a missed call on my phone.  "My Boyfriend Marcos."  I'd so labeled him in my phone because I was so excited by our developing relationship.  My faith that maybe, maybe life had more in store for me in the romance department had begun to waver when we met.

Sometimes I feel so stained by my past that it's hard to imagine there's a normal life left for me to have.  The innocence of an animal's soul is unquestionable to me, and so it is our duty to be kind to them and not break their pure spirits.  But throughout our human lives we have experiences that chip away at our innocence and bend our spirits.  There have been times and events after which I was not quite sure life would go on - Life certainly did NOT go on as it had before, it was changed, and I was marked by these events.  These painful events, like the assault; these beautiful events, like the day that Victoria was born; and the beautifully tragic life and death of my son.  Still, the human spirit is a resilient, amazing thing when we're willing to pick ourselves up and make the most of our nine lives.

Drowning, Slowly.

"Your Aunt Carol is going slowly.  I just want you to know that."  I could feel my dad's eyes linger on me for a moment, as though he were waiting for some sign of humanity.

"Okay."

I know I should care.  I know I should be sad, or maybe I should pray, or maybe I should shed a tear, or feel some pang of regret, or something. . . I should feel something.

But I don't.

My dad's sister is dying.

I've never been particularly close to that side of the family and in recent years the relationship has become more strained - And I've become colder and colder, and less and less capable of the kinds of feelings that evoke tears or whatever else one is supposed to feel in these instances.

On the one hand, I feel with this deep, frightening intensity.  And on the other, I feel little at all.

A secretary brought a letter in for me to sign today.  It's still odd to me that someone brings things in for me to sign and I blinked, as I do, to adjust to the notion.  My phone rattled in between us with a number I did not recognize.  I blinked again at Suzanne as I grabbed the phone and looked her in the eye while I answered.

It was some woman from the church, wanting to know if and when I would be willing to volunteer with the youth group.  Suzanne wandered respectfully out of the room.

"I'm at work.  I can't talk." And we hung up and I began pecking away again at the computer keyboard when Suzanne came back.

"I just sent. . ." Suzanne held my edited letter up for me to see. "Oh.  You got it.  I just sent the other to print, too."  She stepped out for a moment and returned with the second, edited copy.  "I didn't mean to be rude and answer the phone in front of you.  It's just that my aunt is dying, and I thought the call might be related.  Here."  I scratched my name across the signature space - in blue, just like my mother taught me.

Suzanne left my office and started to close the door behind her.

"It's fine.  I don;t need the door closed."

It's very lonely with the door closed.

I flipped absently through the file in front of me.

"Your Aunt Carol is dying.  You're going to have to decide what you're going to do."  I refused to meet my mother's admonishing eyes.

"Okay."

Would I go see her?  Why would I?  Would I kneel in the church on the night of her rosary, murmuring the words cemented into my brain, while I recalled my cousin Eric's words:  "You're not living together until you're married?"  I recall shaking my head.  I recall his eyes rolling in his head at my silliness.  Looking back, it does all seem rather silly.  It seems silly to have a wedding that I intended would bring our family together in joy, rather than in mourning, or at a surprise baby shower for a 15 year old cousin.  What the hell was any of it for?  

Today, my Aunt Carol is surrounded by her four children, and their children, and their children's children.  She's dying.  But her life is full.  Her kids, my cousins, they fucked up a lot - but they gave her grandchildren that have kept her hanging on, through the amputation of both of her legs, through widowhood, through divorce.  Her deathbed is surrounded.  And I know that her impending death pulls at my father's heart but it is still nothing like the void that was left when his grandchild, Gabriel, the baby I couldn't grow "right" left this world.  When it's his turn - when it's my turn - who will be there?

I'm not afraid of dying.  I'm just afraid of dying alone.

And tonight, while my Aunt Carol, who out of stubborn pride I haven't spoken to in well over a year, dies after a long and painful battle with her health, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to trade places with her.  What would it be like to walk away from the long and painful battles I have lived through?  What would it be like to be reunited with those I fought those battles for?

I know that I am strong, that I've willed myself through the kinds of things that shatter other people.  I know that I'm different, that I'm not like everyone else, and that I'm special.  Where others sink, I swim.

But tonight, as I contemplate my empty home, the empty rooms, my empty bed, the empty crib, the tightly packed hope chest, and my empty arms, I can't help but feel like I'm drowning, slowly.  I can't help but feel anything but strong.

A Shining Light

On a Monday morning in January 2011, one doctor shed a frightening light on my son's fate:  If he survived delivery, he would die soon after. 

And suddenly I was where I never want to be - In the dark. 

I had never heard of anencephaly.  I didn't know what a neural tube defect was.  I'd only skimmed my copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting," thinking women had been having babies since long before I'd ever have one, and I'd probably figure this pregnancy thing out too.  Upon later review of the book's section on neural tube defects I found only a short blip about the freakishness of the occurrence of such defects, and my options to end the pregnancy if my child were determined to be non-viable. 

I didn't even know that my child was a boy.  He was a sweet, baby boy, and I quickly learned that there wasn't a single thing that a doctor, or 100 doctors, could tell me that could make me stop loving my son. 

So I desparately searched the internet for answers, finding haunting images, endearing stories, support groups where I found women who I clung to throughout the duration of my pregnancy, and ultimately, information about the Duke Center for Human Genetics Neural Tube Defect Research Study. 

Through my studies of the information found on the internet I discovered that my son's death as a result of his having anencephaly was inevitable but I was determined to show anyone who was observing us that his life had value, like all human lives have value, even if it would be short.  We volunteered to donate Gabriel's umbilical cord blood, and samples of his parents' blood, to Duke University's Center for Human Genetics. 

Somehow the answers provided by Duke had to be enough.  It had to be enough that through research we could be assured that we didn't do anything wrong; that sometimes anencephaly just happens; that the chances of a reccurrence were slight, but that there were things we could do to reduce even that slight risk (see January 31st's entry on folic acid).  It had to be enough to know that through the donation of our son's blood, someday we might have more answers.  Someday some parents might not have to hear the words "incompatible with life" because when we heard them two years ago we chose not to run from them, but to confront them.

It wasn't enough.  I couldn't stop there. 

For the last two months I have been selling t-shirts with a logo representing Gabriel and anencephaly awareness to raise funds for Duke Center for Human Genetics.  Thanks to the generosity of our friends and family, the first installment of the funds raised is being sent in today's mail.  You all, through your kindness and charity, have helped me to raise $360 dollars thus far to send to Duke in honor of a little boy who changed your world.

Rest assured that the journey I have taken has been difficult.  I promise you, I don't look at your children without thinking of my own.  I don't hear your stories of learning to tie shoes, losing teeth, academic honors, athletic victories, or graduation, and fail to think about what I won't experience with Gabriel.  Still, you have made my son's life even greater than I ever imagined.  You've taken the darkest time in my life, and turned my son Gabriel into this shining light of hope burning brightly in so many hearts. 

A Record of Events

"There is nothing special about me. . . My story is a story of very ordinary people during extraordinarily terrible times.  Times the like of which I hope with all my heart will never, never come again.  It is for all of us ordinary people all over the world to see to it that they do not."

-Miep Gies, Anne Frank Remembered:  The Story of the Woman Who Helped to Hide the Frank Family

"A memoir?  I thought memoirs were written by old people or celebreties."  That was how I was recently answered when I shared with someone that I would like to write a book.  I'd like to write a memoir. I don't believe that such books are only supposed to be written by someone famous, or someone old, or someone who did something huge and important.  According to Dictionary.com, a memoir is "A record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation."  Memoirs are for someone with a story to tell.  And if I've learned one thing over the course of my life, it's that everyone has a story to tell. 

Maybe I'm a bit lofty, or even arrogant, for opening this entry with a quote from the woman whose family helped to hide the Frank family.  Anne Frank and Miep Gies are two people whose stories have had a tremendous impact on our sense of history.  Still, they were just two people, living in the circumstances that found them.  They were just living their lives, lives that happened to take place in a time of atrocity that is burned into our impressions of the 20th century. 

I'm not especially special, except in the sense that we're all special, and I'm no hero.  But I happened to be the one woman in 1,000 who was told her baby had a fatal neural tube defect.  I happen to live in a time when babies like mine can be "terminated" just because they happen to be unborn, and they happen to have a certain condition.  I happen to be among that ten percent or less of the one in 1,000 women who receive this terminal diagnosis for their child and still carry that child to term.  And from there, I happened to be that  anomolous mommy who got to keep her terminally ill baby for ten days and have the privilege of sharing in an experience that has touched countless lives.  I happened to be part of an experience that's caused people to think twice about what it means to be alive, what it means to be a mother, what it means to be a hero - I'm no hero, but my son is.  With all of my heart I firmly believe that the day will come when we view abortion with the same regret and disgust that we view the Holocaust, every human genocide, every instance of human slavery.  If my son's sweet, dimpled smile has an impact on that transition in our American and human spirit, then I've simply been blessed to have happened to be a part of it. 

I happen to like to write, and I happen to be fairly good at it.  I've got many stories to tell, not the least of which is Gabriel's.  Through the course of my life I've been fortunate to meet many people who have stories too, whose stories have touched me and changed the way I look at things.  Just about anyone has something to share that can touch your heart and change your life, if you let them. 

For two years this blog has served me in healing from the death of my son Gabriel.  Nearly two years ago, I attended his funeral after holding him while he took his last breath.  Nearly one year ago, I watched his father, my husband, fade from my sight as he drove down the street where our family lived for the last time, our recently signed divorce papers waiting on my kitchen table to be filed at the courthouse.  I've spent the last two years here, healing, letting an audience of knowns and unknowns witness my healing and through it all I've been told it's helped to heal them too. 

I've still got more healing to do.  I've still got more to say.  But I've decided it's time to take a break.  I'll be limiting my blog entries for a while, in exchange for working on a manuscript for my memoir.  I hope to have a rough draft by Gabriel's birthday next year.  I hope to have it published by the time I am 35, and with my 32nd birthday creeping up on me I'll have just over three years to accomplish the goal. 

I'll still need your help.  The appeal of maitaining the blog for me has largely been in the instant feedback.  So as I set about working on the book, I hope you'll share with me which entries you've found most interesting, which writing styles you've like the most, and which "characters" - who are all real people - you would like to know more about.  Thank you in advance for your responses, as they'll be invaluable in helping me craft this book.  And thank you for having taken this two-year long walk with me.