Blip

Dear "Mom 2":

I remember when you first referred to yourself as "Mom 2," in a routine e-mail.  I was taken by surprise; you already thought of me as your daughter.  I was not prepared to think of you as my mom.  Nevertheless, I was warmed by the gesture.  I was going to marry your son.  We were going to be a family.

Somewhere along the way, you disowned me.  Was it when I made the decision that you wouldn't have made, to carry my precious son to term despite his prognosis?  Was it when I urged you to come out for Gabriel's birth, the birth of your first born, and thus far only born grandchild?  Was it when I brought him home and gave him a life and death with dignity, although it hurt to spend ten days wondering how much time was left?

You just don't know - you'll never know - what you missed when you chose to miss out on Gabriel.  You can't imagine the love the filled the room, along with Gabriel's two parents, his two grandfathers, and two of his three grandmothers - but not you.  You'll never know the peace that was given to us, despite our loss, when we had the opportunity to meet that little boy.  You'll never know the most incredible person your son and I have ever met.

I think of your beautiful Southern home that I loved so much to visit, and the pretty details of your decorating, and the fresh scent of your linens and towels, and the family photos that line the hallway.  And I know that mine is no longer hanging there.  And I know that your only grandson's never has.

I know what it is to be a mother.  I know what it is to love your children above anyone else, and desire their happiness above anything else.  But I don't know how you, or your son, turned your back on me so coldly.  You both turned your back on me when I had already lost the biggest part of my world.  He just stopped loving me, and if you ever loved me too, it seems you also just stopped.  I was just a blip in the timeline of your lives.  Blip. After you had the nerve to call me your daughter, to compare our relationship to that lifelong, inevitable bond. And then you turned your back.  Blip.

I recall, fondly, watching you and your son dance to "Simple Man" at our wedding.  Today, the song causes me to swell with mixed emotions as I think of the simple conversation I will never get to have with my baby boy.

You taught your son to tie his shoes.  You taught your son to cook.  You taught your son to respect his elders.

You love your son; and I love mine.  But somewhere along the way you failed to teach your son what I never had an opportunity to teach mine:  You don't leave.  You don't give up.  You don't love with conditions.  You don't run when times get hard.  You brace yourself to face them.  You love your wife, even when it's hard.  Your promise is everything, until it's broken, and then your promises never mean anything again.

You failed to tell him not to hurt your daughter. You failed to feel your daughter's pain.

You called me your daughter.  But you never called me to ask how I was doing.  You didn't offer your shoulder to me to cry on; instead you offered my partner an escape.  You offered him safe harbor to run to when he abandoned me.

You called me your daughter.  But I don't regret that I could never call you my mother.

Today I took the sapphire earrings that you gave to your son to present to me when he proposed.  I opened the velvet box and observed the untarnished glitter of the metal and stones.  I closed the box, and placed it next to me in the passenger seat of my car and as I drove to work, I rolled down the window and threw the box to the side of the road.  I hope someone finds them and hocks them and either has a warm meal or gets very drunk tonight - Whatever makes him or her happy.

I don't need your earrings.  I don't need your "mothering."  I don't need your conditional love and support on your terms.

You called me your daughter, but some "mother" you are.  I suppose, though, we all take lessons from even the worst of mothers.  Thank you, for giving your son somewhere to run when he abandoned me, so that today I could be free to love the people who are worthy of my love.  Thank you for cushioning his blow and leaving me to flail, so that I could grow stronger and love harder and live better.  Thank you, for teaching me the kind of woman I never want to be - It's made me the kind of woman I hope I'll always be.

Sincerely,
Andrea

Eden

Eden Capwell  was the blonde protagonist in the 1980s soap opera Santa Barbara.  And she was cool.   So when I was 13 years old I decided that when I had a daughter, I would name her Eden just like the character from the by-then-cancelled soap opera.

The name sorta stuck.  Every time I was pregnant, I considered it for the baby I was growing.  After the miscarriage and while carrying Gabriel, I stumbled across the name "Eliana," "The Lord answers our prayers."  It became Gabriel's selected middle name, in the event he were a girl and my Eden-to-be.  After Gabriel's diagnosis but before he was born, I began to sense that the next time around I would have a perfectly healthy baby girl, and she would be my Eden Eliana; my paradise, and the answer to my prayers.

But paradise was a long way away.  The life I knew was turned upside down before I could find myself living the life I dreamed of.

Although Eden's gender wasn't officially revealed until she was born, I knew in my heart she was a girl.  I was occasionally pricked with doubt as most people said I "looked" like I was carrying a boy.  But then one afternoon as I was walking down the hall from my office to the restroom, when two women, one with a little boy and a little girl in tow, stepped into the hall from another office.  The little boy looked at me and immediately ran to me.  He was probably about three.  He stayed with me even as I passed his mom, offering me the piece of chocolate in his hand, and never taking his eyes off of me.  That moment imprinted on me as the moment of greatest clarity that the baby I was carrying was indeed my sweet Eden.

Sometimes I look at Eden and I still can't believe she is real.  After all of the years, and the ups and the downs, and the hell that was this life without my son, my daughter came along and brought me Heaven on earth.  The baby girl I first imagined when I was 13 years old is here, and sometimes I still can't wrap my mind around her.

She is every bit my little girl - Stubborn, determined, at once independent and needy. I'm never quite sure what to do with her and most days I'm pretty sure I'm doing it all wrong. But until Eden, life never felt so right.

On a Saturday Night. . .

We're in September, and the Major League Baseball Playoffs are right around the corner.  The Mariners are poised to take the wild card slot and compete in the playoffs for the first time since 2001. They've never been to a World Series, but this year devout fans believe that they might.

On a Saturday night Eden was curled up on the floor after a long day of outings.  She rolled over for me for the first time - She'd done it for her daddy more than a week ago and we've been waiting for a repeat since.  It was close to 9:00, past her usual bedtime, but she was content, staring at the TV and sucking her thumb.  The Mariners were playing the A's for a shot at usurping them as the #1 wildcard contender, with a 2-2 score going into the 9th inning, and for the first time, I was "watching" a game with my baby girl. We watched Fernando Riley throw a daring change-up pitch with a 3-2 count.  We watched the A's try to steal second base, only to get thrown out by the catcher in a play that was first called safe.  Lying next to her I muttered, "Don't make me become a supporter of instant replay."  Sure enough, thanks to instant replay, the runner was called out, ending the 9th inning and sending the game into extra innings.

On a Saturday night I laid next to my baby girl and enjoyed a moment that I have waited for.  In that moment, I felt the bitter, and I felt the sweet.  In that moment, I never missed my son more.

With every milestone, every laugh, every back-to-belly roll, my heart floods at once with thankfulness for my baby girl and longing for my 3 year-old baby boy. I lost my son, and that is a hurt that will never go away.  Never.

On a Saturday night I laid beside my baby girl, feeling the missing presence of Gabriel deep within me, but also feeling hope.  With Eden, the impossible feels possible.  Living without my son, which once felt impossible, now feels bearable.  With Eden, despite the Mariners' ultimate loss last night, the playoffs, the World Series even, still feels within reach.  With Eden, though California is suffering in the parched summer of what is allegedly the worst drought we've ever seen, it still feels possible that this winter Bakersfield may still see snow for the first time since 1999.  With Eden, falling in love again with her, with Marcos, doesn't feel like a risk.  It feels safe.  It feels inevitable.  It feels like anything is possible.

Rollin'

It was the Sunday night before Labor Day, and I had unexpectedly been asked to work the closing shift at the bar. With the three day weekend I could sleep in the following day, so I agreed.  The night started out slow.  Jerry sat at one end of the bar and a few stragglers wandered in and out, but until about 8 o'clock business was only steady.

Around that time, my friends started to trickle in.  First Angie, then T.J., Troy, Lindsey, Blake, Shane and Chris.

"What are you smiling about?"  someone asked.

"I'm just so happy to have my friends here."

One day, you might wake up and find that everything has changed.  Your son is dead, and you're divorced, and you're re-building your life after it was blown apart shattered.  The friends who stood at your side on your wedding day are more like acquaintances now, not because of any sort of falling out, but simply because you're different people who live different lives - And because they aren't sure how to interact with you now that you've seen hell.

But there are a handful of friends who have walked with you through it all.  A couple of them, like Angie and T.J., were there when you did the unthinkable and buried your child.  A couple of them, like Troy and Shane, met you out for a drink when you just needed to escape.  They're the friends who knew they couldn't say anything to fix all that was wrong, but they stood there, holding you up when you wanted to fall.

And then there are the friends who chose to become your friends, even when you were at your worst.  Elise, who I'd known for years, but suddenly became one of the first people to whom I spilled the news of Gabriel's diagnosis.  Our friendship started when I thought the world was ending.  Or Lindsey, the friend who listens when I need her, but with whom I can sit in comfortable silence.  She's the friend that just shows up with an orchid on Gabriel's first birthday and makes blueberry lemon cupcakes on his second birthday and meets me for a drink and then comes out to a charity run at 7 on a Saturday on his third birthday.  Or Blake, who used to work with Ben; who had a front row seat as my marriage fell apart; who I got to keep in the divorce.

My life as I knew it disintegrated, but I was built back up again by people who make me better by showing me the kind of person I want to be.  They recognize my strengths.  They teach me how to improve where I am weak.  They do it all just by being there.  It feels weird at the age of almost-33 to say that I've got "new" best friends.  Best friends seem like something for kids.  They've become known to me simply as "the homies," and they're the best friends I've ever had.

They screened Marcos when he and I started dating.  He had to pass the homie test, and now he's been incorporated.  And when we announced that we were expecting our baby, we were greeted with sincere joy.

Friendships made as an adult require a lot more concentrated effort.  We're busy, and our lives are filled with major changes, and we don't see each other every day the way we might have as schoolchildren.  We're establishing careers, romantic relationships, families, homeownership - Grown up stuff. Sometimes, friendship means meeting at Eureka Burger on a Thursday night, and bringing your baby, and knowing you've only got a small window before you've got to get back home, but knowing the friends you will see are worth it.  With Marcos at my side, Eden in my lap, Elise, Lindsey, and later Tori sitting across from me, I knew my night would be stretched thin.  But I also know that no matter how busy life gets or how tired I am I never regret the time I spend just rollin' with my homies.

Why Should I Worry?

It was the summer of 1997 when the Hernandez Family, then a party of 5, traveled to the Rosedale area to answer an ad in the Bakersfield Californian for a free terrier dog.  We had recently lost our beloved German Shepherd Crystal, and had only just adopted Twink, a hodgepodge of working dog breeds.  We piled into the family car, a blue Subaru station wagon, to pick up Emily, whose family owned ranch property and horses but had to give Emily away because of her tendency to run between the horses' legs, nearly tripping them.  

Later that summer the station wagon was traded in for a new van when we learned that our family of 5, in addition to growing with the addition of Twink and Emily, would shortly be growing once again with the anticipated arrival of Victoria.  

And so we grew, and we watched Emily and Twink grow right alongside Victoria.  Emily became famous among us for two things: First, her tendency to shoot through a door or gate at any opportunity and run through the neighborhood without slowing down.  She usually had to be chased in a car and it took all available hands on deck to retrieve her.  Next, she was known for her wild fur.  No matter how often she was bathed, brushed or trimmed, she always had this orphaned look about her.  Her appearance reminded us of the character Rosco from Disney's Oliver and Company and when she looked especially scruffy to us, we'd affectionately sing to her "Why should I worry?  Why should I care?"  

Emily was far from an orphan, though.  She was always loved, especially by Monica.  While I took to Twink that summer, Emily quickly became Monica's pet.  The relationship between Twink and Emily was also undeniable and the mix-matched pair of "sisters" brought joy and laughter to the family.  Years later when Twink was diagnosed with diabetes and the illness blinded her and began to effect her temperament, we were stunned to see Twink start to turn on Emily, especially with the introduction of Lola, our family German Shepherd who moved in in October 2007.  Eventually, Twink's illness shut down her internal organs and we had to put her to sleep nearly 5 years ago.  We hoped that with Twink's sad passing, Emily and Lola could live in harmony again.  After a very close-call, Emily, who had always been an outdoor dog, moved indoors. 

We weren't sure, at her advanced age and her propensity for bolting, how Emily would transition, but it was just a matter of time before Emily was very apparently enjoying the life of an only-indoor dog.  She laid where she wanted to, ate when she wanted to, and generally lived a life of luxury.  

Emily and Monica soon became a staple sight around the neighborhood.  Monica took Emily on three walks a day to make sure she had an opportunity to use the bathroom.  She came home on her lunch hour to walk Emily or let her outside.  Once a month she would travel to Fresno to visit with a cloister of nuns whose order she was discerning, but she would call or text reminders to take Emily outside.  Each of those weekends, Emily would wait by the front door, hoping that the next time it opened, Monica would walk through.  

They were to ladies, set in their ways, a stoic pair whose consistency you could always depend on.  When I moved in three doors down from my parents and Monica, I could see her walk by my front yard every evening.  Even when I wondered if my ex-husband would ever come home, I could be certain that Monica and Emily would traverse by at some point before and after the sun went down.  

Emily's walks started getting shorter and shorter.  She struggled to make it around the block, and so they would take a short-cut through the alley.  Then, she could only make it to the end of the block and back.  In recent weeks, Monica and Emily have only paced the yard.  Last night, Emily couldn't even do that much. Through it all she did not whimper, did not cry, did not howl.   

This morning at 7:40 I walked three houses over to say my good-byes to Emily before Monica wrapped her in a towel and carried her to the vet's office where Monica would say her own good-byes.  

I figure, if Emily was a year old when we got her in the summer of 1997, as her former family told us she was, she was about 18 years old when she went to her final rest this morning.  Not a bad run, for a scrappy little dog who tripped horses and battled German Shepherds.  No matter what she was going through, no matter how she looked, no matter her limitations, she just kept moving along as best she could.  And I like to believe that no matter how much she struggled her last few years and especially months and days on earth, today she's running free, her fur a tangled mess, her "sister" Twink alongside her restored to perfect health, singing "Why should I worry?  Why should I care?" 

Nano, Nano

"He's gone.  He's been down a few days."

My face crumpled and my body convulsed as I absorbed the information, only confirmation of what I already knew.

"Do you want me to call someone?"  I stared at him.  "Do you have a religious affiliation?"

I nodded.

"What is your religious affiliation?"

"Catholic." More emergency vehicles rolled by, their sirens silenced by this point.  A car marked "Kern County Coroner" passed.

It was true.  Sean was dead.

Nearly 10 years later the memories are still fresh enough to come flooding back when the news of a celebrity suicide captures the headlines.

Robin Williams, 64 years old, was a beloved actor.  We felt like we knew him.  We knew his voice.  We knew the twinkle in his eyes.  But we didn't know the depth of his internal struggle.

I was closer to Sean than anyone in the world on the day that he died.  I knew things were bad. I've spent years putting away the guilt I felt for not stopping him from putting that gun to his mouth.  Some people say I should feel angry at him for leaving like he did.  They would say that I should be angry at him for being selfish.  But they didn't know his heart.

What I feel much more powerfully than any other emotion when I think of Sean is a simple sadness that he is dead.

I am sorry I ever had to call his dad and say, "Sean is gone."  I am sorry that his mother will never dance with her son at his wedding.  I am sorry that I have found my soulmate, and somewhere out there Sean's is looking for hers but he's not here to be found.  I am sorry that we never got to have a real break-up, a real good-bye.  I am sorry that his 36th birthday just passed, but the world will never know a 36 year old Sean.

I am sorry that his life was cut short at 26 years old. I am sorry that at 22 I had to find his dead body, call the police, answer investigative questions about his last days, go to his funeral, be the battering ram for his mother whose grief far surpassed mine and whom I was the obvious target.  I'm sorry for the way that he's haunted my past relationships, and now that the guilt has been shelved and my memories of the event are bearable I am sorry that I ever had to come to terms with the death of my young boyfriend and best friend.

As I mourn the death of Robin Williams with the rest of the world, I can't help but mourn Sean.  He was the Mork to my Mindy, my best friend, forever young, and out of this world.

Be Good to Your Daughters.

The day the nurses placed Eden on my chest following the grand announcement that she was a girl, I thought two things:  First, I touched her perfect, round, whole head and marveled that she was real and healthy and here.

Then it hit me - I had no idea what I was going to do with a daughter.

There were the obvious concerns.  I hardly know what to do with my own hair, let alone the hair of a little girl.  I have pitiful fashion sense and I'm pretty shitty at applying make-up.

But my broader fears, the fears that kept me hoping for a brood of boys, have been creeping up on me.  How do I teach her to be selfless, without giving herself away?  How do I teach her to love others, but not at the expense of not loving herself?  How do I teach her to have a heart open to love and romance, but not to be a fool?  Or let her know that she is beautiful, but that beauty isn't everything?  Or impress upon her that she can be anything, an engineer, a doctor, or even a hairdresser?  How do I give her everything I can while letting her know that everything means nothing without love, family, and God?  How do I strike the balance in guiding her to do what's right while loving her no matter what she does wrong?

Her daddy looks at her with an easy love, while I look at her with fear.  How do I keep from screwing her up?  How do I teach her to be stronger than me?

Most importantly, how do I let her know how much she has brightened my world, without condemning her to live in Gabriel's shadow?  How do I let her know that although I still think Gabriel hung the stars for me, she is my sunshine?  Eden is my Heaven on earth.

I find myself afraid, running from how much I love her.  Over the last three years longing for Gabriel has become the status quo.  It's not surprise to me anymore.  But sometimes I am sitting at my desk at work while Eden is at daycare, and I feel this surge through my body accompanied by an intense desire to hold her in my arms and I know that I am missing her. And I know that feeling is nothing less than unconditional love.