The mother of my daughter's friend and schoolmate died on Labor Day weekend. She was 39. I didn't know her well, but here's a rundown of her last few months of life:
June 2010 - Pregnant with their 4th child. Preterm labor while on a family vacation. Baby in NICU, and mom's deteriorating. Doctors discover that she has endocarditis (look it up) and will need open heart surgery. Mom and baby flown back home and installed in same hospital.
July 2010 - Baby recovering. Mom getting worse. It is discovered that mom has colon cancer that's metastasized to her liver. Mom's open heart surgery is canceled, and she begins chemo. Family's 3 other children living with their aunt while dad stays with mom and baby.
August 2010 - Family's home is burglarized. Thieves steal car, computers, jewelry, basically anything not nailed down. Baby recovering nicely. Mom not responding to chemo. After 6 rounds of chemo and genetic testing, it is determined that mom's cancer is some weird genetic mutated variety that is untreatable.
September 2010 - Mom succumbs to liver failure secondary to metastasized colon cancer. She is survived by husband and 4 children, ages 2 months to 6 yrs. Children undergo genetic testing to determine if they carry the same cancer gene as their mother.
So there that is.
There's been a tremendous outpouring of support from the community, and everyone has rallied around this family. There was a spaghetti feed that raised over $70,000, not including the donation fund set up at a local bank. One of mom's former coworkers (now retired) has moved in with the family to care for the children. Apparently mom stepped up to help this woman after she had a stroke years ago, and now she is returning the favor. Angels are everywhere.
I could go on about how those children will never know their mother. Or about their widower father raising 4 small children. Or about the blinding speed of their downhill slide from family vacation to funeral. But everyone's already written that. It's the obvious story. It's heartbreaking.
What's utterly ordinary is that this kind of gut-wrenching drama (and much, much worse) plays itself out all over the world, day in and day out, everywhere, all the time, and it just is. There's nothing remarkable about this woman or this family that makes them any different from you, your neighbor, your coworker, or me. Nothing. And that is the truly horrifying part. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. Or my mom. Or my kid. I am not special. There's no protective shield around me that reflects and redirects the bad juju to someone else. To "them." When bad things happen, it always happens to "them." I realize now that I am them. I just haven't taken my turn yet.
Almost four years ago (can it be 4 yrs already?) my friend Penny got cancer and died. Her son was 11. I have a photo of the two of them on the day she died. She was divorced and worked at a bank. Her son lives with his dad now.
Three years ago my buddy's girlfriend was killed in a murder-suicide at the department store where she worked. My buddy already had the ring and was going to propose on Christmas. We had gotten together with them a week before she was killed.
Last year a good friend of my husband's died. I knew her casually. She had just become engaged and bought a house. She was found dead at home (undiagnosed health condition). She was a political activist and had a bright future ahead of her.
Three good people, to be sure, but I only tell their stories to illustrate a point.
It can be anyone, anywhere, anytime. They were all ordinary, regular people like you and me.
Them. We are them.
Part II to follow...
Sep 18, 2010
It's Calling Me
Blogging, she calls me. I've been on hiatus for awhile, but I've been drawn back in by the need to get "it" out. Much has happened, mostly good, some meh, but I don't feel like rehashing it. Onward and upward. I think my writing skills have dropped off significantly, which is a shame. I'm searching for an issue, a prompt, something to spur my creativity. I'll think of something soon. I hope. Any ideas?
May 5, 2010
Open letter to my friend's daughter
Dearest Baby,
On this fabulous occasion of your baby shower, I wanted to write a letter from one adoptee to another…
Being adopted is something that you can’t understand unless you are. Most of the time you are pretty normal, and life is business as usual. Once in awhile you feel different, but not in the way that people might think. I never felt different because I didn’t grow in my mom’s stomach. I never felt different because I didn’t look like my dad. I fought with my brother like a regular kid. I loved my grandma just like a normal kid. But once in awhile I felt different.
Some people don’t get it; they think being adopted is weird. Adults try to tell you things to make you feel special, but they always miss the mark. You’ll hear the clichés like “You grew in your mom’s heart instead of her tummy” and other sappy things. Nice sentiments to be sure, but people who write that crap aren’t adopted. Adoptees are in an exclusive club. You can’t join unless you are, and you can’t explain it to people because they just don’t understand. We’re extra-special, we’re more than normal. Our parents wanted us. REALLY wanted us. We have the unique experience of non-biological unconditional love, and it’s sublime.
The flip side of that is knowing that you have a dual history. There are always the questions you can’t ask, the questions that will break your parents’ hearts even though they’re expecting them. “Where did I come from?” “Who’s my real mother?” Real mother is the term you use as a kid before you have the language to say “biological mother,” before you have the awareness or understanding that calling your birth mother your real mother breaks your mom’s heart. Don’t ever feel guilty for having these questions. They are normal. They are part of your history, and you are entitled to that. Hopefully your parents will understand.
I was (and am) definitely different from my family. I am wild, impatient, impulsive, curious, and very unlike my parents. I don’t have my mom’s insight or my dad’s fortitude. My folks and I couldn’t be more different in temperament and personality. It was a challenge for my parents to raise such a foreign creature. I continually confounded them, and I think I scared them a little. They have always shown me the greatest love, but sometimes they didn’t understand me. Who is this person that they called daughter? It took me many years and lots of hindsight, but now I know that I landed exactly where I belonged.
It took parents like mine to raise a child like me into a happy, healthy adult. I have met my birth family, and I adore them, but if I had grown up with them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My parents were a steadfast rock in my whirlwind life, and without that North star, I would be lost. They taught me values, goals, love, life, and God. They loved me enough to turn me loose and allowed me to make my mistakes. They took me back and let me lick my wounds without saying, “I told you so.” They were and are amazing, and I wouldn’t want to know life without them.
So I’d like to welcome you to lifetime membership in a pretty cool organization. You’re exactly where YOU belong, and knowing your parents as I do, I don’t know who is luckier, you or them.
On this fabulous occasion of your baby shower, I wanted to write a letter from one adoptee to another…
Being adopted is something that you can’t understand unless you are. Most of the time you are pretty normal, and life is business as usual. Once in awhile you feel different, but not in the way that people might think. I never felt different because I didn’t grow in my mom’s stomach. I never felt different because I didn’t look like my dad. I fought with my brother like a regular kid. I loved my grandma just like a normal kid. But once in awhile I felt different.
Some people don’t get it; they think being adopted is weird. Adults try to tell you things to make you feel special, but they always miss the mark. You’ll hear the clichés like “You grew in your mom’s heart instead of her tummy” and other sappy things. Nice sentiments to be sure, but people who write that crap aren’t adopted. Adoptees are in an exclusive club. You can’t join unless you are, and you can’t explain it to people because they just don’t understand. We’re extra-special, we’re more than normal. Our parents wanted us. REALLY wanted us. We have the unique experience of non-biological unconditional love, and it’s sublime.
The flip side of that is knowing that you have a dual history. There are always the questions you can’t ask, the questions that will break your parents’ hearts even though they’re expecting them. “Where did I come from?” “Who’s my real mother?” Real mother is the term you use as a kid before you have the language to say “biological mother,” before you have the awareness or understanding that calling your birth mother your real mother breaks your mom’s heart. Don’t ever feel guilty for having these questions. They are normal. They are part of your history, and you are entitled to that. Hopefully your parents will understand.
I was (and am) definitely different from my family. I am wild, impatient, impulsive, curious, and very unlike my parents. I don’t have my mom’s insight or my dad’s fortitude. My folks and I couldn’t be more different in temperament and personality. It was a challenge for my parents to raise such a foreign creature. I continually confounded them, and I think I scared them a little. They have always shown me the greatest love, but sometimes they didn’t understand me. Who is this person that they called daughter? It took me many years and lots of hindsight, but now I know that I landed exactly where I belonged.
It took parents like mine to raise a child like me into a happy, healthy adult. I have met my birth family, and I adore them, but if I had grown up with them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My parents were a steadfast rock in my whirlwind life, and without that North star, I would be lost. They taught me values, goals, love, life, and God. They loved me enough to turn me loose and allowed me to make my mistakes. They took me back and let me lick my wounds without saying, “I told you so.” They were and are amazing, and I wouldn’t want to know life without them.
So I’d like to welcome you to lifetime membership in a pretty cool organization. You’re exactly where YOU belong, and knowing your parents as I do, I don’t know who is luckier, you or them.
Mar 22, 2010
I'm not supposed to be here
I coach one of my kids' teams, and one of my co-coaches is a doctor. Nice guy. His kid is on the team. So we're leaving, and he and his kid get into their Corvette and drive home. I don't begrudge him, nor do I want a Corvette. When I watch them drive away, I'm reminded that it's supposed to be me. I was supposed to be a doctor. My whole life, that's all I wanted. I point the finger at myself. It's my own damn fault I'm broke. I could have NOT gotten married so young, NOT had kids so young, NOT squandered my chance. But I didn't. I hate myself just a little bit for it, too. I hate that I wasted my chance. I hate that I didn't utilize 1/100th of my talent and skill and intelligence to DO something with my life. I hate it hate it hate it. I hate that I have to be grateful for my part time hourly wage job because I would be screwed without it. I hate that I have to work two full shifts just to pay my phone bill. I hate that if my husband get laid off, we would be in the worst Challenger Deep level of trouble. I hate that my boss treats me like a brainless peon. I hate feeling like a failure. Just call me Captain Almost. It doesn't feel like my life sometimes, like this can't be really as good as it gets.
Mar 12, 2010
The Good Mother
Today I had to delicately explain the basics of a rusty trombone to my son. Some kid at his school kept saying it, and my ever-curious kid asked what it was. I didn't get specific about things, but I did let him know that it was an unusual sex act and that he should never repeat it at school. That led to a convo about shooting heroin, smoking foilies, and why marijuana grows on the highway. I believe in full disclosure (with age-appropriate limitations) and telling the truth. I don't overshare, but I am honest with my kids. They've opened a condom and fooled around with it, filled it with water, put it on a cucumber, etc. They know how to recognize drugs and drug paraphernalia, what dating should be and that's it's ok to dump people who aren't right for you, how credit cards work, the basics of car maintenance, and how to make dry ice bombs. I don't shove edgy stuff in their faces... it's already there. They know they can bring it to me for clarification, and then they can put it aside, satisfied. I don't want them to make huge mistakes that ruin their lives just because I was too uncomfortable to answer their questions properly.
I don't try to be their friend, and I don't try to be the cool mom. I do the best I can, and I raise them the best way I know how. For me, that means guiding them, educating them, shaping their values and morals, and then helping them stretch and grow into independent, self-confident, productive citizens.
What does being a good mother (or father) mean to you?
I don't try to be their friend, and I don't try to be the cool mom. I do the best I can, and I raise them the best way I know how. For me, that means guiding them, educating them, shaping their values and morals, and then helping them stretch and grow into independent, self-confident, productive citizens.
What does being a good mother (or father) mean to you?
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