How I Became A Grown Up

Flying across the Atlantic the other night I found the movie Wish I Was Here, written by Adam & Zachary Braff. Zach Braff also plays the lead. About 35 minutes into the film I paused it, and the following flowed out. 

Do you want to know when you really become a grown up? It's when you have to take care of your parent/guardian/whathaveyou. 

The day you realize you're the caregiver. That the balance has shifted on your scales. 

For a litany of reasons that I'm not delving into, I was the official decision maker as my mom lay dying in a hospital. 

My dad was on the other side of town, in a different hospital, & working his way back to mom. 

My brother, let's call him Daniel, was the one who lived closer. He had a wife & a gaggle of kids. I lived 6 hours away, in NYC, and I wasn't even 30. But it was my job, my responsibility, to talk to the doctors & relay info to my dad. 

Legally & practically, I made the decisions that ended her life. 

That sentence is bullshit. Not because it is untrue, it's not. I was the one. 

It's bullshit because that's a messed up thing for anyone. In the history of ever. Of course it happens every other minute all day long, but that's not any less screwy. 

So there was a moment in my life where I got to tell the doctors we were done with any heroics. I got to witness a parade of people giving my mom the weight of their sadness. I slept on a cot in her room, one of my girlfriends by my side, so I'd be there if something happened. 

I think my moment of clarity came when Daniel's best friend, by no small coincidence my ex-boyfriend, brought his rather pregnant wife to meet my dying mother. I'd just been explaining all the legal shite to Danny & I walk out to see everything I wanted to share with my mother walking down the hall. 

My life, unlived, passed through me like a ghost. 

And then I got to wait for my dad to arrive, because mom wasn't budging without talking to him. That's 100% true, btw. The goodbyes & pleas to mom to "let go" went on for days; my dad instead talked over the phone, telling her she better wait for him to get there. He'd spent a lifetime waiting for her to get ready, and by God, this time she would wait for him. 

Naturally, she did. Mom was wild eyed & desperate for dad. She couldn't talk by then. He arrived & so very soon after she left us. 

I turned 30 a few days later. But honestly, I had aged a decade in just a few weeks. 

Afterwards, I ran away. I ran from that knowledge for years after. I ran from being grown. From as many responsibilities as I could. 

To tell the truth, I kept running until I found someone who made me want to be a grown up again. 

But that's a different tale, for a different night of wine, altitude & brilliant Indie film.

For You, of whom we do not speak

The day just passed and I didn't register it. Five years. 

Recently there has been a sorrow in me I couldn't identify. Now I understand. It's natural I didn't have the date in mind. We barely speak of you. Of your loss. 

What is that?! Why don't we talk about you? Because it is too raw, even five years later? It feels like we've made you a dirty secret; you were anything but. You were an immense joy & your life crystallized our love for each other. You illuminated the road we hoped to follow. 

Now I feel like I'm ready to share our story. To shine a light on your brief life.  

Your father & I had barely begun talking about names, but one of our early favorites was Oonagh. We lost you before we'd ever settled on anything, of course. But in my heart, that is your name. Years later, when we found out I was pregnant with your sister, we talked about the name Oonagh. There were lots of reasons we decided against it. But the reason I never spoke, not even to your daddy, was that I'd already given that name to you. 

There are so many things I don't remember; things I've allowed my mind to let go of. Yet I hang on to every minute of our last few days together. We both fought so hard, didn't we little one? You especially. 

Even now words fail me. I usually say "miscarriage", but it was in some ways much worse than that. 

I was so sick. At the time we didn't know why, we visited several doctors who stamped it flu & sent me home to rest. Now I'm pretty certain it was Swine Flu, which was epidemic that year. Not that it matters, really. The fever, that's what mattered. 

My fever was so high I got out of bed to lie on the floor under the ceiling fan. Your father found me & brought me back to bed. I kept getting up to pee again & again & felt like something wasn't right, but I was on fire and delirious. 

We went to the doctor the next day & she was puzzled. Concerned. But she sent us home. Before we even got there she called and sent me for a special ultra-sound. At an office in the hospital. 

I wasn't thinking & I went alone. 

At first the technician screen turned to me, sound on so I could hear the reassuring beat of your heart. Oh, the joy I felt hearing that sweet sound. The relief. Then she turned the monitor away when the picture showed a lack of amniotic fluid. As the bitter reality of what those words meant enveloped me, I still clung on to the sound of your heart, beating clearly. After long minutes the tech turned the sound off. 

I remember waiting, crying, while they cleared a space in the ER for me. The kind woman who confirmed all of my horror & then gently guided me downstairs & checked me in. I don't know if it was me or someone else who called your father.

Eventually my doctor came and explained everything to both of us why I was being admitted. The risk of septicemia was high. There were IV fluids to hydrate & induce me. I stayed overnight in the hospital & I'd was alone on the other end of the maternity ward. I couldn't have pain medicine, but they took pity on me and gave me a sleeping pill. 

That morning, July 16th, was your 13 week mark. And there was no change. The medicines hadn't worked, I would have to leave the hospital to go to a private clinic. 

I'm not even sure if I was awake. I was mentally numb. 

And then I went home. I told your daddy it was ok that he went back to work, even though it wasn't. The next day I went back to work, even though I wasn't ok. But I had to do... something. I'd already spent so much time alone.

It was a long path back. Your father and I worked hard to find a sense of normal. And we did; we moved forward. 

Somewhere in there we stopped speaking of you so often. So few people knew, since we lost you just about the time we were starting to share the news. 

We don't say it out loud, but I want you to know that you are always loved. You are not forgotten. 

Sometimes I feel like your life was sacrificed for the sins of my youth. Honestly, I don't believe that though. 

I believe that God sent you to us to help your father and I realize what we wanted out of our life together. Which makes the pain a blessing in disguise, doesn't it? 

You know, in legend Oonagh was the Queen of the Fairies. I'd forgotten that until I looked it up just now. How fitting, my little one. You were the most pure little creature. Our guiding light.