Silver Lining

Truth is, we were all unwillingly caught up in that tempest. You just happened to be the youngest, which meant that you were either the most or the least impacted—depending on the day.

It wasn’t her fault. She’d grown up unmoored, searching for someone to cling to – then tried, too young, to create the family she’d always wanted. Yet it was too much all at once. You simply can’t know what you haven’t known. No one can. And no amount of lecturing, arguing or shared “lessons learned” can turn the tide. So many words I wish I could take back now, their taste so bitter in hindsight. We tried to help fill the gap. Tried to make it right when we were really just making it up as we went along. Still the storm surged and calmed.

You were the silver lining, from that first night when I found you standing up in your crib sobbing. I picked you up and rocked you, and you instantly fell asleep in my arms. So small.  All you wanted was to be held and loved. Every. Single. Day. And that was the easy part for me. Soon you were happy, comfortable in our new routine.

I would rush home from work to see you with those little blue eyes watching for me at the front door. You would entertain us all at dinner with your goofy smiles and baby giggles. Then it was bath time and stories. Wheels on the bus and Itsy Bitsy Spider. You and me in the old rocker. Like a kitten, you’d purr a quiet little hum when we cuddled. Then you’d fall asleep hugging your “Lambie,” secure in this new rhythm.  I’d run my finger over the bridge of your nose, connecting the freckles on your tiny face and feeling grateful for unexpected gifts.  

Time passed and she found her way. Like all of us, she now takes parenting step-by-step, day-by-day, striving to get it right. Not long ago, the topic of those five months came up. “We don’t talk about that time,” she said with finality.  Out of a long overdue show of respect for her, I said nothing. I understood that was a period of pain and insecurity for her. Yet with that broad sweep of the eraser, we were wiping away the laughter, the Wheels on the Bus, the precious way you bowed your little head in prayer every night and OUR connection, etched so very permanently on my heart. I was trying to come to terms with this in my head when she left the room, leaving just you and me.

“Mimi?” you said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy.” I replied. “Have I given you 100 kisses yet today?”

You giggled as I kissed every freckle in that magnificent constellation on your face. And then I heard it. That little purr.

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“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;”

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

 

 

 

Seesters: There Were Never, Ever Better Seesters

Back in the days when Batman, Bonanza and Bewitched ruled television and Bazooka and Boston Baked Beans ruled the candy stores, a young couple in Columbus, Ohio started raising a family. I came along first, followed by three more girls—and the couple became (whether intentional or not) a kooky family of six.

 

Naturally, the four sisters tormented each other ruthlessly, tattled, screamed and cried—yet grew up to be besties. (Besties with a knack for telling the painful truth to each other, but hey—besties, nevertheless.)

Life took us in four completely different directions, molding four very different women.  We still love a few of same things, still attempt to control each other, try to avoid talks that center around politics (we’ll, most of us do J) and still argue over who is the REAL oddball of the family. (I’m pretty sure it’s me, but no one is saying it out loud.) And we still share a sense of humor that makes us snort out loud at things that no one else on the planet would ever find humorous. Ever.

Last year during a routine biopsy to remove a small bump above my eye – I received some not-so-routine results. The initial diagnosis: some kind of serious cancer was emanating from somewhere deep inside my body.  If you’ve never stood toe-to-toe looking at cancer, I can tell you that it moves into your head and instantly takes up residency with its bullying fear.  I went through six frightening weeks of every kind of medical test imaginable before undergoing surgery to remove the mole. The good news: the initial diagnosis turned out to be wrong.

But here is the big thing I (re)discovered during that time: my sisters had my back at every single step of that scary walk. And in a big way. Susie took me to each and every doctor’s appointment, rearranging her schedule to be with me and hold my hand. She brought me books on healing, fresh organic produce, stress drops and iced teas (my drink of comfort).  Megan, my youth minister sister, prayed fervently for me with her Moms’ group, put me on the prayer chain and led her precious little family in praying rosaries on my behalf.  Judy called and emailed me from NY, sent me a book by my favorite author for recovery reading and even offered me a kidney (noting that her liver was probably not much use after years of drinking red wine J).

I guess, in some ways, I’d always taken the bond with my sisters for granted. Growing up, I just assumed that everyone had that with their siblings. But they don’t. I wish I had a dollar for each time another woman has met us, witnessed our magical bond then said … “I wish I had a sister like that” or “I wish I was a Brown girl.” I’m not making this up. In fact, we’ve heard it so many times that we started donning the title, “Honorary Brown Girl” to those ladies that really “get us.”

Lol. Even when I write “Get us” … I check myself wondering how I was blessed enough to have been born into this exclusive sisterhood, even if I am the family oddball. I’ll take it. Any. Given. Day.

First Responders

There are those pivotal moments in life that unearth something you didn’t know before … about yourself … about those you love most in the world.

Eighteen months ago on a hot August night, our little family of three was headed home from the state fair—laughing and joking. We stopped at Waffle House for a cheap meal, continuing our conversation.  Looking out the front window of the restaurant, we noticed a young, 30-something man stumbling through the parking lot. He texted someone on his cell phone, then continued walking aimlessly west along the highway. “That’s odd,” I said. “Where did he come from? Where is he going?” There are no sidewalks or walking paths along that stretch of highway … no residences … and the road narrows to a bridge over a lake.  We passed it off and continued our original conversation, then paid for our meal and started home in my car.

Not a mile from the restaurant, we noticed a stopped vehicle on the bridge with its emergency lights flashing. We peered into darkness trying to determine what was happening. Then, in my car’s headlights, we saw a pair of flip flops in the middle of the road … then a crumpled body … and a van just beyond it.

Pull over!” my husband and son yelled at the same time. Both trained firefighter/EMTs, they yelled to me, “Stay by the car. Call 911.”  Then they ran into the darkness, passing the driver of the car who stood--stricken in horror--next to his vehicle, and to the young man who lay severely broken on the pavement.

What happened in that next 10 minutes is something that I think about often.  I called 911 then stayed at the car, crying and shaking—afraid to go look. I did the only thing I could think of to do … the only thing I was capable of doing at that moment … I prayed.

Tom (my husband) and Kyle ran by the driver, giving him an assignment to keep him occupied. (“Did you call 911? Watch for traffic and the squad.”) Then Kyle began CPR on the man and kept it up, despite the man’s critical injuries. With no flares or lights on that dark stretch of highway, Tom held up a lighter and stood out in the road protecting Kyle and the injured man as best he could. The police arrived, followed by the medics—although it was too late.  

Uriel died that night. We learned later that he was an immigrant from Mexico who had too much to drink that evening and, after a series of terrible events, ended up wandering down a highway. He left behind a wife and young children – some 1,400 miles away.

We all asked ourselves if we could’ve done more. After 18 months of reflection, here is my take on it:  I don’t know what God’s plan is, but I have to trust that this was part of it.  As many cars drove by that horrific scene at 60 MPH that dark night, my guys stopped to help. No one else did. Tom still tears up when he talks about how proud he was of Kyle that night – how our 19-year-old took charge of that scene fearlessly and professionally, fighting for that man’s life with everything inside of him. (And Kyle still gets angry when we even hint that we are proud of his actions. “I’m not a hero.”) 

I take a little comfort in knowing that my guys were probably the last people Uriel saw on this earth—and that he left this life knowing that someone cared; that he wasn’t alone. And maybe it’s naïve, but I hope that my prayers helped to summon all of Uriel’s deceased loved ones to meet him as he crossed over. (I know: naïve.)

I pass that spot on the freeway twice a day—and I still pray for Uriel.

There is so much in life that is beyond our control. But those pivotal moments may teach us something about ourselves … like accepting that the power of prayer may reach beyond this life and our understanding. Or they may teach us something we didn’t know about our loved ones …  like the depths of their compassion and selflessness. For that, I’m truly grateful.