Places that Heal

This summer as I watched my 7-year-old splash in Lake Michigan's frothy surf I was overcome with just how lucky we are and how grateful I am to these unsalted waters. They've tamed many aches and always washed hope back up on the shore.

It was this beach where Rick and I decided that we'd tell medical reality to go to hell and dove in headfirst to finally become parents. This is also where we weathered the storms that arose along that journey, always keeping an eagle eye focused on the horizon and the final goal of holding the hand of our very own child. I'll never forget the first time we brought Connor to this beach...the wind on his face made him laugh. It was so healing.

We experienced a blur of loss later that year when my father and brother died. As spring dawned, it was this beach where we returned. It is the perfect place to scream in anger and pound the waves without harming yourself or alarming the neighbors.

We returned with our mom several times over the next couple of years. Often helping her make the seemingly impossible climb down the dune stairs to the beach to revel in the splendor of the setting sun. This view always filled even our broken hearts with the possibility that tomorrow would come and bring beauty and joy. Truly healing.

My younger sisters and I were with our mom on our annual beach getaway when we realized that she was struggling with a serious health issue. There we were in the place we turned for healing, facing a challenge that seemed surreal. We laugh now at our inept bravado as we sat on the deck of my brother's beach house, drinking coffee and mulling what was happening with mom...and one of us had the audacity to say, "God wouldn't do that to us or to her, and if anything happens to mom we're just moving to the beach and putting our heads in the sand."

Mom died in January. The beach was frozen solid and the sand had rearranged the landscape and left a jagged profile in its wake. We kept our heads up and continued with our lives.

That summer we stared at the sunsets and swore we could hear our mom's voice marveling at the beauty. The waves had returned the beach to a sugar soft runway for our children's games. It was a place of healing yet again.

Now, when I swim in those waters and toss a ball on that beach with my sweet little boy, I am overcome by what a sacred place it is for us. It may be littered with tears and broken hearts, but it is certainly also shored up with moments of pure joy and the absolute confidence that life may ebb and flow, but it leaves a lasting memory in its wake.

Soon, our healing place will play host to one of those moments of hope and happiness. Later this month, surrounded by a small group of supporters, my baby sister and her love will marry on our beach and join their families in a lifetime of shared emotion.

They will stand on that beach and absorb the power of all that beauty and healing and transform it into a vow to each other and their children. We will stand united on that beach and allow ourselves to be transfixed by the glory of the setting sun and its promise of another tomorrow...for the bride and groom...and for everyone who has ever needed healing. For everyone who has ever turned to this place where God himself painted the sky and suffused the waters with such glory and peace.

Addendum (9/26/2011): They did it! Marcia and Dave were married on our beach Saturday, September 24, 2011. What a happy, spectacular event for them. We all felt honored to be invited to witness their joyful ceremony. And, really, nothing can convey all of that better than a couple of snapshots (credit to my sister Colleen Fitzgerald for the photos).

His Very First Christmas

'Tis the season to decorate for Christmas at our house. Like many others, we drag out dust covered boxes of ornaments to adorn our Christmas tree. Some of these are special treasures that have been cherished for years. Others bring a laugh or make us wonder what we were thinking (let's be honest, the High School Musical locker ornament that sings was a huge mistake!).

There is always one special ornament that washes emotion over me like a tsunami. Most often leaving me breathless for a moment, gasping for air and holding back tears. I am often paralyzed with feelings that it ressurects.

That ornament is a memento of Connor's First Christmas. And, every single time I look at it, I cry.

I'm swept back to the day I realized what my child's first Christmas would really mean. I'd taken a half day off work to start Christmas shopping and catch up on life. But, first I stopped by our house and checked e-mail (keep in mind, I didn't have 24/7 access to e-mail on my cell phone at the time!). There, in the mess of mundane topics was a message from our adoption agency. New photos!

I opened the file and waited patiently while it downloaded (probably about 3 minutes, I love DSL today!). And, there he was!

I've never felt more alone in my life. My baby was going to spend his very first Christmas in Guatemala without me.

This is not how it should go. Someone else had dressed my sweet baby in a goofy Santa hat and posed him for Christmas card photos. But it wasn't me. Someone else had quieted his tears (I could see that he'd been crying in some of the other photos they sent in the group) and kissed away whatever fear he had. But it wasn't me. Someone else was going to hold my baby in the quiet of the night on Christmas Eve and sing Christmas carols softly in his ear. But it wasn't me. I wondered if he'd receive a soft little lamb or doggie as a gift on Christmas morning, snuggled in the arms of one of his caregivers. I hoped that he would, it was his first Christmas and someone should be showering him with gifts and love. But it wasn't me.

Seemingly, I had everything. I was finally a mom. I was married to the love of my life. It was my favorite time of the year, with the hubub of activity that I love. And, yet, I sat at that computer and sobbed for hours. I cradled the 15-inch Gateway monitor like it was my baby. I wiped my tears on that screen, hoping to feel the softness of his face or the squeeze of his fingers wrapping around mine. My heart was ripped completely open, savagely and without warning...all because of that photo and all that it represented.

Later, I shared the photo with everyone. I asked them to pray for him on his very first Christmas, that it be peaceful. I spent some time on my knees too, begging the God that I knew to protect him and somehow make sure that he felt our love on that magical night and every day until we finally met. After all, Christmas is all about miracles, right?

I printed that photo and put it in Christmas ornaments as gifts for his waiting grandparents. Eventually I made my way to the local Hallmark store and purchased the Spanish version of the 2003 Baby's First Christmas ornament.

And, now, every year when we decorate our Christmas tree, as I place that ornament on the branches I whisper another prayer. It is a prayer of thanks for everyone who made sure that my baby was swaddled and loved on his very first Christmas. Those people are responsible for the most amazing gift I could ever dream of, countless future Christmases with goofy Santa hats and softly sung carols in the night. And, the child who makes it all meaningful.

Feliz Navidad from us to you...may the anticipation of your blessings make them even richer.

PS -- the following year our Christmas card portrayed the picture of happiness that we dreamt of through all those tears. Yes, miracles do happen.

The Mystery of Knotted Memories

So often our memories intertwine in a jumbled pile of emotion, smell, taste, visuals, and often music. Its rare for me to think about one singular moment and hold it with clarity, keeping it from becoming tainted by another memory or shooting off on a wild tangent that bounces my thoughts about like a pinball responding to an itchy trigger finger on the lever.

That's why the end of October and beginning of November are always a bit schizophrenic for me. The smell of wet leaves and rotting pumpkins mixed with burning wax always triggers a flashback to the phone call I took seven years ago while tricksters and treaters were haunting my street. My brother, Steve, called to share that his wife Kris was hovering near death. Waiting for a donor liver that met her needs. Today I can't put all of the pieces together perfectly, but I still can smell that crazy jack-o-lantern.

Kris needed a miracle. Steve needed to talk. We had to process the fact that someone who hadn't celebrated 40 years of life would be facing something so immense without a warning. It still hurts to remember his anguished voice, begging for a solution that seemed unreal and that I couldn't provide.

Coupled with that memory is a moment of such euphoria and joy that is seems irreverant to think about it while also remembering Kris' failing health.

Rick and I had just learned that we were going to become parents. We'd received a photo that morning via Fed Ex (only really, really important stuff comes to your home via Fed Ex, that's how we knew it was a big deal!) of a little boy, just over one month old, who still weighed only 5 pounds. He was going to be our son. How could bad things be happening when our most fervent prayer was finally answered?

I remember crying on the phone with my brother that night. Tears of joy, tears of frustration, tears that reminded us both how powerfully we cared for each other and those for whom we cried.

My moment of triumph and ultimate happiness always will be edged with the reality that when you love deeply, you risk loosing greatly.

Those memories are intimately connected to someone I've never met. I don't know that person's story -- someone whose family faced their own loss with incredible bravery. My sister-in-law's life was saved by a liver donor.

These memories are a great example of the emotional journey known as the circle of life, in my case its just all twisted up like a crazy sewing knot. If I could pull apart the threads of each memory and save them as unique thoughts, would I?

Would I treasure the joy of raising my son more if my memory of learning that he was waiting for us weren't tempered with the anguish I recall hearing in my brother's voice on the phone that night? Would I be any more grateful for the blessing of Kris' life if I could smile over it and close out the pain her donor family must continue to experience each year on the anniversary that we celebrate?

Nope. I like things messy. I'll take the jumble any day. The more knots the better...gives me more places to grab on and swing.

PS -- Spare a moment today and give a thought to becoming a registered organ and tissue donor. Details here: http://www.donatelife.net/CommitToDonation/

Six

September 26, 2003.  Probably the most important day in my life.  The day my son, Connor, was born.

In less than an hour the celebration begins.  He will turn six.  But, for now he is sleeping and probably dreaming about balloons and an unlimited supply of cake being showered upon him. 

I, on the other hand, am awake and tracing my thoughts as they wander over mountains and through deep valleys.  Once again, this celebratory milestone in my son's life reminds me of how big the sacrifice was that his birth mother made when she choose to share his life with Rick and me.

On September 26, 2003 I was living my life and harboring dreams of someday becoming a parent.  I probably went to work and shared a laugh with my coworkers over lunch.  Chances are I cooked something innocuous for dinner and Rick and I went to our local gym to work out before sharing a glass of wine and discussing our day.  We may have wondered out loud if our baby was out there and who might be caring for him or her at that very moment.

I certainly didn't know that the day was soon to become an integral part of my family's history. 

I am often struck by the enormity of that single day.  A young woman, with noone to support her, suffered through countless hours of labor to give birth to a baby whom she loved so much that she decided his life would be more complete living in another country.  Wow.

So, today I think about Juana.  I always seem to shed a tear for her at Connor's most important moments.  Tomorrow morning when the little boy who captured my heart with his engaging smile asks me to tell him about the day that he was born, I will repeat the story as we know it. 

I want him to know how powerfully he is loved.  By me.  By his daddy.  And, by a woman who hasn't touched his sweet hands or looked into his expressive brown eyes since he was only 6 months old. 

Tomorrow we'll celebrate everything that makes my Connor who he is.  We'll eat cake till we feel dizzy from the rush.  And, when we tuck in at night, we'll ask God to Bless Juana, Connor's Birth Mom.  Like we do every night.

And, I'll add my very own prayer thanking her for giving me the gift of this very most important and special day. 

Happy Birthday, Connor John.