The Susie

Apple.

2012-02-07T11:09:00.002-05:00

Lily got married today.
Just like that.
Not even three and I had thought we'd have years together before she flew the coop.
But, no.
I came into the living room this morning where she was playing with her Granny and there she was, donning a much loved turquoise knit summer shrug with sequin border, over her dark wintry outfit and packing up her stroller.
What are you doing Pumpkin?
Gettin' married.
You are?! To whom?
James.
Oh. Congratulations! I really like James, I think he's a nice boy.
Yeah. She says.

Ah me.
James is nice. He is invisible but very present. Just this weekend she was droppin' him off at ballet class and pickin' him up. (Lily has no use for Gs) The other night before storytime I found her sitting on my bed in the dark.
Why is the light off Pumpkin?
James isn't listenin, so I turned it off.
In our building elevators she always presses 10 for him. She is fast, and I am left sheepishly making "surprise" apologies for her to other riders, as though I had no idea that ten would be pushed.
His birthday is nearly every day.
And he has a little sister/boy friend named Jayna.
And sometimes another baby sister named "Stell".
And a mom who is in meetins' a lot.
And sometimes a dad but he works a lot too.

I like to indulge her imagination.
It is a trip for me as well.
A nice one.
She is busy in mind, body and soul.

Alan and I had invisible friends too.
But I will leave it at that.
No need for further grown-up embarrassment.
That's right Sus, Alan echoes from... around.
He's probably bothered that I outed him at all.

But she is a creative spirit.
Clearly the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

Days Like This.

2012-01-30T16:15:00.001-05:00

There are moments.
Not fun ones.
When I am caught in a memory, or stuck in the present, all alone.
Lily had a sleepover at her Granny's this weekend, and though it allowed me a much needed respite and cherished down time, there are moments when her temporary absence has a reverse effect.
Such as Sunday.
When I woke up to utter silence.
No chatter from her crib, no soft landing & pitter patter to my bed followed by a light kiss on my cheek. No "Mama, is it a school day, Turleta day, Granny day or Mommy day?"
Just quiet.
And this weekend it hurt. And scared me.
Haunted by the fearful thought to self - how would I be if I didn't have her.
My Lily.
The answer is not one I like to ponder.
When Alan passed away - I had a desperate need to hold on to whatever was inside. Lily was barely the size of a gummy bear and I was ever fearful she wouldn't make it.
How could something so delicate ever endure such emotional pain.
I was terrified that my anguish would be the end to my nightmare/dream.

But she held fast, my resilient, determined,butterfly.
And when she did arrive, it was as though it could never have been any other way.
She was healthy. Beautiful. She had made it.

Here.

Much to be grateful for, I remind myself constantly.

But on Sunday I gave myself a scare, wondering how well I was really doing. My loneliness is immeasurable - and cannot be alleviated by even the most wondrous child. And it shouldn't have to be.
May she never feel weighted by such a void.
I took myself out to breakfast, the air too searingly cold for tears, and choked down breakfast I hoped might keep the sobs at bay.
Me and my book at the bar.
Good times.
And then home I went, crawled into bed, and slowly recovered from the morning's darkness.

Lily came back to me and clung fiercely as I lifted her out of the car-seat.
I knew that soon she'd be crying for her Granny & BebeO - transitions are challenging - but it felt so good to feel us each holding on so tightly.
Within the hour she was singing, dancing and told me,
"I am happy Mama, because you gave me blackberries".

I was happy too.
Because Alan gave us each other.

Thank You Patti. (And my everloving flower)

2012-01-04T15:39:00.009-05:00

Our year was a good one.
Loaded, but hearty with happy firsts and challenging as the two of us guided one another - teaching ourselves what it is to be parent and child, mother and daughter, friends. I never guessed that a child less than three could be so powerful a force, so sharp yet naive - so energetic - so imaginative - so beautifully self-guided with her movements - and could nearly break me with exhaustion, bring me close to tears with despair and resurrect me with kisses on my brow.

Yes on my brow.

Perhaps she learned it from me.

I wonder often as I marvel at her evolution - which parts are Alan, which parts are Susan and which parts are pure Lily.
As one of my oldest friends reminded me on New Years Eve Day,

she is not a passive child.

And I was comforted by those words. What a gift those words were, Sensei Alexis, ever wise and wonderful friend. My tendency is to blame my skills at motherhood rather than acknowledge that I am growing a little being, and she is who she is. I will steer, but she - already - is making her own roads.

Her brain sparks differently - she said, and it is true.

Some don't get that, she said.
Fellow moms are the ultimate comfort ~ and the ones who are ahead of me, golden.

After our conversation I found myself gifted with an evening to myself. So I rolled off the bed, lethargic, feeling a bit broken but hungry for a lift, took a bath.
A bath.

And then I took myself to see Patti Smith.

A fine last move for 2011.

Her chords enveloped me, her words, her presence - nice to end the year with the encouragement of another strong, most remarkable woman.
She was uplifting.
Invigorating.
Guiding.
Loud, soft, modest, endearing, funny, evocative, electric.
Expressive hands, graceful and masculine.

Another friend cheered me via text "BOLD!!".
So grateful for my friends.

I do have courage - though every now and then it idles.
But the choice to go was easy.
And then Patti was my beautiful reward.
Bold times two.
Bold for two.
And ready for our next chapter.
Excited for a new year.

Grateful to be alive.
And to feel that way as well.

Growin' Up.

2011-12-20T11:33:00.000-05:00

It dawned on me the other day as Lily,while brushing her teeth in the buff, said to me:

Mama. Go. I need my privacy.

That I am now truly sharing the bathroom with her.

What?!
She's nearing three, not 12.
She rifles through my make-up.
Insists on her outfits.
Comments on mine.

Mama. Stop singing.

Since when am I not cool anymore?
Isn't this supposed to come later?
Thankfully, I am allowed to sing on occasion. I am permitted to sing her to sleep, I am invited to join in on certain songs but typically I am interrupted, her hands dramatically gesturing, commanding -

No. Stop. Stop.

And with that, I am banished to parentland.

But as consumed as she is with growing up, she is still very much my little girl.
And I love her so.
Last night when I returned home (and found her out of bed)her caregiver declared,

She said she wanted to wait for her best friend to come home.

Ahhhh.
Smile.
Yes, it was a ploy, but I'll take it.
This morning, sitting on my lap as I helped her wriggle into her ballet leotard,

We're good friends, Mama.

She is the best.
Mature and childlike in a beautiful, experimental way. She is exploring what it is to be self aware, she speaks of her feelings, she is sensitive.
She pecks me on the lips when she senses she's hurt me.
She is nurturing toward her older man, Jake.
And just the other night, while running and laughing, hand in hand, Jake looked at her and said

We have so much fun together, Lily!

I will never forget that. And I told her she must not either. Girls don't typically hear such effusive and honest declarations from boys.
Or perhaps they do.
Perhaps she will.
Go Lily.

But not too fast.

And last night as she went down to sleep,
I'm not tired Mama.
OK Pumpkin, just take it easy and I think you will fall asleep.
OK, I will just take a lot of easys and then you will come in on your bed and sing to me?
Yes Sweet Pea. I love you. Sweet dreams.
I love you, Mama.

And again, she is my babe.
To quote a friend's mother as she described her now grown child,

She is the daughter every woman wants.

Winter Blues.

2011-12-13T12:24:00.002-05:00

I just took a look at Mt. Tam.
Couldn't help myself.
I woke up with touch of melancholy, feeling out of sorts, tired and yearning for change.
And then I found some pictures of that beautiful mountain and it helped.
A bit.
Its beauty is unparalleled - so much that photos look retouched.
But if you've been there, you know they have not been.

And it made me just want to be above the clouds.
Just for a few minutes, nature in all its glory, undulating hills that breathe with life in utter silence. A blanket of fog resting gently below.

I can't wait to take Lily there, to experience the expanse.
To dance and run along the mountaintop.
If only we could click our heels.
She'd love it. Good air. Dry brush. Smells perfect.
And you really feel above it all.
Nice to get away, even if only in my mind.

Lily was asking about her dad recently and I told her how I like to think of him as being in the nature all around us. That we don't get to see him like other kids see their dads but we can talk about him, look at pictures of him - and feel him in our hearts.
And in the wind and the rain.

We can dream about him! She said.
Yes, we can Pumpkin, we can.

Her "magination" is exploding, she tells me of her dreams, her illustrations are taking shape, her dress up is vibrant, her humor - a riot.
Just the other day after we battled all morning like mother and teen daughter, she followed me into the bathroom,
I want you to be happy, Mama.
I am, Pumpkin, but you need to listen more.
I don't want you to be upset anymore, Mama.
I won't be, Lily, but I'm tired and still a bit upset.
Can you do this, Mama?

I looked down, and there she was smiling at me.

My master manipulator.

(Smile)
Yes I can, Lily.
You happy mama?
She kisses my leg.
Yes Lily, I am.

Most times.
But days like today, I wish we were elsewhere.

Hi My Love.

2011-11-28T15:55:00.000-05:00

Today, in my heart, you are 48.
So tonight, as we have done for the past three years, the posse is gathering at Firehouse - to celebrate you. We'll have wings, beer.
Laugh and cheer.
Fries and grilled cheese will be added to the menu, for Lily and her friends.
Jake is mildly obsessed with the legacy of his Uncle Alan.
He and Lily are attached at the hip.
Most times.
They love and bicker like old people.
He will be in attendance, possibly with Stella.
Chris' son Jackson will be there, Raina and Gabe, Ruby and Olivia too.
Your favorites.

Black and Whites, of course, will circulate.

But everyday I celebrate you.
We all do.
You are with us always, yes?

I've snapped a few (OK, many) pictures of Lily recently and they're you at that age.
And she occasionally has an x-ray stare that brings you before us.

We went to the Bay Area for Thanksgiving and she brought a pound of pebbles from "The Wave Hill" for Jiji's garden. She played with her West Coast buddies, Madeleine, Henry, Baby Jacob and Simone and Addison.
She had a blast.
She fed, read and sang to the cat.
"He doesn't like Hello Everybody" she reported.
I assured her it couldn't have been her singing.

"When will I grow up Mom?" She asked me recently.
She is intent on becoming "a bigger girl".

Surprisingly, she was weepy to return home.
Usually she is glad to land in NYC, like her dad, most comfortable in her original surroundings. But this time, she had a bit of wanderlust, happy like her mom, to be on another shore, to breath in the fresh air - scented subtly with burning wood.

I had a great dinner with Gillian and Lois (while my mom succumbed to Lily's ultra-creative anti-sleep tactics) and it warmed my heart to be with them. On the way home I got to blast Over the Hills and Far Away followed by Landslide courtesy of the radio.
And I wept for our landslide and smiled and wept that we only got to walk a while but also because I have so much.
Both beautiful reminders of things past and present -

Yes I'm getting older too.

It all comes back.

2011-10-24T11:08:00.000-04:00

Saturday night I went with a good friend to see Gillian Welch at The Beacon and it was a beautiful, serene evening of sweet acoustic guitar and rich, angelic harmonies. A glorious evening to cap a brisk Autumn day. It felt so good to hear live music, adult music, gentle and soulful. I melted into my seat and took it all in. And as my eyes grazed the artfully restored theater I remembered that the last time I had been there was a few years ago. Alan wasn't well, and a friend called me with last minute back stage passes to see some blues rock performers. GO Alan insisted, he was frequently urging me to get out, be social - to divert my attention elsewhere. So I went. Flew twenty blocks South and spent an evening in the wings, being recharged by driving guitars - loud, insistent,encouraging. I felt guilty and invigorated, couldn't believe that I got to enjoy an evening that he couldn't make. The second the show ended I raced home. He was fine, and probably enjoyed the absence of my hovering shadow. Nurse Snoosie he'd call me. I took my role of friend, lover, wife, caregiver oh so seriously. Alan found my Florence Nightingale tendencies amusing.

I loved every time I got a smile or a chuckle out of him.
He helped me laugh at myself too.
Essential.

So this time around I welled up during the first set, marveling, yet again, at what time had delivered. Loss, birth and rebirth. But this time it was Lily who was at home with her beloved Tio and though I felt the guilt of leaving her there (she loves a "music show"), I was able to smile inside, knowing she was just fine - and perhaps she too was relieved to have me out of the house. She had her uncle there to love, direct, and play with. She loves him so.

Alan loved October.
It was his favorite month.
I think it was the seasonal change, the crisp air, the colors.
I like it too.
The trees shed their leaves in preparation for rest.

For reawakening.

I guess that's where I am too right now.

At my mother-in-law's wedding as Lily and her cousin plucked aging leaves from some low and vulnerable branches, her cousin said "Let's let the wind take them! Let's let the wind take them" - a good plan, I reflected.

Some things are best ushered away by the wind.
It'll all come back with Spring, redressed and refreshed.

To be seen in a new light.

A Wedding (and a funeral)

2011-10-17T15:56:00.000-04:00

Lily went to her first wedding this weekend, for her beloved Granny.
It was a beautiful, blustery, grey to sunny day.
A child of the new millennium, she witnessed a commemoration only recently legal.
She looked forward to it for weeks, walked flittingly down the garden path, flower basket in the crook of her arm, was all smiles for her family and friends, and was in Puck-like motion throughout the entire ceremony.
She did finally sit.
At the end of the ceremony - that is, after the glass was crushed, as everyone clapped and stood and proceeded to the grass, Lily perched on the edge of her chair.

Still exhausting, my girl.
Forever in motion.
And I missed much of it.

As a consolation, I told myself that if Alan had been there, since it was his mother, I would have offered to do the chasing anyway. But I would have also told him - this is why I wanted to bring a sitter.

Ah me. Still two hands and one heart short.

To think he missed such an important, love filled and monumental occasion.
And his grandfather just passed as well.
At 102.
Where did those genes go?
Alan should have been here.
For both.

Instead, I imagine him up above, in the air somewhere - greeting his Pop, with his dad and Gram at his side.
What a surprise he must have been.
For all of them.
Surely they all sat together and watched approvingly from above.

In that "otherworld" where I envision them all to be, I always imagine their spirits can only feel great happiness and joy. Sadness and disappointment are felt but not to any great depth - they are fleetingly felt and then shed; a brief grey wash and then the warmer colors take over. Pain is no longer a burden, they only see the positive side of things. It helps me to temper my own sadness, to keep a level perspective.

Must have been the palette on Saturday.
Whitewash giving way to golden glow.

There She Goes.

2011-09-20T15:17:00.000-04:00

For some time Lily has been saying
"I'm going to school in September."

And after a fun school picnic a week ago, staged outside a beautiful and imposing church, she's now been inside.
There was much anticipation, discussion, a bit of apprehension and outfit changing. She refused hair clips and ponytails, in favor of her let-it-flow shag, finally paired a shirt with leggings, insisted on bringing a purse, a ladybug backpack with additional purses, a few music shakers and other important items inside.

They all remained in her cubby.

She spent the morning in somewhat of a quiet, observational mode.

Just like her dad, taking it all in.

But some of her energetic spark broke through - she cooked in the kitchen, took care of six babies, washed her hands three times at the perfect height sink, found and hoarded scarves and shakers, did a few puzzles. I was able to step outside the room a couple of times, to minimal protest, and when class finished she rushed to the door, poked her head out and excitedly told me "Mama! School's over!". She made it through a transitional hour just fine, and even exclaimed "that was fun!". She later recounted to her Granny that her favorite part of the morning was snack.

Just like her mama, Alan would surely have joked.

Big day.
For us both.
Moving forward separately, together.

She has an insatiable curiosity and days are loaded with questions, which are getting harder to answer. I'm hoping her teachers will help me out.

Why did Humpty Dumpty fall? Why couldn't they put him back together?

Did his body break? (Loaded? Or straight-forward question?)

Why was the baby/cradle in the tree?
Who put it there? (Irresponsible lyrics.)

And as of last night, Why is Bonnie in the Ocean?

How does one explain to a two and a half year old that Bonnie means pretty, should really be paired with Lass which is another name for a girl and that she lies over the ocean, not in it, which means she's really on the other side of it, and that the sea is kind of like an ocean?

Please, Raved-About-Lauded-WidelyPraised-Wonderful-School,
help
me
out.

Addendum to yesterday.

2011-09-12T11:27:00.008-04:00

Despite my gripes about NYC, it is embedded with texture that is beautifully unique. When I saw this commercial last night on the crest of a loaded week, it made me cry.

And smile.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=9W8VvHU6VhU

Forever Remembered.

2011-09-11T23:15:00.000-04:00

It is hard to believe that this day, ten years ago, loss happened over and over and over again. I did little in commemoration today, but I can't say it takes a day like this to remember and honor every life that was so senselessly taken. I doubt anyone that lived in this city or it's boroughs will ever forget the all consuming grief, shock and despair. The spontaneous comraderie and the feeling of helplessness. It all resonates with me. I have wondered how all of the children, unborn at the time, are faring - having lost a beloved parent they never met. It's my greatest point of reference, a tragic source of kids who are living and learning about the parent they never knew.
Eight years ahead of Lily.

I think they must be shining.
And they must know that they carry beautiful spirits within them.

I remember during one of Alan's hospital stays, he had a roommate that was either a policeman or a firefighter and we were fairly confident from visitors and overheard conversations he had been a 9/11 responder. He was married with kids and he'd be angry if his wife was home with them or working. There was a moment when he really needed something and I went to the other side of the curtain to help. When his wife showed up he was angry, vulnerable and scared.
You just lost your man, he said.
I'll never forget it.
Nor will she.
But what do you do when you're financially tapped and you're torn between watching over your kids or your husband? She was tormented and I could hear the desperation in both of their voices. I prayed that wouldn't be us. And to hear tonight that still, cancer patients that were there, working amid such toxic dust are not yet compensated for their treatment disgusts me. The selflessness of everyone that put their lives on the line and are now, consequently losing their own, was remarkable. Healthcare coverage in this country, or lack thereof, is discriminating enough and the torment of wondering if you can afford to try to save a life as you struggle to save it is torture enough. So to see this country we live in, deny its greatest heros of well earned assistance, is ... is... shameful.

They deserve more than thanks.

Lily and I visited a fire station and I'm sure many firefighters today have survivor guilt.
Not fun.
But they were quietly kind, inviting and gracious and it was sweet to hear my girl, prompted, say
Thank you for helping to keep us safe.
Too early for a lesson about 9/11 but never too young to understand the kindness and generosity of New York's Finest.

Yesterday, flitting in the sprinklers with her closest buddy, he asked her where her daddy was. Without skipping a beat, wiping water from her face she said, "He died".

They went on playing.

She is learning to cope, and comprehending in her own way what she can. When I saw some of the 9/11 in utero babes (now pre-teens) today, standing courageously and proudly next to their surviving parent - honoring those who cannot be with them, I felt sure that Lily will be OK.

There will be a life long void. But she has Alan's strength, our combined resilience,a thoughtful soul, and role models in these surviving kids.

I hope from them she will draw strength and inspiration.

September

2011-09-08T13:11:00.000-04:00

Today is our anniversary.
Four years. (Would have been.)
But we never made it to one.
Together that is.
Sigh.
Still miss him and love him like crazy, and it's hard to believe so much has happened since then.
I had our girl.
And she's growing up.
It is easier to measure my life, post Alan, in Lily minutes - because it is mostly she who has kept me afloat and helped me to find my sea legs in the past two and a half years.

But I am here, and grateful for it.

This time four years ago we were on the eve of newly wedded bliss.
We got a taste of it. Buzzing on a moped in the Aeolian islands, on ocean roads in Sicily, wandering the streets of Florence. But even at the end of our honeymoon, Alan's hand often rested on his chest. I can forever see him posed that way. His ribs were hurting, we knew something was up. We had coasted since a major surgery in July, so, I guess, we were due for a reality check.

Got it.
Still wildly happy in love, and achingly saddened by what hung in the balance.

New tumors, cracked ribs.

Italy at least still lingered, fresh in our minds.
And the love and excitement that floated us through an amazing, family and friend filled celebration, had left our hearts near bursting with happiness and the kind of joy that always feels good to remember.

It still is hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact that Lily is aware of none of it/this. She knows her dad and will continue to do so through me and her extended family. I just wish she could have a moment with Alan. To experience his humor, to climb into his lap, sit on his shoulders, taste his Bananas Foster.

Mmmmmmmm... Yummyyyy!! She'd say. That's GOOD. She'd exclaim.
I love hearing her satisfaction.

September now marks the eve of pre-school.
Lily is ready.
Dressing herself with regular wardrobe changes, testing the boundaries, challenging my decisions, picking my outfits, riding her tricycle and scooter with ease, doing everything herself.

And she continues to fill the air with song.
I used to love hearing Alan hum. It filled me with happiness to hear him momentarily unfettered by dark thoughts.
And now Lily buzzes around gleefully (most of the time) and I savor the repeat performances.

Recently while we were playing together, with her back to me, she said -
You happy mama?
Yes Pumpkin I am.
Why?
Because you're here and you make me soooo happy. Are you happy Lily?
Yes, she says quietly, focused on her beads.

May
she
always
be.

Comes With Age. (I guess?)

2011-08-26T11:13:00.000-04:00

Two and a half this month and although Lily has always been a particularly independent child, she has become even more so. Tantrums fill the air after Cybil style comments like this:
I want them
I don't want them
No I want THEM!!!
No I don't want them
Mama I waaaaaaannnnnnttt them
NO I don't want them.

OK. Whew. Cold pancakes now going in garbage after sitting untouched for an hour, igniting tantrum #1 for the day at 9:15am.

Exhausting. I think this is about being 2.5? Control of ones actions and the need to assert oneself? I will hope that this ends in six months if not sooner. But it ominously reeks of adolescence and I'm definitely not accepting that it's beginning now.

No thanks.

Oh. And does taking a little chair over to the front door and undoing two Medeco locks and letting oneself out into the hall fall under the same assert-my-independence category?

Not.... cool.

I also clearly recollect my mom laying out my outfits the night before school. Can still see the the plaid dress with white turtleneck there on the rocker, its outline bathed in moonlight. But Lily, not yet in school now picks out her own outfits most days. And I am not to help her.

Mama.
Go in da other room.

OK Pumpkin, just call me if you'd like some help.

OK. She says definitively, with distracted excitement, focused determination.
GO.

She's pretty good. Color matching a bit off, things sometimes inside out, but generally, maybe I should regard this as my ~~teen~~ toddler making mornings easier? Lies them out on the floor first, after multiple selections are reviewed and makes her selection.

Perhaps Alan is trying to assist from above. To lighten the load? Maybe that's why she briefly went for the heavy knit Yankee sweater this morning with the outside air already in the mid to high 70s... We were successful in diverting her attention and she then came out with a perfect, slightly large, woven hand-me-down shift dress (for a four year old, but we're looking ahead, right?)and she donned it skillfully with only distanced supervision from her Granny who subtly assisted with a mis-routed arm.

The dressing I can take, the front door exits and tantrums I can do without.
But maybe those are next on Alan's list.

City Mouse/Country Mouse.

2011-08-24T11:36:00.000-04:00

We got out of town.
Lily, James (invisible friend) and I.
The plane ride to Ca. is a long one, and Lily, as only Lily seems to be able to do, remained amped and awake the entire flight until the pilot announced the descent. Then she crashed hard, as though sleeping potion induced, to my relieved but frustrated consternation at this travel pattern she has mastered.

5.5 hours.

My mother and mother-in-law have now witnessed this "flying style" first hand.
They think it's amusing.

But touch down had me elated and Northern Ca. immediately restores my spirit.
Was sooo nice.
Too quick, ever busy, but we got some fresh air.
More hand-me-downs.
And love.
From cousins and grandparents and aunties and a loving uncle and friends. Her NY Granny and BebeO came with us for part of the time so Lily got to show them around her garden, and we were able to share with them some Left Coast Family Hang Time. Was very, very nice. Lily, very much like her Grandpa, enjoys having the entire family together. So she was ecstatic to have so many friends and family join us for a kick-off dinner.

We also relished in lots of outdoor quiet.
So nice to relax under the stillness of the sun, warm rays, no noise but distant leaf blowers or rustling leaves. The sounds of birds taking flight from their perches. Barking dogs. Pool sweep random spouts of water.
Ahhh, suburbs....

We breakfasted outside and Lily unintentionally shared her waffle with a Blue-Jay.
It was a bit unsettling for her but we thought maybe it was a Mama Bird who flew off to her nest to share with her family so then Lily didn't feel so violated.
She was finished anyway. She-who-has-entered-a-hopefully-short-term-era-of-tantrums is protective of her belongings, even if not using them - but she took the waffle abduction in stride, and busied herself with watering the patio and it's plants instead.

We also had sleepovers with her cousins and that was the icing on the cake. We drove with her Uncle Dave (Unca Dave!! Unca Dave!!) to pick them up at camp - so Lily toured their classrooms and delighted in their playgrounds. Pre-school begins next month so it was a taste of the New World for her to see a school up close. Addison and Simone scaled structures and swung from monkey bars while Lily scrambled up and down curly slides, lounged on "the moon" (a tunnel), washed her hands and opened/closed doors in multiple playhouses.

She trailed them with excitement and awe.

We also ventured to Santa Cruz for some beach and rides and fries, and perhaps the best part, for me, was turning around in the front see to see them all asleep in their car seats. Family frozen in rest mode, as we curved past redwoods, and cruised alongside dry, brown, rolling hills crowned with stately oaks.
Beautiful in so many ways.

When we returned to NYC, Lily greeted the closets and crib and made sure our apartment was in order. Like her dad, she doesn't like to be far from home for too long.

Trying to balance a California/New York state of mind.

Will channel husband and daughter.

Some days. (All I Want)

2011-08-02T13:54:00.001-04:00

Some days are much better than others.
Today is not one of THOSE.
In fact this week, this month, feels pretty shitty much of the time.
Just does.
I am lonelier than I have ever been.
I am finding it hard to breathe in such a small space for me and my two and a half year old. And the options seem... in far away places with no job prospects.

Ugh.

The hope has been, post Alan,to move to Brooklyn - mainly for a few more trees, quieter streets, and a family community that isn't suburbs but isn't city either. But the neighborhoods that are established are exhorbitently priced and I'm not sure I like the choices so much anymore.
I grew up in the suburbs.
And while I don't want that necessarily for Lily, nor myself, I would like a happy medium. Some more trees on the streets, a bit more breathing room, fewer car alarms, less trash, exhaust, and did I say breathing room?

Breathing Room.

Feels good just to look at the words.
I don't want an apartment with amazing city views. Honestly? That image makes me contract (OK, I'd take Central Park). I would like green branches outside our windows. I don't want a roof deck with a view of an industrial waterfront, I don't want to have to march up four floors, I don't want windows looking onto brick walls and stairwells, the thought of a massive apartment complex gives me claustrophobia.

I want neighborhood. A garden. Sunlight. Space. A non closet size room for Lily. Love for myself. A stimulating job. Closet space. A breeze through the window. A kitchen with a large counter-top.
And a washer & dryer.
Please.

I can dream.

When Alan and I were planning together we contemplated life in towns on the Hudson River. And Brooklyn. And Jersey. With him - we could have afforded a home in those areas and as a family,as a FAMILY of three or perhaps more, we might have been more isolated but we'd have neighborhood friends and the comfort of our own company. We wouldn't have needed so much at our doorstep. But as an only parent with a toddler I think those areas wouldn't be a wise move.
More isolation. More loneliness.

So the world seems to be shrinking, rather than expanding. And I'm not happy about it. Today, at least.
Though two friends just lifted my spirits up tremendously in different ways.
I need a neighborhood of sorts that we can immerse ourselves in, so there is contact with other life - sounds extreme, but that's how I feel.
That's what I need.
What I'd like.
What I crave.
I have always been OK with doing things on my own, that, I actually enjoy. But because I am a "lone" parent I need human contact.
Not colonnades in suburbia.

And there is SO much I do love about NYC. It is wildly stimulating and gushes with life - even with the grime and AC drips. There is a clip in a Sesame Street episode where an artist constructs an animal out of plastic bags, attaches it limply to a subway sidewalk vent and it comes alive with hot air (click to see) as the underworld passes by.
That is what I do love about this place.

Unexpected beauty, unconventional creativity.

Maybe it's not all so bad. Just had to vent. Get it out.
Yell from the mountain top. Sometimes I feel like that deflated bear.

So then I think of Lily.
The quickest fix of all.

Beanstalk.

2011-07-29T13:39:00.003-04:00

Lily is almost two and a half and has taken to offering her fashion opinions when I get dressed.
And I listen.
Something is wrong with that picture, I think.
And she takes great care with her own outfits as well.
Things MUST match.
We have had morning meltdowns due to pairings she deems do not go together.
"They don't maaaaaaaaatch!!!!!!!!!" and then she collapses into a frog position on the floor, with dramatic Duse-style whimpering.
She regularly insists on dressing herself and is not bad at it. Often pants are on backward but generally she's quite good at it. I must confess that occasionally things are backwards on me as well, such as this morning when I discovered I had my pajama lounge pants on in reverse.
Can I pass it off as "One Tired Mama Syndrome"?
Maybe it wouldn't do any harm to heed her advice after all.
She loves swimsuits and insisted on wearing a favorite over her pjs one recent evening.

And she can be insistent about donning unseasonal clothing - which, in 90 degree heat can be considered negligent on my part.
It is not easy convincing a fashion "determined" toddler that a lined ultrasuede Fall coat isn't appropriate for late July - or that mittens aren't great for dense, steamy days - yet I do manage to redirect her interests with multiple reasons and other options.
Why? She says.
And then I offer an answer.
Why? She says again.
And another.
Why?
Because. I say. And that is how I emphatically leave it.
I now find that I am frequently fresh out of answers. Bad Mama.
I cannot wait for her pre-school mornings to begin so that I may learn too.
I am also looking forward to her having to respond to authority and to being reminded how to follow directions. She is so ready.
As am I.
She has become a very nice little helper - enjoys cleanup(on good days), likes to clear her plates, carry dirty paintbrush water in a saucer over white shag rug to Mama in kitchen.
Here Mama. She says, black water dripping down arm onto floor.
Also likes to wash things. Even if not dirty.

What I love most about Lily at this age is that we can communicate on so many levels and she can expertly converse, manipulate or be helpful. Overall, she is
maturing.
And I think that's what took my breath away in a recent music class. As I watched her sing, dance thoughtfully and drum, I was caught in a moment of near misty-eyed disbelief that this little girl is indeed

A Little Girl.

Our Little Girl.

We do trips without the stroller. Do art projects. Make phone calls.
We have regular music jam and dance sessions.
She showed me which clothes she liked in a catalogue.
Opinions pronounced.
Rainbows, stripes. Flowers.
Good taste that girl has.

Oh. And I caught her singing "You Can Close Your Eyes" so sweetly.
Just like her dad did.

Growing growing growing.
Up.

Three.

2011-07-07T10:48:00.002-04:00

3 years.
Three years.

Three years.
Have passed.

This time I know where the time went. It went into watering and feeding and loving and growing a two year old who's first line in the mornings is often, "I'm a bigger girl now!".

She is.
Must be the sun.
And the multitude of hugs and kisses she is showered with hourly.
Her dad's spirit is definitely giving her a boost of energy (not that she needs it) and I sense he's on damage control as well.
I hope so.
Recently she called me at work and after her caregiver briefed me on a fall from a ladder in the playground, assured me she was fine, Lily came on the line.

Hi Mama! I falled down!
Are you OK Pumpkin?
Yeah! Had a lollipop.

Smile.
All is well with my stunt-girl.

Later that day I came home to another accident story. This time a spill off the scooter. She was fine.
Helmet was on.
Good Girl.

Apparently a butterfly landed TWICE on her leg and was reluctant to leave as she rode home in her stroller.
Twice.
That was Alan. Her princely escort.
I know it.

And the following week I returned home from work, Lily already off to bed, and her nanny brought out a picture that Lily had crafted earlier that day.

I thought you should see this... She said, somewhat breathlessly. I was cooking dinner when she brought it in...

It left me beyond breathless too.
Trembling, in fact.
It was Alan.

Not only that, it was Alan as Alan once doodled himself.
As an adult.
I was shaking.

He felt so close.

It's impact so... immediate.

And the wave through my body wasn't about our two year old Picasso-esque Prodigy Child (I leave that to the grandparents), it was as though...
Alan was speaking to me, through our child.
Our messenger, a medium.
Our shared heart.
A conduit.
No idea if Lily had intended to draw a face, but the next morning as we drew she was intent on drawing eyes, ears, and limbs.

Heart still skips when I look at it.
To me, it is the most direct message from Alan.
He's very much with us, and very much within Lily.

Yes, three years apart, but he's really not so far.
And while I ached for him dearly this past month, I did feel like
we
are
three.

Mama's Day Off. (There IS a downtown.)

2011-06-27T11:49:00.023-04:00

Lily had her first sleep over, ever, last weekend and I think it was a remarkable experience for us both. I was so overwhelmed with the prospect of an unscheduled day I was almost paralyzed with the freedom it promised. And nervous about how it would go. For both of us. But we prepped gently during the weeks before, and then...
Off she went.
It didn't help that she was beyond sweet and well behaved and awesome on Saturday morning before her pickup. But it did feel good to hand her off in good form.

My first day/night without my girl, and while I was needy for updates, ever wondering how she was doing, I did manage to indulge myself with some alone time.

Did I say remarkable?

I read, in the sun, and slowly sipped ice coffee while doing so.
I headed down to a favorite neighborhood and revisited it like a tourist just returning to NYC after a long hiatus. I treated myself to a long, hedonistic lunch and cold beer with lime at an old haunt from my pre-parenting days - and leisurely read and ate and drank to the vibes of soul and Latin beats - a NYC soundtrack that I hadn't enjoyed in a very, very long time.

I wandered streets aimlessly, visited a crafty bazaar, treated myself to funky jewelry and never glanced at a clock.

I did think of Lily throughout, and checked my phone regularly for updates and emergency calls. But I love to think about her, she is an instant upper even when not physically by my side. The calls never came and the updates told me she was fine at her Granny's so I did manage to

relax.

It was almost indescribable.
An afternoon with no constraints or obligations.

I comforted myself with the thought that this could be considered Alan's shift. He would have given me some afternoons off to regroup and recharge - so that's what I tried to do and it eased the guilt tremendously.

Lily could never be a burden. She is my greatest joy.
But I now understand even more fully what a parent means when they say "I need to take care of myself so I can be a better parent".

I am now a better parent.
But I'll take more sleep-overs too.

I want to be even better.

I went to a movie.
I watched TV in bed.
I awoke automatically at 6:44am but was able to get myself back to sleep until 8:59.
Not bad for a novice.
And when I was up I had my morning coffee on the roof again, and recharged some more in the sun.

And my girl? She visited her Granny's nail salon (no polish yet), went swimming with BebeO, dined outdoors, climbed out of her travel crib numerous times, fell asleep in bed alongside her Granny, played in her tent, scratched her ankle, went successfully (when she was in the mood) on the potty, went to their playground and
slept
her
latest
yet...

I guess some things are a tradeoff...

Fair enough.

And as my friend told me in anticipation of this event, "she will never look so delicious as when she returns".

SHE DID.

I couldn't get enough of her.

I hugged her and kissed her and hugged her and kissed her and off we went to swimming class where she clung to me a bit more fiercely than usual.
Felt good.

So so good.

I Love This Child.

2011-06-20T13:28:00.017-04:00

The weekend came and left us, relatively unscathed. Lily happily marched through the days to her usual independent drum and I was, as always, relieved to see her living with abandon with no visible remorse for what she doesn't have. It is comforting and difficult, for me, to observe. I am overjoyed that her sunny disposition, thus far, shows no mark of loss - and while she recognizes the difference in our family composition - she doesn't yet seem pained and envious of what many other children have.
But she loves the dads.
Talks about them frequently.
Casually, as if we might meet them for a beer.
And though I brace myself for a deeper recognition to pierce her daily life more pointedly, for now, I find solace in her contentment.

But this weekend I was grateful, sad, and resentful.
Saturday morning she expertly clambered out of her crib, as I watched, eyes half open - with curiosity and concern. She did it very skillfully, teetering a bit on the rail before landing on the other side. And later we went to a barbecue where I sat for all of six minutes and spent the rest of the time ( I mean, all of it)chasing her around and pleading with her to leave the kids' rooms inside, so I could be outside with grownups. At one point I left her for a few minutes under what I thought was the watchful eyes of a friend only to hear her yelling for me gleefully from an undisclosed location. After a brief Marco Polo exchange I traced her to the neighbors yard.

Hi Mama!!!

There she was.
On her own.

Heart in mouth.
All was fine.

But those are the moments when I am insensitively reminded - shit.
I am really
on
my
own.

And -
I
am
all
she
has.

Can't get a moment of mind-at-rest.
Not sure why I bothered with the party.
I was hardly able to talk to anyone except an ex.

Joy.
And Rapture.
What's with that?!!

Come onnnnnnnn.
Please Alan, can you do something about that?!
I finally get to a few social engagements and they're who I'm stuck exchanging niceties with?

Twice now that's happened.

It's annoying.

In retrospect I guess... thank God for Lily and her wanderlust.

The car rides were nice.

But Lily the Exploradora is a handful. Life with her is exciting and draining and it would have been nice to say
Babe. Can you watch her for a few minutes?
And then on Sunday in swimming class when one mom turned to me amid splashes and water songs to tell me how proud her daughter's dad was watching from the edge, I wished I could have said the same.
And then we would have turned to wave.

Instead, I smiled.
Focused on our mermaid, who had just gone underwater TWICE.

Look at meeee!!!
She would have shouted.

And Alan would have waved and gotten a towel ready for her.

And Again...

2011-06-13T10:07:00.022-04:00

Last fall I wrote a post, Live Through This (you can click on it for a refresher) and did a follow up as well Live Through This Part II and after reading the Sunday Times (at least part of it...) I thought it might be a helpful revisit for some. Regardless, there was an article "What To Say To Someone Who's Sick" in the Fashion and Style section.

Funny.

That is, that it was in the Fashion and Style section.

But it reiterates the reality of what it's like to be on the receiving end in grim situations, and offers helpful perspective on what words and actions prove to be the most genuine and helpful. Worth reading, as it could be/will be useful to all of us, now or sometime later in life. Since Alan passed away I have met others enduring similar challenges, and I too, still struggle with what to say and how to say it. Difficult situations will always be awkward, sad and challenging - but I feel a lot better when I acknowledge the current reality of the situation and acknowledge the reality of the circumstances. You don't have to be a downer, nor doom and gloom prophet, but if you can just be there with them and follow their lead on whatever seems to brighten their moment, you'll do just fine. Always remember that however hard it is for you, it's a hundred times more difficult for them. Remember that before this person was ill and perhaps throughout it, they had and still have other interests, a job, passions, aspirations. So conversation along those lines - whatever inspirations once filled their hours - that diverts from the seriousness of one's situation is welcome.
Yes, even gossip, as the article's author shared.
Good stuff.

It brings them back.
Illuminates that they're very much alive.

I will never forget someone very very very dear to me, while fighting cancer, saying (with humor that I'll always admire) "People look at me like I'm a dead man!".
And I got it.
Because when we hear such grave diagnosis, we can't help but imagine the worst outcome and we fast forward unnecessarily to the end we fear most.
Doesn't help the afflicted.
So do your best, while avoiding lies and phoney platitudes, to remain in the present and to focus on where one is in the moment. There are happy outcomes, miraculous recoveries, returns to good health. It is a delicate balance, I know, but yesterday's article and others' experiences can act as helpful guides to get you through very difficult times.

Lastly, the author's section on "What Can I Do to Help", couldn't be more true. So take some cues and pass the info on. If you really want to help,and can follow through with it, start a blog or online calendar with family and friends and sign them up to do everything we usually take for granted. And insist that they do just those tasks; ie., don't linger for coffee or tea or a meal with whomever you're helping as they'll end up feeling pressured to be company and host. And they'll end up with dishes and more fatigue. And unnecessary feelings of guilt or embarrassment or vulnerability.

A tall order, yes.
But you'll be appreciated for your support, attentiveness and strength.
And most importantly, love.

And everyone will be emotionally stronger because of it.

Momentary Escape Needed.

2011-06-06T19:57:00.006-04:00

Confession.
I love my daughter but tonight I do not like her.
I came home with a headache and my sweet child came home happily high from her music class only to come crashing down in temperament ten minutes later. Oh, said her awesome nanny... By the way she didn't nap today.
Warning One.
Then she whips out a bag of new hand-me-down trinkets from bigger girls she knows.
Warning Two.
It is filled with easy to break and lose toys and did contain a barbie which I hid the second I discovered she had left it behind before heading off to music class.
No barbies for many years for my girl. And now I have the challenge of somehow extracting the clothes that remain for barbie in precious new hand-me-down bag.
Lily forgets nothing so the clothes will never escape our lives even if there is no buxom plastic long legged creature to model them. And missing barbie will haunt us too no doubt.
And her Big Girl Panties are off.
Warning Three.
No interest in the potty this evening, nor diapers or anything else.
Cool.
Headache more prominent.
Battle to get her into the tub. Three negotiations to get her to sit. One concession to get out of the tub to use the little potty, no big potty, no little potty, no big potty.
She went.
Fleeting moment of happy-joy -feelin-alright-whoopin-it-up for mother and child.
Wondering if I have any Tylenol. Or anti-kryptonite antidote.
Back in tub, good groove going in the water, mom feelin ok.
Out of the tub and bedtime story go nicely. I thought we were OK.
Crib proved to be unwanted. Screams, moans, tears, I want chewy (frozen teething thingy), I don't want chewy, no blankettttt, yes blanketttt... More tears.
I closed the door and turned on kitchen sink to drown out noise.
Dishes never so much fun.
Sink off, I hear chewy hurled out of crib. Then cries - I want chewwwwwwy!!!!!
More cries.
Crying stops, transition to singing and clapping.
Then a few conversational yells - Mom! MOM!
MOM!!
Quiet.
Oops. Jinx. More singing.
She is cute.
But I am tired. Mono style tired. It is still light out and all I want to do is sleep.
Sleeping Beauty Style Sleep.
I'll take the prince wake up too.

June.

2011-06-01T09:43:00.030-04:00

Summer is here.
There is so much about it that I love and look forward to, though its arrival seems to have converged with so much other...
stuff.

Steamy heat in NYC brings everyone out of hibernation. Back we go the the parks, to scurry under sprinklers, shed our layers, relish in the outdoors, sneeze among the trees. All good things. But this weekend, as the indoor isolation thawed, families were everywhere - all on their outings together. Granted, I saw a lot of dad's on the periphery of the sandbox, glued to their cell phones, wishing they were golfing (as one friend aptly put it) but none the less, they were there.
And it's hard to see.
And Father's Day is fast approaching.
And we had a picnic with dear friends where Lily couldn't get enough of her courtesy Uncle Miles - chasing him up and down hills, watching him throw a frisbee, "Miiiiiillllles!! Miiiiiiiiiiles!!", holding onto his finger in the stroller - just like she'd do with her dad.
And this time almost three years ago we were in the hospital desperate for answers, and when one finally came, it was the one no one ever ever ever wants to hear.
And we scattered Alan's dad's ashes this weekend. In a beautiful place.
Alan wasn't there.
And Lily is wearing "big girl panties". Day three.
And learning how to pump her legs on the swings.
And she just climbed the round metal ladder arch all by herself at the playground.
And I just attended her soon-to-be pre-school, her first real school, at a meet and greet.
I think everyone was married. One man asked me if my husband was there. I cheerily chirped "No, I'm widowed". I tried to keep it light. So light that I'm not even sure the words registered to him. Without skipping a beat he told me where his wife was in the room.
Good to know.
There were lots of single parents there, but I think their spouses were all at work.

That's how the world looks to me.

The island of Lily and Sus.

And yet we spent many lovely moments this weekend with our own family and dear friends. But as my therapist reminded me, it doesn't take the loss away.

It's always there.

Thank god for beautiful and loving distraction. Our most caring friends and family.

And sunny days.

While dining at a friend's house on Monday - as Lily and I hung out at the potty - I could hear them put some music on. Seconds later, strains of Mona Lisa and Madhatters, an Alan favorite, wafted into the bathroom. And there we were, me and our girl, smiling at each other, marveling at Lily's "achievements".
And happy we had new good friends in the other room.
The words rang true.

I thank the Lord for the people I have found.

Grateful for such people.
And Lily is just like the mandolin.

Sprinkles beauty over the sadness.

Glory Days.

2011-05-27T14:05:00.016-04:00

Somehow this morning I found myself reading the early email exchanges that Alan and I exchanged the month that we met. A dangerous foray, a beautiful rediscovery, love so new, hearts on the line. And I think what brought the tears to my eyes was the happiness and humor and honesty and assertiveness that so blatantly radiated from Alan's words. So odd that I'll never have love letters to share with Lily - to be pulled out of crisp, yellowed envelopes, stuck together and foxing - but I could, if I dared, print them in one of those self-designed books to share with her one day.
(Suuuuuuuusss...... He's saying.....)

I will. I must.
For the babe, Babe.

Her dad was hilarious, engaging, witty. A most unintentionally, stunning writer. I'm not sure he ever noticed that in himself but this morning I was taken in again by his words. The life which flowed from his messages was electric.

It is good - so good - to be reminded that we found such happiness in each other. I could hear it in his voice, see it in his stride. We both spent a long time looking. And once we found one another we felt as though we were home. We met in September of 2003, and were in love by October.
Yes, Alan endured a lot of unfairness.
Life's most undeserved slap. But.

He
Was
Happy.

I just needed to hear it again. Be reminded of the excitement that carried us through all of the amazing and difficult times. Be reminded that Alan's life had beauty and richness throughout it.

Life is much easier these days, I am more positively focused on the present and future, but I still walk unknowingly into walls of memory and often the sting takes me right back. Yesterday. Today. I am always caught off guard but the hurt is old hat. And that's how it will always be, I think.

Nearing three years, without my man. But feeling alright.
Before all the clouds there was wonderful sun.
Note to self, wonderful sun.
And now I share my life with an eternal optimist who just called me to see if I could "bring home cookies and lollipops".

She, too, shines through her words.

Love from Above.

2011-05-10T14:55:00.011-04:00

There is so much I miss about living with my other half. I will always long for Alan, but the hollowness that once was unbearable, is much more "manageable" now. Still present, but not crippling, freshly filled up with love for our girl. Holidays are especially hard because of the hype, but really, everyday has monumental challenges. I wish we could parent together.

The days leading up to Mother's Day, usually filled with uneasy yet hopeful anticipation, this time around, were joyful. I love hearing Lily's upbeat chatter as I near the front door and her elated footsteps as she sprints to greet me. This week, numerous freshly crafted cards awaited me. She opened them for me, excitement not to be contained, my favorite envelope decorated with band-aids.
Her artistic choices never fail to charm me.

The best came Saturday night as I was closing the door at bedtime.

Thank you Mama. Happy Mother's Day.

Did she really just say that?!

I love being a mom.
Even if the thank you came after two attempts to avoid sleep - one "potty ploy" and the other "Mama, wanna talk to you."

I will always wish Alan could spend days with us, special or otherwise. I think this year they would have gotten bagels for the occasion, and banged away in the kitchen together concocting some sort of fruit smoothie. Alan was a noisy cook and proud of his culinary inventions. Gratefully, friends included us in their Sunday plans and we both had a beautiful morning. I got many flowers and messages from friends and family.

I was reminded that Alan has tremendous back-up covering for him.
He manages to take care of us from all around.

He must have been trailing Lily in the park as she gleefully ran in every direction except our destination, keeping an eye on her when she repeatedly abandoned her scooter to chase squirrels and birds with spontaneous delight. I was the mother, barely keeping up - juggling stroller and scooter as I chased after her, calling her by her first and middle names for impact, an homage to my parents.

I love her name and to hear her dad's aloud as part of it.

Alas, no response from my escape artist. My free bird.
She was retrieved by friends.

But that is the nature of childhood, and this Mother's Day the best gift was seeing how happy she is.

Root and Rise.

2011-05-04T15:09:00.013-04:00

Sometimes I'm afraid to stop. Really stop. But this morning I treated myself to my first yoga class in three years (not counting the ones with Lily within).

I managed.

I was graced with some peaceful prep in Jamaica just last week. Lily, my mom and I spent a week on the beach. Digging in the sand, resting in the sun, and swaying to "real" music as Lily called it. Live music. Music that floated weightlessly through the air heavy with heat.

It sounded good.
And it didn't hurt... so much.
Only when Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay" was piped into the bar.
But that was on day one, and I know it was Alan joining us, to watch his girl flit among the candles and plantain chips, stopping only for the occasional sip of sparkle water.

And in the downtime, as Lily drifted through four hour naps with a sitter watching over her, I sat in the shade, dipped in the ocean, and cleared my mind of most things. I felt quiet within and peace all around me.

It was a relief.

Alone time with no distraction can be daunting, but this time the sadness didn't prevail. Melancholy still hovers and the sadness is always there, but last week I didn't feel so... broken. Perhaps it's that I felt a bit more rested, maybe it's because I heard news that two books I've written for Lily (and others in her shoes) have found a home with a publisher. Whatever it was, I actually felt good.

Feels good to feel good.

So today as I breathed in and breathed out to the theme of "harmonious expansion" I felt like I was finding a place for myself in this world again. Taking a bit of space back - filling in my own footprints again. I keep seeing Lily with her watering can, recklessly pouring the ocean into her beach molds and sandprints and that's how it felt.

Filling up again.

I was never not here, but over the last few years I have been lover, caregiver and now nurturer. I resent none of it, but you have to take the back seat when other lives are leaning on you.
You just do.
And I know I have the love and strength to do so.

I will always be that tree, deeply rooted and there for those who need an extra stronghold - but today it felt nice to reach up into the air and to reclaim some space around me.

Giant Step.

2011-04-20T13:36:00.018-04:00

Confronted regularly now, and consumed by Lily's persistent inquiries after her dad I summoned up the emotional strength to meet with a professional who has extensive experience with children who have endured loss. It was a challenging yet empowering moment - I have been anticipating these conversations with Lily for some time and thus far, have handled them thoughtfully; but I wanted to make sure the language, and concepts, were appropriate for a two year old.

A precocious two year old with a huge heart, and insatiable curiosity.

The therapist's thoughts were comforting and blunt, truthful and bold.
Honesty, she said was the best, even at an early age.

I just say he died? I asked.
Yes.
Dada died. He got very very sick, not a sickness like what you or I get when we go to the doctor, but a different kind of sickness. One where medicine doesn't work, and his body stopped working.

His body stopped working - the note I wrote down.

His body stopped working.

Note to self, his body stopped working.

Sigh........
Tears.
Deep breath.

Okaaaay... So that's what I say? Just like that?

Yes. This will be a long process for her and over the years she'll begin to understand more and more and you can elaborate appropriately. For now she'll take in only what she can handle and she may ask over and over again. She won't understand much of it, but it's a beginning. Some day you'll say he had a disease called cancer, but you'll reassure her that most people die when they're very, very old.

A beginning.
I created her dad for her and now I must take him away.
And her Papi too, who passed away last summer.
Who she knew and paints for frequently.
I have never misled her and always told her we can't and won't see them, but "died" took it to a whole new level. Perhaps more so, for me.

I wonder if I should have mailed Lily's valentine to Alan.
She made him one, I mailed it.
I did.
The address just said Dada.
And I put it in the box on my way to work.

Sure enough, 6:34 the next morning, from the crib, she asked.
Wanna see Dada.
Wanna see Dada on Sunday. (Weekdays now a large part of our vocabulary, in no particular order)

Sitting up in bed, with a cheery voice I said, He died, Pumpkin.
Dada died. And I gave her the scripted explanation.
She gazed toward the window, processing the information.
Dada died, she said.
And then she asked again.
I repeated myself.
She asked about Papi.
Same thing.

Two deaths, one morning.

But it went OK. I said we can look at pictures of them and talk about them.
That is always a nice idea to her. We do that a lot. A comfort to me too.

And it was OK.

On to talk about the day ahead.

I had told the therapist re. heaven that I believe in a more Buddhist approach - that Alan is everywhere - in our hearts, in the nature all around us, in the fiber of her being.

That his spirit is everywhere.
Can I say that?

Sure she said.
Dada's spirit is still with us. Within us. Around us.
She'll take in what she can.

And so she did.
One large step forward, with Alan by our sides.

Wait. What? (for real?)

2011-04-06T12:20:00.020-04:00

Confession. After watching an episode of Downton Abbey, I stumbled on a reality show about a woman who I think guides soon-to-be-parents through pregnancy prep. All I caught was one couple who felt as though the arrival of their child was doomsday and were in denial of the the wife's largess and then another couple who HAD A FOCUS GROUP to evaluate names for their child.

Come ON.

OK. Yes, it's a reality show (in NYC) and as "real" as they are they're scripted and staged to the nines so perhaps the couple was roped into this idea.
I hope they were.
I hope they were horrified by the idea but wanted to help a desperate producer/friend out. Because it was... Appalling.

Perhaps I'm bitter.
No... No. No. Not over that.
Who leaves a name, that will carry one through life, up to strangers? The last thing I wanted to know was how strangers might feel about our names. One bad association and it's engrained in you forever. Then you can't use it.

Miffed.

Alan and I chose names from a hospital bed. And the best ones had been mulled over for years. We had options for a girl, a boy, two girls, two boys, a girl and a boy, and triplets.

The twins, Alan decided, George and Gracie.
The triplets? Larry, Curly, Mo.
And no, it wasn't the Fentanyl, or morphine talking.
Lily Alan's dad at his finest.

But I am envious of partners who got to plan their entrance into parenthood together. My pregnancy was pretty dark, with dashes of sunlight. There were family members and friends that wanted to be a part of it - wanted to share it with me - and they did. To an extent. But I didn't want anyone but Alan.
I wanted my husband. I wanted the father. I wanted him.
Here.
And I had a minor complication with the pregnancy so nothing seemed like a done deal. I just wanted to get to the finish during what should have been a joyful sabbatical from everyday life. Deep down I was overjoyed at the prospect of our child but it was hard to balance the tangible, death, with the intangible - life-on-the-way.

Life Saver on the way.

Lily was my lighthouse and all I wanted was a healthy child.

So the bitterness? It's more about fortunate people who don't know how good they have it.
Pregnant?
Buck up, you got yourself there.
With ease.
And you probably had fun too.
No needles, hormones, ice-packs. Chemo.
So don't whine about how you can't deal with baby-proofing, where your "you time" is going, or the over-tanned man who doesn't like the name... Bowen. Jesus.

Bowen?!

(See? Good thing they don't know me.)
Is this really what some lose sleep over?

Lucky people. Lucky kids.
Life.
You get a life out of this.
Period.

Rant... Over.

Alan Around.

2011-04-04T15:39:00.031-04:00

Lily turned two at the end of February and I recently found myself thinking about how her actual birthday celebration didn't break me down emotionally as it might have. And I marveled at how I pulled through it with such joy. And then I remembered a moment during the party in which I did find myself in a bubble - looking out at the families around us - moms and dads doting on their kids - feeding them pizza and cupcakes - snapshots of what the two of us are but also what we might have been.

Had we been three.

It was then as I was kneeling next to Lily, perched at the head of her long long table, that I whispered my gratitude for her in her ear and told her how much she is loved by me and her dad and everyone that was there. It was a fleeting moment but one that the two of us shared.

I am grateful that she is such a happy little person, and that our lives are graced by so many old and new friends and family members. It is beautiful to watch her forge friendships - I love hearing her yell to a friend across a room or playground to come swing with her, to come jump with her - I love to hear her exclaim to her teacher "look at me!!" when she and I are dancing together in a class, or to a neighbor as we gallop down our hallway, to her Tio and Tia as they enter a room or to her Granny when she has something to show her. "Do it!!" she'll say to a friend if she wants them to experience the joy of a party blower, or if she wants you to repeat something you've done that she finds hilarious.

She lives life with the transparency of a two year old.
Confident, shy, ebullient, skeptical.

I hope Alan can see how she's evolving into a little girl. No matter how she and I go about our daily lives together, not an hour goes by that he isn't in my thoughts. In our thoughts, as Lily mentions him too. Often.
I want to ride a bus with Dada.
Dada come to Lily's house.
I wanna go there with Mama and Dada (pointing to a picture of me and Alan in Yankees Stadium).

I never want anyone to forget Alan. In snippets I introduce Lily to him every day. Yet every day as she grows closer to him in knowledge, his physical presence here, is one day further away.

But within the last month I was reminded by two different people - how Alan is remembered. And those moments were the best gifts I could ever receive. One acquaintance who had only mingled with Alan at occasional parties commented to me how she remembered his quiet, ever observational presence, his sweet unassuming demeanor; and a dearer friend mentioned to me that Alan had been on his mind a lot last week and proceeded to reflect on Alan's character in so many nice ways.
Then he launched into his disdain for the overly commercial new Yankee Stadium.
And another friend joined in about the scoreboard crowded with logos, & barely visible scores.
Alan was chiming in from above. Nodding his head.
Spitting out sunflower shells as he did.
I know it.

I heard him. I could see him.

Unexpected, heart-stopping, gifts.
I love to talk and to hear about Alan.
Moments like those help to reassure me that his presence is very much alive.

Yes, he's gone, but he's still here.
And Lily will know him.
Through herself, through me, and through the eyes of others.

Word Girl. (Conversations)

2011-03-21T13:34:00.018-04:00

Lily has her mama's gift of gab.
Chatty Cathy her dad would have called her.
She has a good ear. And mind.
Her language is colored with imagination, her observations wonderfully specific.
A recent snippet overheard with her animals and dolls went like this:
No. No. Listen. Listen. So ummmm... You have a jacket? Go to museum? See butterflies and dinosaurs? OK. Let's go. Let's go.

Recent responses/interactions with her include:
Oh, just playing.
No thank you, I'm just fine with my water.
C'mon Sister, let's go to the airport. (OK pumpkin,where is it?)
On Broadway.
I have my wallet to go to Whole Foods.

And on a recent sunny daytrip to the park, as she gazed up at the sky:
The moon is smiling.

A recent phone conversation:
Hi Mama! How are you?
I'm fine pumpkin! How are you? Are you having fun?
Yes. Had a lollipop!!!!
Oh! Was it yummy?
Yeah. We need playdough.
OK, I'll get some more.
Jake and Jojo coming over!
Oh great! Are you going to share toys with Jake?
Yeah. Lily's toys...

Favorite expressions that emerged before her second birthday: "I just love it." "I'll be right back!" "Just one minute" "Just two seconds" "Just ONE second".
"Hmmm. Where could it be?". "It's lost. It's lost. It's lost."

And at her two year check-up with the doctor:
C'mon Mama, let's go.

At a party this weekend, which was probably my first in about three years, conversation was amusing on a... different level.
The best of the best coming from a guy I once dated.

So... How's married life treating you?

My friend Sam and I had a good laugh later as only dear friends and fellow widows/widowers can do with me. We contemplated responses.

Hmmmmmm. Not so good... Not so good.
Not
so
good.

Even Alan would have laughed.

Maybe he did. Somewhere.

Sitting on the bright yellow larger-than-life moon that night.

Instead, surprised but not taken aback by his not knowing,I responded,
"Actually I'm widowed."
Oh... Sorry... He says fumbling awkwardly. Actually, pathetically.
"Yes. He passed away almost three years ago. Well, two and a half years ago."
He's still stuttering feebly, looking at his feet. (How old are we now?)
Helping him out, "But I have an awesome two year old girl, and she's the best."
STILL mumbling and shuffling, staring at his drink muttering Oh. Wow....

I had to walk off. I couldn't bare his uneasiness. I felt bad for him.
What's wrong with that picture... I gave him a break.
Went to the food table. Couldn't handle his not being able to handle.
Baba ghanoush was good.

Wow is right.
I did get to a party. And I spoke to adults.
Grown-ups we call them.
A challenging first but I think I did just fine.

But nothing beats talking with my two year old.

Mama Lost?

2011-03-07T16:15:00.040-05:00

A fellow widowed blogger is plotting a move to a foreign country - now that the future she had planned with her man has ... dissolved.
And I am envious.
How I long for a new beginning.
A fresh start.
A chance to re-channel the rest of my, hopefully long, life. Find myself again.

Lily is by no means holding me in place. She is my anchor and my dreamgirl. She helps me to take flight during the hours of a day. Visit imaginary places. Gives me a glimpse at the wondrous future that she will experience. She is a delightful dance partner. And gives me tickets to every place she's visiting. Last night we went on a picnic, to the airport, to Central Park, we sat on a bench. Sometimes we just sit and wait, or watch the images in our minds float by. I follow her lead when it's time to move on. She is a wonderful companion.

The most beautiful reason to live.

Most of me says, "It's her turn now."

It is.

But a tiny part of me says "I'd like another turn too." Turn at what? Not so sure. I'd like a new home, with more space and a chance to cook and entertain with the wedding gifts we never got to enjoy. Sounds unfair and selfish in light of Alan not being here ~ to mix drinks or to torch his excellent Bananas Foster for all to enjoy.
To live.

But what else can I do?

I'd love to love again but that's just a dream. Not sure how to do it anymore. Not sure if I'm capable of it anymore, except for that which I shower on Lily. My love for her knows no bounds. But I am lonely for adult companionship. I am envious of others who go on family vacations, weekend getaways. I am envious of the co-parenters who share responsibility and can let one finish a meal while the other tends to the child. One who can stay home while the other goes out - without watching the clock as the tab runs for a sitter. One who can take the kid to breakfast while the other sleeps in. I know dual parent households have their own constraints with work and multiple kids and infinite exhaustion - but there's still that ability for one to get rest, or alone time sometime. Sometime.

Lily and I could go on a vacation but I am exhausted, so trips that just the two of us embark on are never restful because I don't... rest. I rarely get out at night and if I do, my next morning begins anywhere from 6:15 - 7am. No break. Ever.
Wouldn't use that lounge chair much.
To think I'm finally up early enough to snag the good one with an umbrella on the beach and yet, I'd never use it. Good for drying towels. Diaper changes.

I relish in our time together. But mama needs some breathing room.
A teensy weensy bit of space. Just a little bit.
And one 8am wake-up. "Just One", as Lily says when she lobbies for a lollipop.

Ahh me. How pathetic this all sounds. But it is how I feel,some of the time.
Much of the time.
Bad mama me.
The guilt that comes with that confession. Whew.

And yet, I cannot imagine a Lily-less world. It's an impossibility.
She is my world. She charms the universe.

She hangs the moon for me just like her dad did.

I only know myself through her these days.
But somewhere in there is Susan, Susie, Sus.
I just need to find her again.

Ready to Play.

2011-02-24T13:34:00.012-05:00

Our girl is almost two. She mentions it to passers by and is perfecting the peace sign with her fingers to indicate her age. To commemorate her milestone she climbed out of her crib last night. Twice. She is a wild child.

A wild flower, rather.

Full of energy and light.
With actions of delicacy and moments of speed.
Just the other night I sighed exhaustedly as I watched my mother chase her through a Vietnamese restaurant.
"Want to say 'Hi'" she says.
"You can say hi to everyone after dinner, Lily".
She then reached for her third pair of chopsticks, which she handles expertly.
Just like her mama.
Except when she's running around restaurants.
Then she's her dada.

A few days ago Lily walked into the livingroom with a baseball card of Don Mattingly.
"Here Mama, Dada."
She had found in one of Alan's drawers a few pages of baseball cards that had been a gift to him during one of his hospital stays. Alan was not Donnie Baseball but he would have ben honored by the comparison. He had many great catches and hits of his own in the playing fields of Central Park. Somehow, Lily managed to pull out the card of his all-time favorite Yankee.

Hi Babe. We miss you. Thanks for the message.

It had to have been a hello from above.

We love you. And Lily has now filled up her purses with the entire collection. She will need a tutorial on all of the players, so when the time is right we will have Uncle Ron, Auntie Jill and Uncle Steve (all longtime friends of ours) come over to give her the details she'll need to follow her dad's footsteps right into the stadium.

I will be on hotdog duty. And sunflower seeds if need be.

Oh to be almost two. So much life ahead of her.

And boy could she run the bases.

Shipmates.

2011-02-09T14:12:00.012-05:00

My birthday came and went quietly, celebrated with a few friends and family. I was, as usual, beyond exhausted, and also blue. What can I say, loss lingers.

Forever.

My favorite part of the day was in the morning when Lily climbed into a plastic container and said, "Lily sailing with Dada. Lily sailing with Dada and Mama! Come on Mama, come in boat?" So in I climbed. And off we went. For a couple of beautiful minutes we rode the waves on our yellow carpet and I imagined wind on our faces, all three of us, looking ahead, with nothing but the sound of waves lapping up against our boat.

It felt good, the quiet togetherness.

Lily is very into birthdays these days so she sang to me and other people whose birthdays had passed or were to come. She is very excited for hers which she reminds me, everyday, is "coming up". She also likes to say that presents she sometimes gets are "from Dada". Sigh.

And again, sigh.

I used to tell Alan about how I always loathed February as it was a cold and dreary month and when I was little I had to postpone my party due to pneumonia. I sulked inside my tee-pee on a hand-me-down beanbag chair. He loved that anecdote. When we learned our babe would be due in February he said "Sus, now it'll be a good month!".

He was right. (Yessssss, Alannnnnn. You were right...)

This very cold month has been laced with pretty snowfall and with me resides the prettiest snowflake of all. Lily can brighten any blue period. And her influence is instant. Although this month has had it's struggles - I think we're sailing through just fine.

Comes With Love. A Fairly Easy Lesson.

2011-01-28T09:40:00.022-05:00

If you do love someone, with every fiber of your being - whether it be a child or partner - there are things you owe yourself, and them, to do. Alan and I were somewhat prepared, yet many of the crucial issues we addressed in the 11th hour. I am grateful we did, but it was an uncomfortable, sobering scramble and not something you want to deal with when you're savoring a life.

This what I'm talking about:
Wills.
Reconciling bank accounts.
Locating the life insurance policy / finding out if there's one through work - you never know.
Clarifying instructions regarding a DNR/DNI end of life care.
Consulting a lawyer if there will be remaining sperm/eggs/embryos if you did assisted reproduction.
Organ donation.
What you'd like for yourself re. burial/cremation.

Much to contemplate, all of it of dire importance.
Bottom line? Do it. You can handle it.

If you have a spouse, especially if you have a child, if you are employed - or not, get life insurance NOW. Do it. It is painless, you call an insurance broker, they do a brief review of your medical history, send someone to your home to do bloodwork and then they issue you a policy. It is easily implemented and takes less time than the usual procrastination.

Do your DNR/DNI form NOW. You can find basic ones on line, but they are state specific so make sure you find one for where you live (here). Spell out how you want your end of life care whether you're in an accident or struck ill or live until you're 102 like Lily's great grandfather. You owe it to your loved ones who will also be your caregivers to tell them whether or not you want to be on breathing tubes, kept alive if brain-dead, given enough pain-killer to be pain free, put in a hospice facility, taken care of - if possible - at home. Yes, these are heavy, terrifying issues to contemplate but trust me, you will be grateful there is no second guessing/hoping praying you're honoring someones wishes when you cannot communicate with them.

Wills also can be found on line and will need to be notarized. If there will be multiple beneficiaries or if it is going to be complicated, get a lawyer.

List - somewhere safe - all of your bank account numbers, passwords, policy numbers etc... in an place that a loved one knows about. If you find yourself in an untimely, dire situation, try as best you can to transfer or empty all cash bank accounts into the soon to be survivor's name. Name your beneficiaries on ALL of your accounts. Now. Here's the deal. When someone passes on, their accounts technically should be inaccessible and will become what's known as part of "the estate". It may be frozen if there is debt to pay, bills to negotiate, etc... If your loved one's finances are already in your name it allows you to protect some assets or at least have them readily available for immediate needs. Estates can be frozen for MONTHS. There will be bills to pay, funeral expenses, post-mortem taxes to prepare for your loved one, and you may not be psychologically/spiritually able to return to work. I wasn't.
And I was pregnant.
You may need all the financial help you can get.

Do it by February 14th. Is it a Hallmark card? No.
A deep way to show your love? Yes. (And you can do both. Woo hoo!)

When I look at Lily she is the embodiment of all of Alan's love and mine, combined. And everyday I consider her Alan's valentine to me.
She is well worth all of the planning above.

Happy Dreamer

2011-01-10T11:36:00.007-05:00

Dada come down.

She says waving Isadora Duncan style in the air above her. Not sure who or what gave her the idea he was up there. She often refers to people, alive, in the sky so perhaps it's her imagination at work.

Oh Lily, Dada can't come down.

Dada come visit.

Oh Lily, Dada can't come visit.

Dada come visit, soon!

Oh Lily, that's a very nice idea but he can't come visit Lily. Not soon.
Not ever.
I'm sorry my love. But Dada loves you soooo much.

And then I wonder if I should have said loved and I rephrase with the latter.
I have never said ever to her. It doesn't make sense at this age. But the questions and ideas are repeated often and I need to lay the groundwork for deeper conversations that sadly are not far off. I don't want to mislead my dreamer.
For that she is.
She has more and more wonderful thoughts and her imagination is wild at play. Yesterday she cooked and served me eight playdough pies in about five minutes. I was also fed rice (a rock), served multiple cups of tea and also cake.

Thankfully she moved on to other topics as she ate dinner and she remained all smiles. Her hands, greasy with pasta, are Alan's hands. Someday when she's a bit older I'll share that with her. She may not get to hold them in hers, but she'll know exactly what they looked like. Her fingers are tapered in the very same way. Narrow at the top, wide at the bottom.
Just like her dad's.

What is most beautiful about life with Lily is that she lives for the moment. She has recently begun to grasp the word "soon" (she also enjoys the expression "right n o w " - and she uses it often with requests for anything), but in general her world is up and down. In place. She lingers in the moment. She lives for the present and has no concerns or thoughts of the future. "We're in a rush" has no bearing on her, and I say that thankfully even though getting a jacket and shoes on and moving out the door can sometimes take seemingly forever. But she is so everpresent. And that is a gift for me as well. I worry constantly about the future and ruminate heavily on the past, so Lily is my anchor in the beauty of a day.

Such a difference she makes.

To Sleep...

2011-01-06T13:27:00.016-05:00

Must be the time change. And teething. And travelling. The CA to NY transition. And congestion. This was a first but I am tired and my daughter-formerly-known-as-Lily must be overtired.

Last night's 90 minute Avoidance of Sleep Concerto:

Maaaaaamaaaaaaaaa!
Big Babyyyyyyyy! Big Babyyyyy!
Little Babyyyy! Little Babyyyyyy!
After 15 minutes, Mama concedes, tucks in babies.
Sleep Mama's Bedddddddddddddd!!!!
Mama's Bedddddddddd!
Pour glass of wine. 15 more minutes of drink and no peace.
Nose Runninggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg! Nose Running!!!!!!!
Enter Mama. Wipe Nose, remind sobbing babe how to do it herself. Convince her to lie down, round three.
Sit on couch. Drained. Tantrum eruption continues.
Mouse Painttttttttt!!! Mouse Paintttttttt! (new book) Read Mouse Painttttttt!
Bunny Honeyyyyyyyyyy (another book)
Sob. Hyperventilate. Another 15 minutes. Mama frozen on couch. Shell shocked.
Sleep on Mama's elbooooooooowwwwwwwww! Sleep On Mama's elbow!!!!!!!
Nightgown offffffffffff! 20 minutes of this.
Blood pressure rising.
Must be.
Re-enter mama. Unwind Lily t-shirt sleeve that that has somehow turned tourniquet. Plea. Come on sweet pea, please go to sleep Lily. Calm down. Everyone's sleeping.

Rattle off list of 40 friends and relatives and dogs who are sleeping.

Sobbing, hiccuping, shaking ensues.
Little baggggggggg... pointing to new mini mermaid just like her cousin's in mesh bag.
Mama caves in, gives it to her.

Mama exits. Furious. Exhausted. Fantasizes about going to the neighbor's or around the block for a few minutes. Gets cookies.
Ponders parenthood induced obesity while watching TV on mute.

End of rope. Desire to shake baby creeps in but is warded off. Another 15 of screaming, tears and reckless jumping trampoline style.

Mother-formerly-known-as-Mama steams back into room. Takes toys out of crib. Turns out nightlight. Tells daughter that she HAS TO SLEEP and that MAMA IS MAD AND SAD (quoting one of her newer books) AND VERY TIRED. Lily lies down, mama calms down, covers her with big blanket, sweeps her hair out of tears on cheeks, tells her she loves her soooo much. Kisses her, strokes back.

Mama Go. She says.

After all that.

Exit mama.

All is quiet. Wait 20 minutes. Creep in, climb into bed. Pray for sleep. Ask Alan for help. Pray for sleep for the night and all other nights.

Got it, at least last night.

New Year.

2011-01-04T15:10:00.010-05:00

Lily and I just returned from our holiday pilgrimage to the Bay Area and though it wasn't restful I'm resigned to the non-restfulness until she waves me out of her dorm room in approximately 17 years.

But it was a sweet trip where we spent time with her beloved cousins who don't mind her touching their Bayblades and Zhou Zhou pets (and if they do they tell her gently), love to sit next to her during meals, enjoy brushing her hair even if she is running away simultaneously and trampling their artfully arranged train tracks while doing so. They share mermaids and squirt toys with her in the tub and give her a good dose of sibling love.

We wish they lived closer.

Lily also had quality time with her next door bud, Madeleine (Mad Dog), who is as gentle and demure as a kitten except when she is risk taking in reckless outbursts that lead to injury in unsuspecting moments. She also hung out with favorite doggies, jumped her way through puddles, enjoyed time with grandparents over dim sum and Blue Jay feedings and hung out with some big girls who have handed down an awesome baby with handy accouterments.

I got to hear live music (adult music that is) for the first time in close to three years. The anticipation of doing so has had me on edge - one of those hurdles in widow country that I was reticent to attempt. Thankfully it was Bluegrass so despite the often tragic themes and lonesome sounds, the upbeat strings kept me ... feelin' OK. It helped to have a dear friend by my side. And it felt good to be in an element that reminded me of times when things were alright.

Alan was with us in every raindrop, and twilight winter sky. Lily even looked up one day and said "Dada come down". The guilt still lingers, and my anxieties about being her only parent had unwelcome flare-ups at night. Another aspect of widowhood - when you're relishing in life you can't help but worry it will be snatched away. I'm sure it was heart wrenching for Alan as well, in fact I know so. He too had a hard time embracing happiness.

Quite a challenge these days.
Especially with Lily by my side.
The happiest of sun beams.

Last night in her sleep, "Cheers Jiji, Cheers Mama".

Lily is the perfect affirmation of life.
As were our happy family meals.
As was music with a good friend by my side.
And dinners with childhood and college friends who may as well be family.
As were the brisk days, and winter leaves lingering in fresh puddles.

Entering 2011 and it feels alright.

Almost Two

2010-12-14T15:35:00.011-05:00

Dada watching us.

Yes Pumpkin.

Dada wake up. Dada come Lily's housssssse.

Ohh, he can't wake up, Dada can't come. But he loves Lily soooooo much.

It continues. And my now very articulate girl can express herself expertly. And she is even better company despite the scope of our typical conversations. It is so much fun being able to communicate with her more easily. It does sometimes take time to decipher words (fresh toys = French Toast) (Sil mun = Silver Moon - bakery that is...)but the awesome thing is that when I can't understand the words, she gives me a point of reference to reroute my guessing game. Hence, sausage led me to french toast and donuts to Silver Moon Bakery. Not bad for an almost 22 month old. Oh she's so smart.
Our daughter.
She may know it too. Hmmm.
Recently she had one of her finest tantrums yet and managed to scream and cry through the entire alphabet. She wanted to continue watching her favorite Sesame Street You Tube version of the ABCs and when she began the protest "MORE ABCS!!!" she continued through til the end, entering the kitchen, nose running, eyes tearing, "W X Y AND ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!".
How do you not laugh and be proud and marvel at your frustrated child when they rant so impressively. It is hard. I was tired. I felt guilty. My Daughter-Formerly-Known-as-Lily's dramatic appeal continued through dinner and bath and bed. Wow.

Exhausting.

But she wakes up singing - and I can't get enough of her. And recently she has been all smiles and laughs and questions and observations. She brings me things. She loves to help. "Here mom." She says, and hands me a tampon.
Yes.
Or lip stuff. Or my credit card.
"Lilyyyyyyy......" Mama says.
She enjoys going through peoples belongings and then returning them to their owners.
And she is beginning to understand happy and sad.
Sigh.
She is a happy girl. That, I know.

All in the timing.

2010-12-02T13:13:00.021-05:00

Sunday was Alan's birthday.
Would have been Alan's birthday.
So as we did last year, and the years before when he was with us, friends and family who knew him well, ate wings, NYC's finest black and white cookies and drank beer in his honor. Babes who were just in formation while he was with us were there, and they all sampled Twizzlers and Red Vines in his honor(both coasts represented). What many in the extended posse do not know is that he was, despite his East Coast roots, in fact, partial to Red Vines.

Truth.

Lily flitted among the tables, and even though she doesn't do well in confined spaces where activity is limited, she managed to wiggle and mingle and play, and was a beautiful embodiment of her dad's spirit, as was everyone present. Everyone there knew not just Alan's humor, but the specifics of it. And they knew him well in so many ways. They all live admirably in his wake - they savor what he cannot.

He'd be pleased to know that.

Lily didn't know what the day was about and I did not mention the significance of the date to her. But before our get together, just awake from her nap Sunday afternoon, channeling something, - in her sweet, gentle voice said:

"Dada come hooooome."

"Oh Pumpkin. Dada can't come home."

Pause.

"Dada home sooooonnn."

"Oh Lily, Dada loves Lily but he, he can't come."

"Dada other house."

"Oh. Not really. Well. Kind of. Sort of."

I was stuck, and crying, and caught off guard, and felt so defeated.
WE TRIED SO HARD.
I had no answer that seemed right.
Alan not being here isn't right. It just isn't.
Lily then went to her drawer of clothes and pulled out legwarmers she hadn't worn since last year on Alan's birthday and began trying to put them on.

What does it all mean. The coincidence. Where and when the questions fall. Maybe it's a message from Alan to the two of us. A way to make his presence known. I don't know. But I do know I miss him.

We all do.

Lay Your Hands Down. (Live Through This Part II)

2010-11-11T15:00:00.014-05:00

I think, thus far, the toughest thing I've ever had to do was to accept the fact that there was nothing more humanly possible that could have extended Alan's life in a dignified way. And the next toughest thing was enduring our friends' suggestions and offerings to call doctors they knew, explore one last treatment idea etc..., once we had reached that horrifying conclusion. Obviously, those gestures came from love and desperation to save a very special life, beyond worthy of saving. Yet offers like that, in the eleventh hour, when every resource had been thoroughly exhausted were difficult to field, to digest. It is monumentally challenging to face the searing truth that nothing more can be done. It goes against the fiber of our beings. And once you are able to come to terms with that, however crippling it is, the extraneous attempts from others can make you feel as though you're giving up, when in fact you're finally accepting that everyone has done all that they can do, to restore that life in a healing way.

What drives you in the fight against terminal disease is the hope for a cure, or a treatment that might add time to one's life. And Alan's family and I left no stone unturned. We sought multiple opinions, conducted extensive research, consulted the NIH for trials, scoured the internet for case studies, and asked for help from others throughout the country who might have a lead toward something. Anything. Alan endured more than enough scans and treatments and experimental drugs and prayers.

He wanted life more than anyone.

We all wanted life for Alan more than anyone else.

Much of what he did, was for us.

But there is a time when the expression "quality of life" takes on profound meaning. There is a moment when you must really look at that beloved person who has been through so much and have the courage to wish for them

rest.

And so, if you know someone who is journeying through such an unforgiving landscape, trust that those around them would have walked to the ends of the earth for them. And in many ways, did.

No one ever stops wishing for a miracle. Ever.

If assistance is needed they will ask. It is kind and loving to want to help, but offer gently, and have the sensitivity to step back and say no more.

Nature is indescriminating.
It just gives and gives, and then takes everything back.

Live Through This.

2010-11-01T20:27:00.026-04:00

Awhile ago someone asked me for advice regarding what to bring to a friend who was terminally ill. They weren't sure if they should bring gifts of food, or more meaningful gifts and were seeking advice regarding how / what to say if it was a last visit. Many tough but thoughtful, beautiful questions and I was so heartened to have been asked. Visiting and spending time with someone who has been prominent in your life and now may leave it shortly is excruciating; it forces us all to face our own mortality and more immediately gives you a heartbreaking taste of love and loss.

Visits and patients and environments are varied but here are some suggestions from what I felt and experienced with Alan. I can't speak for him, but I was there, in an altered state for sure, but present nonetheless: Food, in our case, wasn't a good idea. If you're a cancer patient often you have undergone or are enduring rigorous therapies that either limit your diet or render you unable to physically eat. Cancer floors of hospitals often prohibit outside food - it can upset those who cannot eat and often isn't something that can be consumed anyway. It can be torturous. The only good that comes of it is as a way to thank the nursing staff. Family and friends, on the other hand, may welcome food - but generally they'll be uncomfortable eating it in front of others and often our appetites were gone too. So consider where you'll be going and ask ahead of time if they'd like something and leave it it that. Don't force, no one has the energy, or interest.

Best gifts? Your presence when the person who's being visited has the energy. Second to your presence? Anecdotes from your shared lives. Memories and stories or even the most basic reminiscences.

Life relived is a gift.

Old photos are perfect conversation material, and one of my/our favorite physical gifts was a tiny potted flower plant. It was small, it was sweet, it was simple, it was life. Flowers NO, plants, yes. Other special thoughts were pictures drawn by our friends' kids.
Whimsical, bright, and loving.
Most importantly, if the friend is lucid and aware of their fate, if you can summon up the courage, let them know in private how much they've meant to you. You don't have to gush, you don't have to be ominous - and you don't have to say goodbye - but you can say, you mean the world to me and I hope to see you again in the next few days (if that's true) but if I can't for whatever reason prevents that from happening, know I love you and will celebrate you and carry you in my heart always. Something like that - honest, from the heart.

It is torturous, I know.

But I think for Alan - despite the heartache and the courage it took for him to listen - it gave him a profound sense of the mark he'd made on the world.

Keep your visits brief.
Seriously.
Watch them for signs. Ten minutes, half hour - max, unless they say otherwise.
Illness is exhausting. Meds are taxing.

Hearts are full.

Don't be offended if they don't want a visit.
Life is hard, death is harder.
Be prepared that if they do want to see you, you may get there and they're sleeping, or they're not up for it or they're being treated for something. Plan with extra time and understand you may not get in.
Emails or letters are wonderful too - someone inevitably will be there to read them aloud.

And for the family of the person who's days are measured?
They're savoring a life. Hanging on to minutes, hours, days.
Don't force walks, showers, coffee breaks, meals out.
The thought comes from a good place but think about it. If your loved one may not make it through the night or the next day , they won't want to leave their side unless the doctors kick them out. Even if I had a year more with Alan I'd be by his side every waking moment. (I would shower, I guess.)
No matter how unhealthy it is, or how much weight one is losing - if company is wanted, they'll ask.

Respect their torment, leave it at that.

Hard. So hard. But if you can live through this, you'll be OK.

Damage Control

2010-10-29T12:20:00.004-04:00

Lily's artistic inclinations are emerging. So much so that the other morning she came into the bathroom to get me, "Hahn?" (Hand used to be "ahtch" but we are now closer to the real thing) I gave her my hand, she led me into the living room, over to the TV, where Sesame Street was playing. "Uh Ohhhh..." she said as she pointed to the screen. There, in the raking light of the dawn (read, 7:20am) I noticed the entire screen was decorated with crayon strokes that extended off the canvas onto the radiator cover.

"Lilyyyyyyyyyyy..... No, no Pumpkin, you know that's not where we draw. We draw on PAPER or else we draw on special things in Teacher Barbara's class. Remember how Mama said we only draw on paper?".

"Yesh." she says.

"Where do we do crayons?"

"... Papuh." And silence. Wheels turning. "Mama .... art!"

"Sigh. Yes, Lily, that is art."

She's right. But what she doesn't know is that the apartment is on the market and I'm not sure buyers are interested in the freshly painted walls now embellished with... Color. Lots of it. Thank you Crayola for creating washable crayons. They are remarkably unmarring. I have found crayon on the couch, chairs, dresser and most recently the wall. Thankfully, she drew and then ran to get Kleenex and began wiping it off the wall after she made her "mark".
She is a good helper.

Wash wash wash.

She likes to help mama wash the walls and the couch and the tv and the radiator cover and the chairs and the refrigerator.
She even hums her clean up song she's learned in class.

At 20 months I think we are in "testing" mode, ie., "Let's test mama. A lot."
The uncommissioned murals are still appearing, unannounced, and too much quiet now indicates art in progress.

Crayons on probation. At least for a few hours.

That's OK.

There are other ways to test Mama:

"Yogeet?"
"Lily wants yogurt?"
"Yesh."
"Here's some yogurt Pumpkin."
"No. No yogeet."
"I thought Lily wanted yogurt?"
"No........ Other one."
"Strawberry yogurt?"
"Yesh."
"OKaaaaay. Here's the other yogurt. Lily? You want the yogurt?"
"No."
"What does Lily want for breakfast?"
"Mac n'cheeeeeeeese" she says, smiling and twisting and jumping.
"We don't have mac n'cheese, Sweet Pea"
"Rice n'beeeeeeeans!!!!!"
"No rice n'beans either Pumpkin."

I've let her down.

Wait.
I'm the mom.
Must remember that important fact.

Note to self: Don't bend over backwards all the time. Just some of the time. Like when I'm channeling Job. Must channel often. Because now, when Lily isn't tagging the furniture, she is jumping off of it. She also now enjoys hanging upside-down, and has perfected somersaults. And, she has done some impressive things in the potty recently. No details needed. It may have scarred her for life, but not bad for someone four months shy of two.

Is she really almost two? She even seems older at times. Yesterday she opened the closet and was reaching for the screwdriver.
"Horsie. Horsie!"
I didn't understand until I glanced over at rocking/bouncy Horsie and there he/she was, turned upside down, battery panel exposed for surgery.
"No no Pumpkin, Horsie's fine. Here. Listen."
And with that, Home on the Range and hoof beats filled the air.

That may be the answer. Pretend living on range. Commission arid landscape, leave dirt on floor, import hay.

City Goes Country.

I like that.

More Dada?

2010-10-18T16:05:00.001-04:00

It has begun. Lily is asking for her Dada. Nineteen months on the journey alone and now, sadly, her own has begun. We spent a long weekend with her favorite friend and it became glaringly apparent to her that he has a dad.
And so, she is wondering
where
hers
is.

The last three nights at dinner Lily has said "Mama, Dada?" "More Dada?" and with that I pull out photo albums and as she eats we look at pictures of her dad. I identify the people he's with, I show her his smile, him sailing boats, I show her his hands and I tell her that she has the same ones. She does. She has Alan's fingers. They are mini replicas. And I hope that as she gets to know him through me and our friends and family, that her longing for him wont be torturous. But it may be. In fact, it already seems to be heading in that direction.
How could it not?

It is heartbreaking.

Yesterday I peaked in on her in the living room and there she was perched on her little chair at the coffee table, photo album from our honeymoon open in front of her and she was studying the photos, touching them with her fingers, identifying and saying out loud, "Dadaaaaa, Mommyyyyy. Dada, mama" over and over again, singing our names with her "counting numbers" inflection.

So innocent. So dear.

Cruel cruel world.

Night before last at 2:45, "Mama..."
"Yes my love? "
"Dada?"
".... Ohhhh. Dada's watching over you Pumpkin. Dada loves Lily. Shhh shhh... Go back to sleep sweet pea..." And more realistically the next night in bed, "Oh Lily, Dada isn't here. But he loves Lily soooooooo much." One of these days she'll look for him at the door or at me with her questioning fanned out hands.

And so my attempts at toddler explanation have begun. And painfully I know this is now her beginning of what will be a very difficult journey. Last night in the tub "Pictures of Dada?". "OK pumpkin, we'll look at pictures of Dada before bed." So in bed, we began with our wedding album and then transitioned to the Little Engine That Could. And Corduroy. And then after a false start in her crib we cuddled with our own version of The Wheels on the Bus. This time with what people we know would say.
"Dada? Dada Bus?"
"Dada on the bus says 'I LOVE YOU SO!, I LOVE YOU SO!, I LOVE YOU SO!"

And on we went.
She slept through the night, peacefully.
I'm hoping Alan stopped by in her dreams.

Oh So Much. So Much.

2010-09-30T13:47:00.030-04:00

It is "find the right pre-school and then get in" season. My first exposure to the NY school system, my first round at finding the perfect home away from home for Lily, where she will explore, grow, learn, play, nap, snack, sing and create. I bit off a large chunk yesterday, went on my first school tour and decided I'd give wearing my ring on the other hand a go. A tall order, a brutal test, got through the tour (though I did tear up at one point) and only lasted with the ring on the right for an hour and a half. Everything just means so much. I'm not sure why I switched hands for the ring other than I was anxious about questions I might get ie "where's your spouse/partner/husband" and I didn't have it in me on an already emotional excursion to field them. I'm not ready or interested in dating despite my crave for companionship I just thought I'd test the waters.
Not fun.
Tour fine, loaded with couples - but of course.
The school wasn't for Lily. Us. To cramped, too dark, and a taste of "let's plan your child's future now" aura. Whoa mama. Not ready just yet. Still wondering how the weather will be tommorow and the next. Still wondering what I'll cook tonight for dinner and fantasizing about having enough energy one day to cook enough home-made options for Lily (and me) for an entire week.
With vegetables she'll eat.
Would be so nice.
But I digress.
Went on another tour today and it was much more up our alley. Lily would thrive and have a blast. Great open space, warm, loving, personal vibe and so much for children to grab hold of, to discover and experience. Parents, too, much more low key which I appreciate because in this new world of parenthood I'd like to like the families of my daughter's friends. A different kind of dating I expect but with a beautiful common bond. My favorite two questions on the tour:
What are the ERBs?
Where does the food come from? (even better, the answer: The Kitchen.)
Cool. I can relate.
I'm so excited for Lily to have a cubby with a ziploc bag full of wardrobe changes - must explain it's only for emergencies, not to accessorize/change her look. (Last night she paraded around our apartment with a grass skirt - courtesy of West Coast Grandma - fresh from Hawaii over her Puma running suit, shell necklace dangling to her thighs, doctors kit - courtesy of East Coast Grandma - on her arm. The swish swish swish of her gait, beautiful.) I can't wait for her to make things, build things, and tell me when garlic bread day is. I can't wait to read the stories she's composed, and hear her day's review.

Back track.
Can I ask that in the Q & A?
Do you have Garlic Bread Day?

Good times ahead. There just have to be.

She already takes a class two mornings a week and she now sits cooporatively on a rug (preferably on the letter Y) and often before bed says to me Teacher. Class. Teacher. Class.
Jump!

She is ready.

Love that girl.
Love her.

Yes Girl.

2010-09-22T15:59:00.026-04:00

Lily needs new PJs so online I went. I spent way too much time scrolling over various pairs with designs ranging from owls on branches to ones saying "Daddy's Flower Girl" and "Mom & Dad Love Me" but the one that got me was the pair that cheerfully said "Life is Sweet". I have never, in my adult life, been a fan of message tees and even more so for my daughter. I think she'd want world peace and I do think she loves laughter, love and rock n'roll but having a shirt that says those things seems a bit contrived. She's nineteen months. There will be a time when she can pick them out for herself and that will be her choice, her message, her "thing". But I linger on the clothes with messages that I'm not sure I agree with. They're designed in a moment of commercial whimsy, not profound prophetic spread-the-word intention. But I (and perhaps this is why I never did well on the SATs) tend to read too much into things and get caught up in what it all means. "Life is Sweet" being one of those.
And is it?
In many ways, life is sweet. Or rather, there are sweet things in life.
But that wouldn't sound cute on a pair of pajamas.

There Are Sweet Things in Life.

Hmm.
Not the same ring.
Not the same thing.

Knowing Alan was and is sweet. Sharing parenthood with my dearest friends and my brother is sweet. Lily is the sweetest being. Watching her holding hands, walking and sitting on stoops with her friend Jake is sweet. Hearing her say "I need strawberries" is sweet. Her pride in putting on her own band-aid is sweet. Seeing her at dusk this evening running barefoot down a dirt path, her friend Chloe at her heels was sweet.

But other things like war and cancer and death and poverty and the long long list of life's injustices, not so.

Ahh life.

Alan would never have said life is sweet. He enjoyed much of it but I don't think he ever would have subscribed to that notion. Hence his shirt toting the title of his favorite show, Curb Your Enthusiasm. Our approaches were different but I loved Alan's dry wit and wry take on life. There is much I love in life and I'm not afraid to immerse myself in it. Generally. Although finding my way back into life, post 7/5/08, remains a challenge of epic proportions.

Lily, thankfully, has no intention of curbing her anything.

She is a yes girl. She says it often now. Indescriminately, but I love it.
She is a do-er. A true lifer.
Drunk with life daily.

For now I think I'll stick to owls on branches, but I love Lily showing me how it's done.

Today. 09/08/07.

2010-09-08T11:20:00.009-04:00

Today is our anniversary. Three years.
Just this morning Lily was identifying family members in wedding photos that I have framed and she noticed one was of Alan and Tio and Tia and Alan's friends in a subway station. Dubway? Choo choo dubway? Dubway. She is making so many connections and identifying everything in the world around her so she was ecstatic to see them in tuxes at the 102nd Street station. It was a very warm day, not unlike today, and Alan in his usual fashion insisted they'd train it to the Gatehouse, a landmark building in Harlem that had been around for decades but was hosting it's first wedding ever, for us. It was the happiest day of our lives, even Alan in his modesty was calmly excited - he had his Marx Brothers cuff links on and had made an impressive recovery from back surgery and some radiation treatments just a month and a half earlier. He danced, he played guitar and he sang. Just this one time, Alan stepped into the limelight and I'm so glad he did. It was an evening to remember.
Amazing friends and family and food and music. Love all around.

So much has happened since then and just yesterday I was reflecting on how difficult life continues to be. I have never felt so alone, isolated, and disoriented. And there is nothing anyone can do, it is internal scarring that keeps me at sea, no longer treading water but feeling as though I don't belong to any shore. My concrete world is life with Lily - she grounds me and fills me with warmth and unfettered happiness. But when I am not with her, I am lost. It is an agonizing feeling. So painful and so dull all at the same time. Two years out and I can do so much more, function so much more ably, but the disconnect is frightening. And I wonder if it will ever change. Missing Alan is excruciating, still. Just the other night as I read to Lily at bedtime I found myself looking down at us just as I hope Alan does. We were giggling, Lily was impressing me with her ability to identify pine cones, frogs, leaves, feathers and acorns in a favorite story and it was a bright and beautiful moment. I hope he saw it, and was able to see how happy we are together but also know how painful it is for me to not have him there in bed with us to complete the picture. He belongs with us.
We all belong together.

August and everything after.

2010-08-06T12:15:00.024-04:00

Lily and I recently journeyed to the my old home in Marin for a good, much needed dose of fresh air and outdoor quiet. She waded in a creek, tasted a wet rock, had her first burrito, and met one of her dad's favorite dogs of all time, Harpo. I wondered if maybe Lily smelled like her dad - if it was a smell Harpo recognized. Curious.

Hoppo? Doggie? Baby?
Hoppo? Doggie? Baby?
Hoppo. Doggie. Baby.
Baby-O. Baby-O!

Her sitter asked yesterday what Hoppo meant.
She also met Baby Henry (who was overshadowed by Harpo's licks), she was doted on by big girls, fed ice cream and cheese puffs by her cousins, raged at a 1st birthday party for a "baby" Maddy, who in truth is just 5 months younger than Lily - but put up very well with Lily's older persona. (And hijacking of barely unwrapped toys). She watered plants with her Jiji, had her first dim sum with her grandpa, and ate mac n'cheese - natchee, she calls it,(From 8am on, I might add)for almost 10 days straight. She acquired two more hand me down babies who have now been strolled, chewed, kissed, fed cheddar bunnies, and stripped of their clothes. New words are teacher, happy, shoe (jew), elbow, rinse, whoah!, wow! and an abridged version of octopus. She has graduated to one nap a day, has attempted multiple climbs out of her crib and will now only eat meals in her little chair, positioned at the coffee table - so that our once white shag rug is now the receptor for couscous (goosgoos) and strawberries that never made it to their destination. And she insists on laps around the room between bites and I am a tired mama trying to remember she is still just a babe.

We SIT when we eat, Lily.
No Lily, sit please.
Lily?! Please come back.
No Lily, no keys until you finish eating.
Lily, I don't think Baby wants couscous.
OK. That's nice. Come sit Lily. Sit Lily, please. Sit with Mama.

And
so
on.

She will not give up her three daily bottles and refuses milk in any other container. If it isn't the way she wants it she indignantly hands it back to me or she casually knocks the milk sippy cup off the table out of her site. She is happy without milk but she has a jones for the baba. Milk in a box? No. Milk in a cool new cup? No. She doesn't really even engage in the debate. Baba or bust.

WOW. Which battles to choose.

In the tub she likes to wash her hands repeatedly ("watch, watch, watch")and she will forever attempt a sip of soapy wawa. She also tries to blow bubbles a good few inches above the water's surface. A few inhalations, in the water, have set us back a bit...

And so she grows.
And learns.
And explores.
And defines herself.

Nearing 18 months, going on 12 years.

Nothing slows our girl down, not even 95 degree heat with a heavy dose of humidity. Ahh August. But Summer is full of long days, sprinklers and fun, so it's a season I never like to leave - and Lily seems to grow in the sunlight.
But Fall? It will be welcome, whenever it comes.

So long, Papi.

2010-08-02T13:12:00.006-04:00

July kept up it's reputation for being a difficult month. Alan's dad, Lily's grandfather, my father-in-law passed away after a rough bout with complications related to cancer treatment. Another link to Alan lost, another man in our family, lost, a relative who Lily loved and loved her back, lost. I think I always comforted myself when Alan passed by imagining special moments in her life when she'd be accompanied by other immediate family members. And Papi, was to be her soccer coach, and a part of her entourage during her first days of school among countless other events I look forward to witnessing. Just recently the two shared mashed potatoes and laughs together at a diner and shortly before that, she had mastered his name. She would often say it so many times I'd have to call him so she could demonstrate her developing communication skills. But now, he's in our hearts and memories and photos. How I wish he could have seen Lily grow up just a bit more.

The other night while we were in California, Lily awoke about 3am, inconsolable, and ended up in bed with me for a bit. It's strange how you can lie in bed next to someone in the dark and hear them thinking. And I could tell, despite Lily's stillness, that she was quietly awake.

Mama. She whispered.

Yes Lily. I whispered back.

Papi.

Yes baby. We love Papi, and Papi loves Lily.

Silence.

Later that night as I was carrying her back to her crib she said in her dreamy voice, Tio.

Yes Lily. Tio loves Lily too. We'll see him soon.

Thankfully Lily has two uncles in her life who love her, and her Tio Robert sees her often. He is our last male link to Alan and Alan's roots and I cherish the connection the two of them have. I just wish. I just wish Alan and Gary could be here too - so that we could really feel whole as a family. Lily loves men. She does. It's the most interesting thing - I often wonder if it's because of the absence of them in our everyday life or if it's just a girl/boy developmental thing. But Lily has a habit of stalking sunbathing men in the park, waving to them on the subway, and charming them in restaurants. She is a consummate flirt when it comes to men. While out in California, she called for Dada many times. She saw a man that could have been Alan and called him dada and then one morning as she ran down the halls heading out to the pool where my brother was - again, Dadaaaaa, Dadaaaaa.... She looks for the man she has seen in so many photos and heard so much about.

How painful it is to witness the ends of lives. It is new loss combined with old loss - so much comes up to fester old wounds.

Tonight. Tomorrow.

2010-07-01T16:05:00.004-04:00

This weekend two years ago was the worst I've ever endured. Lily was just a glimmer of hope. Life was beyond grim. It was as though I was waiting for the world to come to an end. And shortly after, much of my world, did. I look back, reluctantly, and see the dismal fog we were in. Hospice is honest, and raw and yet surreal - some families practically move in with their loved ones - as we did. But the shock and dismay to find yourself there is overwhelming, it tears your heart asunder, your emotions and awareness are heightened and yet part of you is rendered numb. I tried so hard to be everpresent during Alan's last days - I wanted to live with him through every unbearable last moment, to savor and relish in the lucid moments that Alan managed to muster up... He was so beautiful and brave and generous.

And then he was gone. Just like that, he gave in, or his body did. As he/it should have. No one deserves the unfairness that terminally ill patients endure. And Alan left behind with me the most remarkable little being. Knowing Lily now, I understand how she survived his passing and my grief - she is intensely determined, and tough as nails. Soft on the inside but Teflon in demeanor. She is willful and impassioned -Just today we went with friends and family to her first concert and she flitted among the crowd, ingratiating herself to every parent and child she could. She had no time for stillness, too busy, had to take in the music, the rocks and sticks and grass, and was all smiles in 95 degree heat.

I am trying to make this weekend a happy one again, and Lily Alan certainly provides the most wonderful incentive - but it is an effort to block out certain sights and sounds and despite the sadness they bring, I don't ever want to forget anything about the life I shared with Alan. So it is a balancing act. But the joy that Lily brings to the world, with her Eskimo kisses, expanding vocabulary, insatiable curiosity and dance moves is wonderful. She helps to keep all of Alan very much alive, much of him shines through her in behaviour and much of what she exhibits is different and new. I pray he can see her as she blossoms, today she was all Puck - free, whimsical, sneaky and endearing.

Now we are home - Lily is fast asleep. Fireworks rumbling in the distance... Thankfully, I stumbled upon one of Alan's all time favorite movies playing on TV, Coppola's "The Conversation" with Gene Hackman. I remember watching it with him, as he pointed out directorial decisions and artful moments - he loved movies such as this one - classic casts and genius directors. Good solid acting - he knew every shot, every scene, he had a keen understanding of what made an effective editor and to this day I so wish he had gotten a chance to work on something that he would deem monumental. But I hope he understood how powerfully he touched the lives of all the people who's paths he crossed, and that the life he led was full indeed. Cut short way too soon but he left his mark in so many ways. I'm so grateful for the time we shared together and with others we loved ~ Now with Lily here we'll just keep living and loving and celebrating who he was and what he gave us to carry on.

Teen Spirit. Rant.

2010-06-22T13:38:00.014-04:00

Lily's vocabulary is expanding and with it has come NO! No! NoooOH. NO!

NO.

I think she turned thirteen the other day. I could have sworn she just celebrated her first birthday a few months ago but I must be mom. Oops, wrong. I must be wrong.
Wrong Mom.
Favorite words are Mommyyyyy, baby, E L M O, ELmo. elMO? elmo. ELMO. elmo elmo elmo, hat, haT hah t and days now seem to feature NO often accompanied by long, whiny noises that come from her gut and go up the scale lasting a good seven seconds. At least. And then an object is flung impressively long distances. Turkey flies, broccoli is thrown, little toys jettisoned all within the blink of an eye. And I only have two.
Eyes.
And I am tired.
I have no downtime except for naptime.
Not sure people get that. They think I'm militant about sleep schedules and I am - but fifty percent of that is for ME. Mommy. Mommyyyyyyy. MOMyyyyy. I have no downtime. If Lily sleeps, I do. Period. I may be under house arrest while she does, but I'll take it. And if she doesn't nap or we skip it so we can make everyone else happy - I feel like ____ . And that's how it is, how it goes...
I can't hand her off and say I'll be back in an hour. I can't run an errand without her. I can't shower unless she's in the crib with a stack of books or watching Elmo. Elmo. Elmo. elmo. I cannot leave her to get the mail/laundry/milk. I cannot run out to get ice-coffee and sit on a bench and read ONE article or a book for FIVE minutes. I cannot go to the bathroom with the door closed. I can hire a babysitter and then a twelve dollar movie becomes a fifty dollar outing. And returning an item of clothing is no longer a financially prudent move - if I pay a sitter, it's a wash. Even when I do have a sitter I SPRINT everywhere. Clock ticking. If I'm paying, it's adding up, if it's gratis they have lives too. Hmmm.

Ahh me.

Oh, and - Father's Day. That's right. I miss my man and my daughter's dad. How nice it would be to have Alan here to love and hug and play with and to let me go get ice-coffee. I called my brother to wish him happy father's day and he laughed and said "You too!!Jesus, you're doing both!".
It was the kindest acknowledgement I've gotten in a long time.

But she still is awesome, our not so delicate flower. Our rough and tumble girl who blows kisses, dances and claps with zeal to live music, has a beautiful smile and an infectious giggle. She's becoming a little person - full of urges and curiosities, and entertaining antics. She loves babies - so dolls now are fed, taken into the tub and put into strollers. Lily could spend a half hour easily trying to figure out buckles. The stroller buckles, the high chair buckles. Shoe buckles. She is a young Houdini and her focus can be itense. Her imagination is soaring and she's a good mimic - talks on the phone with pretend noises and takes care of baby with pretend noises. She fascinates me and even with the frustration and exhaustion, I still can't get enough of her. But I will say I can't wait until YES becomes a part of her vocabulary.

And I Still Love You.

2010-06-06T20:57:00.013-04:00

So much has happened in the last few weeks. For some it would seem like nothing but for us it's leaps and bounds. We've had some fun evenings with other families who have kids around Lily's age and it's been a joy to see her play like crazy in other people's homes and gardens. She's had a blast digging into their toys, running with sheer excitement - no destination needed, endless curiosities to explore whether it be a tub of ice, a chair just her size or discovering the addictive qualities of Bugles. It's all new to Lily, and me. It feels like were now in the "family stage" where our world grows with old and new friends who have children as well. And it feels good to be doing so -I just thought, I had always imagined, that Alan and I would be sharing these special moments together - watching our girl get filthy, seeing her share sippy cups with abandon, interact with other kids openly in an entirely uncensored way. It's all very sixties - free love, wah wah for everyone - and Alan and I would reminisce at the end of every evening, shocked and awed over the fact that we were actually parents, that our girl actually had said and done the very things we had witnessed earlier that day. But he isn't here. Not physically at least. And as I reach out into this new world it is beautiful to watch Lily's life take shape and I relish in every moment. But the ache is profound. All last week I couldn't get a song that Alan had sung at our wedding out of my head. I didn't want to. But I ached to hear it and longed to hear him. And at the end of a lonely evening the other night I came home to the James Taylor/Carole King concert on PBS - and just as I tuned in, they sang this for me.
Alan must have had some part in it.

You Can Close Your Eyes

Well the sun is surely sinking down
But the moon is slowly rising
So this old world must still be spinning 'round
And I still love you

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it's all right
I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song when I'm gone

It won't be long before another day
We gonna have a good time
And no one's gonna take that time away
You can stay as long as you like

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it's all right
I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song when I'm gone

I do keep singing that song and others, and Lily has a beautiful voice as well. The last three days have been filled with the chant eeeiiieeeeiiiooooohhh... She's got a good musical ear, that girl, just like her dada.

We hear him and see him in every note.

As my second year without him approaches, I miss him more than ever. But we did have a good time and no one can ever take that away. Yes I've got some major blues, but I'm grateful for the love that came our way.

Widow Country.

2010-05-18T11:27:00.005-04:00

More of the same, but succinctly put. Hope the link works, click on the title of this entry and that should do it. Otherwise you can cut & paste:
http://mkintner.wordpress.com/2010/05/16/because-youre-a-widow-too

Days Ahead.

2010-05-16T22:59:00.026-04:00

Lily and I had a good weekend. We were busy, we were more social than usual, we had a good dose of outdoor fun and we visited our bench. But this last week has had it's challenges, as usual, and though they're ones I've been anticipating, they still caught me off guard. On a work call someone asked me if I was married and I stuttered with the answer. A rush of fear shot through me as I heard the question and what came out was, "sort of". The listener left it at that but I think what he imagined was that I was in one of those in limbo relationships where you might as well be married but you're not. Regardless, I felt stuck by the question - not comfortable elaborating but for me there wasn't a straight answer. That said, this same week when answering questions for my college's alumni database I was asked my marital status and again I felt trapped.

"What are my options" I asked.

I went with widow.

She was no longer interested in the age of my daughter. Must have figured Lily was now an adult.

This weekend came the big one.
A toddler asked me where Lily's dad was.
Well, I said, he can't be with us. He's in Lily, and his spirit is everywhere, but he isn't here in the same way that your dad is.
My response was accepted and back she went to her play.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Lily continued, blissfully unaware.

I have been bracing myself for all sorts of questions and this time I got off relatively easy. It was an OK first run. But as I begin considering preschools for Lily I know it's just a matter of time before she faces the same ones. When surveying a school's website recently I lingered on a photo of a classroom project. Again, my heart in my throat. It was individual houses, adorning the walls and the heading above them said "Who's in your family?". Below were photo montages of children with parents and siblings and relatives - each household reflecting something different. I imagined Lily's. One image was just of the two of us, the other required an apartment building for every extended family member and courtesy aunt and uncle. Lily will get that question and many others, and I won't always be there to help her field them.

That makes me anxious and sad.
Parents say how heartbreaking it is to watch their child through a classroom window not get a seat at a classroom table, or play alone as others pair up. What goes through my head when I envision Lily on days when they're making Father's Day projects or having a dad's visiting day, is brutal. I've already read of so many incidents of children in Lily's situation on days just like those - and many haven't been handled well. Together, we'll prepare. But there are many children missing a parent and I long for a curriculum and an understanding that thoughtfully incorporates them.

Differences for children can be alienating and no matter how thoughtful teachers will promise to be, they won't always be there for her either. I've written a couple of children's books for Lily and others in her shoes and I long for the day when we can read them together and when she can hear them during story time, listening anonymously, surrounded by others. Children are beautifully open to new ideas and if they see that Lily's dad is very much a part of her, they'll understand that he's always there. And they'll realize that about their parents too - that although they're all on their own at school, their parents are very much with them - in their mannerisms, in their coloring, sometimes in the way they see things, or in their stride. Much of growing up is based on knowing who you are, and my greatest wish for Lily is that she recognize the strength and beauty she already possesses.

She'll get through those days. We both will.
But I don't look forward to them.
At all.

The Joneses.

2010-05-03T14:29:00.012-04:00

Just the other morning, entirely unprompted by me, Lily wandered over to a photo of me and Alan together, took it in her hands and kissed him . I caught her in the act and a wave of love and happiness and sadness washed over me. Could she, does she know who he is? I think so. It has to be that way. And surely he knows his daughter.

As I near the second anniversary of Alan's passing I realize more and more that year one was loaded with grief but the day to day goal was just coping and survival. Fighting to get from one day to the next, straddling medical bill and insurance settlements, estate issues, and a pregnancy. Now, with much of that behind me, I am often sapped with heavy sadness. I think so much of it has to do with seeing Lily develop into the amazing person that she is - with every new move there is one set of admiring eyes missing. He must be watching. He has to be. Because I think Lily can feel him. There are times when she points into the air just past me and is fixed on something I cannot see. She babbles into the air, at something I am sure.

Must
be
her
dad.

There is a family that lives down the hall from us, around the corner. And just as Lily and I finished playing with their kids in the hall last week, I heard their dad make his grand entrance home at the end of his workday. Their front door closed shut and I could hear the screams and yells of delight over his arrival. They were ecstatic, and his bellows in response echoed down the hall. I had to carry Lily back toward our apartment, as she reached, arms outstretched for theirs - all the while whispering in her ear that she had a dad too, he just doesn't come home in the same way.

And now she knows how to knock.
So when our front door opens, she's off - out of the starting gate, making a beeline for their door. She knocks on it, it opens and in she goes without even a look back to me for acknowledgement. Smiling, I apologized, as she did this a few evenings back (for the second time that day, I'm told) and before I could catch up to her she had made her way into their apartment and straight through to their master bedroom where kids and dad were lounging on the bed spending their evening hours together. Their mom said "Say goodnight to Lily guys", they did, and up she came into my arms. I apologized again, feeling as though we had invaded a family time that was not ours, smiled sheepishly and carried our girl home. Do they know she has a dad? Do they wonder where he is? What do they think of us...

Oh the pain.
Still so excruciating.

And yet our hours together are filled with smiles and laughter, all she really knows is joy. And that, fills me with happiness. But Lily loves other children and is often much more at ease in the arms of a new man than a woman she already knows.
Curious.
Wish Alan could hold her. She isn't one for stillness these days but in his arms, I know, she'd be perfectly at rest.

Ahh Jamaica... Feel Alright.

2010-04-28T11:36:00.007-04:00

I am desperately trying to hold on to my Jamaica-state-of-mind. And the return to NYC has been a challenge. Our week in Montego Bay was beautiful - Lily digs the island life. She spent every day exploring gardens, the beach, and the pool. Chasing birds, collecting rocks, backing up to steps to perch on, climbing up and down, up and down, up up and then down down every stair, digging in sand and taking dips in the pool and ocean. Drunk with limitless energy.

She loves the sound of blenders.

She has inherited my flare for what Alan referred to as my interpretive dance and moved with delight to the pianist every evening at the bar. Between songs and sips of water she handed off her purse to every man she could find and then, on cue, returned to the dance floor.

She collected flowers and mini unripe avocados and followed the gardener each morning.

She enjoyed rinsing the sand off her feet at the garden hose and now quite enjoys a gushing faucet.

She napped as though she had never slept before.

How she has grown in just one week. This morning I peeked out of the kitchen to check in on her and there she was, standing and smiling on the couch. She is very near climbing out of her crib and I'm not sure how to handle all of this. Confinement does not agree with Lily and last week was utter bliss for her.

I felt good to be in the warm sun and to take her swimming for the first time. See her warm up to the gentle lapping waves that spilled over her toes. There were so many families there and she made a point of meeting the other kids. It was hard seeing dads with them, I couldn't help but imagine Alan with Lily in his arms gliding across the surface of the pool or taking her on a walk down intriguing garden paths - they would have relished together in the environment. But it feels good to say that we did just fine on our own, though we saw him in the moon and the stars and heard him in the bird calls and the crickets' evening songs. My mother was with us - so together, the three of us played and explored, indulging in energetic days, and soporific balmy evenings. Lily was known to all the staff (as though they went back years together) and I was known as Lily's mom and her Jiji was known as Lily's grandmother. I didn't mind being nameless, she's my connector and conduit to my newly changed world - she is the best of travelling companions.

Earth Girl.

2010-04-13T11:06:00.012-04:00

Sometimes I really long for California. For Lily especially. If she had been born there, she would have been fourth generation on my side - and I want so much for her to experience living in such a beautiful and peaceful place, it is in her genes, her geographical DNA. Though her ancestors come from abroad she has good old-American stock and when I watch her in motion, she is indeed a pioneer. She is an intrepid explorer, and when she's on the march, she forges on, with little turning back. She chases birds, has noticed her shadow, enjoys dirt and sticks, ditches and sand. How I wish I could take her to play amid the redwoods, smell the damp earth, hear the quiet babble of creeks hidden by ferns and greenery, feel the soft moss, rub her cheeks on the furry bark of ancient trees. I'd like to take her cardboard sliding on the tall brown grass that blankets the rolling hills and let her feel the crisp air in places like Tahoe, dip her toes in it's cool water, let her lug a giant pinecone around.

It amazes me that our girl can fall asleep on warm evenings, windows open, even if a car alarm is going off or people are yelling in the street. But I'd much prefer her world to have more music and less noise - for her to fall asleep to fog-horns or barking seals. I remember watching Sesame Street when I was little and the stoop was so cool - I had never seen anything like the buildings in its neighborhood. Only the trash can I recognized. Now when I watch it with Lily perched in my lap, transfixed, hands resting softly on my legs, I see her world. The one in which she is now very much a part. Her landscape is very different than the one I knew as a child - how I'd love her to experience both worlds. Her dad was a Brooklyn boy, and I grew up in Northern Ca. suburb - and Lily is very much a city kid. But I know she'd also flourish in a more outdoorsy place, where she could thrive in another way.

This weekend we are off to Jamaica and I'm looking forward to letting Lily play with clean, pure sand, in fresh fresh air. Perhaps all I/we need is a brief respite from the Big Apple but I am excited for her to be somewhere lush and easygoing, where the vibes are gentler and pace, slower. She is already a Marley fan so I think we're well on our way.

In my dreams.

2010-03-30T21:49:00.012-04:00

Last night I dreamt about Alan. He briefly appeared and it was good to be with him. He seemed happy, carefree and it had been months since I'd seen him. He was healthy. His neurosurgeon was in it too but Alan didn't care, and his doctor's presence seemed incidental. Regardless, to see someone so dear to you who's passed on - is a gift. Nights continue to be dark, though just as my mind was spinning the other night, Lily giggled in her sleep. That moment, too, was a gift and it put my mind at rest. To hear her dreams aloud in such happy moments help to ease my mind. There was a moment a month or so ago where she awoke crying and when I checked on her she was standing in her crib, arms raised in front of her, hands wringing together a la Lady Macbeth as she wept. What could upset such a little spirit so early in her years? I hope it was fleeting, her life is too new.

I don't think that Alan, Lily and I were in my dream together. That would have been even better. I'll wait. But the past few mornings Lily has taken his picture in her hands when she wakes. Perhaps he's been in hers.

Sometimes it's just too much. Got a comment the other day from someone infamously yet unwittingly insensitive about the fact I still have my wedding ring on and it got to me. I'm in awe of people who can sprint through life without taking a moment to take a deep breath and actually pause for some self reflection. Listen to the words that come out of their mouths, consider the person on the receiving end of those exclamations, stop - really stop to consider how their thoughts might be felt by someone else. But the people who say those things, generally aren't capable of much introspection - possibly because the running they're busying themselves with 24/7 is an escape from their own demons. If they ever really had the strength to contemplate what I have been through, what I face daily, or tried to imagine what it might be like to go through it themselves it just might be too painful. I get it, and know the intention wasn't to hurt. I'm generally able to let it roll right over me but this time - it just got me to the core.

I think I'm doing pretty damn well as a women who lost her husband of ten months twenty-one months ago, and brought a child into the world eight months later. I will always feel married to Alan. Will I ever find room in my heart for someone else? Maybe. I did for Lily and while I loved her the second I knew a baby was growing within, I worried about my ability to love so fully again . She proved me wrong the second she started her acrobatic midnight performances when I was pregnant and jump-started my heart the second I laid eyes on her, held her in my arms, seconds after she was born. Might I love someone else again? Anything is possible, but I still long for Alan, he was my man, my other half, the father of our girl.

Everyday Blues.

2010-03-23T11:48:00.047-04:00

Sunday morning I slipped out to a restaurant, tax prep materials in hand while Lily went out with her grandmother. It was a cool but sunny spring day and I felt good. I could relax, enjoy a quiet breakfast, tally some ominous numbers and not feel as rushed as I usually do. And as I happily brought my perfectly toasted, perfectly melted, scrambled egg sandwich to my mouth a thought interrupted my momentary near-enjoyment;

"God damn. I am so sad."

There it was. Didn't even see it coming. No warning sign as with my migraines, or a rude postal worker, it just showed up. Reared it's ugly head and knocked the wind out of me. And Lily is the most beautiful antidote for pain but even she, the second wonder of my world, can't always soften the blow. My heart just constantly aches and I am still getting used to the fact that it's never going to go away. Nothing the sandwich could do about it either. I have marvelled recently at the fact that even though I have always loved food and relished in anything delicious, nothing tastes that good to me anymore. Truly. Ever since Alan floated away nothing satisfies other than holding Lily. Foods I once loved no longer do it for me. Of course I still go after them, in hopes that perhaps I'm merely having an off day (or else the chef is) but as a food lover, it's as though I've lost one of my senses. The deadening continues even though every day I really do choose life. It's just this constant gnawing. Sondheim sums it up aptly in "Everyday a Little Death" - it's written and sung in a different context but I hear it as the more you love the more you hurt and the more you have to love, the more you have to loose. How very true. How tricky life is. Well worth it, but painfully true.

Oh New York

2010-03-22T10:54:00.008-04:00

The weekend was a beautiful one. Spring has begun to show itself and it was liberating to come out of hibernation with a t-shirt on. Lily has hit the park over the last few days with only a sweatshirt - so she is even more agile when it comes to collecting bits of nature wherever she roams. Unfortunately yesterday, the second we got to the playground my daughter made a beeline for every single piece of trash in sight. First it was a shopping list, then a popsicle wrapper, then a juice box. Not sure Woodsy Owl would be pleased - of course Lily was drawn to their color and shine - but I found myself overjoyed to fish leaves and sticks and pebbles out of her mouth because at least they weren't trash. I love NYC but I don't love the carelessness with which people throw wrappers into the street, toss cans and bottles into bushes. I remember Alan berating me for berating a man in Times Square for littering - it took me a few years to understand that in New York City, people aren't all approachable and that confrontation can take a life if you're not careful. But when it comes to the playground it saddens me to see it - Lily saw a plastic bag flutter toward the play structure and while it did have its own beauty as it floated through the air I didn't want her chasing it. On the subway recently some teenage kid glared at me and told me to switch seats and yesterday I sat next to a foul mouthed girl on the train who was proud of her attitude and seeming toughness. All of the sudden I am now regarding the world through the watchful eyes of a parent and I'm even less in love with what I see and hear. Grit is fine, dirt is fine and I love that this city is overflowing with color and music and plenty of unusual and dimensional personalities. But my child is defenseless, and a sponge for all that she sees and hears. She is beautifully undescriminating and I have much to learn from her. But I often feel like a mine detector these days, constantly on the look out for danger ahead. It is a joy to see her fast asleep at night, arms sprawled over head, one knee bent and flopped to the side, the other leg carelessly hanging between the rungs of her crib. In her most quiet moments it is a relief to see her so free - wandering safely in the confines of her dreams.

More firsts.

2010-03-04T16:36:00.005-05:00

Everywhere I look, I see families. That was the hardest thing about Valentines Day. Not seeing couples on dates, Alan and I weren't big on the holiday, but seeing new parents out with their babes celebrating their new love as a family. That hurt. I was out and about, frantically doing errands while a sitter watched over Lily and I was almost oblivious to the day except for the families I saw in cafes and on corners. Many widows struggle with images of happy couples, walking the streets in bliss, but that never really gets to me. I'm genuinely pleased for their love and it reminds me that I, too, had it. It was short lived, but I was graced with it. But when I see parents together, oggling over their little ones - exchanging glances with one another, speaking that language that only parents share with one another, that is painful. My envy is immeasurable.

And that is how it goes. I am showered with photos of friends and their newborns, or families on momentous occasions and just like wedding photos, they consist of all family combinations and parent/baby portraits - I am fine until I see the father/child segment and then I fall apart. I recently had to see a slide show of images that covered close to forty years of a marriage and as the images progressed I had to avert my eyes. So many memories, trips, parties, moments - it was unbearable. Beautiful, but much too painful to watch.

How I wish I had just one photo of Alan adoring Lily.

This last weekend she turned one. She had a ball on her birthday, I think she knew it was a special day. In the morning she played the guitar and pet her new rocking horse, midday she celebrated with a hearty portion of mac and cheese with family and other mac and cheese loving kiddies, and she toddled all afternoon with energy she must have been reserving for the day. She was all smiles and busier than usual - had no time for cake, or naps. Sunday she went for her first haircut. Dramatic as it was she remains a stunner, inside and out, and even though she refuses hair-clips, I can now see her dreamy eyes once again. As I wheeled her home - locks of hair attached to a certificate - carefully tucked away, I longed for Alan. These are moments of a lifetime, and I feel such guilt that he's been deprived of them, and such sadness that we couldn't share the experience together. Lily's new "do" brings her even closer in resemblance to her father but as I observe her everchanging behavior and evolving personality she really is one of a kind. I know if he were here that we'd marvel at her animated antics - in jest we'd look suspiciously at each other if she did something "inherited", and we'd celebrate with humor and affection our truly unique sprite.

Just yesterday morning I caught a glimpse of her as she fairy flew (as her grandmother so aptly put it)the distance of her crib. It was 6:14am, and I've no idea what it was in her little mind that propelled her with such excitement as she reached the other rail - but she was awake and full of life, ready to cover more ground. I cannot believe we've already journeyed for a year together - quite a milestone for the two of us and her everloving dad.

Baby Steps.

2010-02-19T15:45:00.021-05:00

I read the other day on a widow's board about a woman's concern that a year and half "out" she was no longer a neat freak, had little care for her appearance, was eating junk food and all she could do was get food on the table for her kids. She was wondering if her current state was something to worry about. What followed were seven to ten posts by women all experiencing the same thing. Any of them could easily have been mine. Recently, along with the usual grief which does not fade, I've been consumed with similar thoughts. (Alan interjection: Neat freak? OK, fine. Not that part. And I'm not eating junk food. But I really just care about what goes into Lily's body.) And although it is not a new problem with me, I now struggle with the push and pull of that horrible feeling of apathy coupled with the desire to reclaim bits of my former life that I miss. Much of me, on an intellectual level, is beginning to yearn for elements of earlier, happier times - whether it's seeing live music, going to a show, visiting a museum or just socializing. But the second I contemplate those, until now, nascent feelings, I slip back into the darkness and am immediately overwhelmed by those thoughts. Much of me is afraid I can't handle it. I have been to restaurants, surrounded by the living, and wanted to weep. I hear music over a speaker and it is overpowering - the thought of live music is absolutely frightening. I'm not sure I can bear it. I'm not sure I can let something so evocative into my soul in a public setting. It is a force to reckon with. As much as I loath my current appearance, there is little motivation to change it. I am inspired in spurts but find myself quickly weighed down with melancholy. Being apathetic over almost everything is staggering for someone who once felt so charged with life.

It is much easier to look at the world through Lily's eyes than mine.

Through her I see all that is good. We look at birds and dogs and trash and dirt and to her, it is all an exploration, a wonder. She is all smiles and she begins every day with an open mind and excitement. She is fearless, or rather, she is unaware of consequence. She nose dives off of the bed or couch, she climbs up things and falls down regularly, often crashing into things first with impressive impact. And usually she's up before I can even check for injury. I love her carefree abandon, adventurous spirit and busy nature. She is a study in motion. She makes saying yes to life look easy, and her enthusiasm is infectious. Unbeknownst to her, she is luring me back into the world. It is odd to feel, as the parent, that I'm the one that needs training wheels - but that is where I am right now. Unsteady on my feet, afraid of more sadness and I still feel in my heart like an animal that is desperately looking for it's lost mate. I know much of Alan is alive and well in our soon to be one-year-old creation and at times I feel as though bits of my soul mate are waddling back and forth in front of me; bag of goldfish in one hand, keys in the other. Just last week when Lily awoke, the first thing she reached for from her crib was a picture of Alan that rests above it. She took the photo in her hands, then placed it in the crib, adjusted it a few times against the rungs and then decided she'd bring it with her while she had her morning drink. Moments like that reassure me that he remains very much a part of our lives. How little she knows how reassuring she is. My pint sized dose of life affirmation coaxing me into the present, drawing me into the future.

Mosey Girl.

2010-02-09T10:29:00.012-05:00

Now that Lily is upright she's a wanderer. She is content with a set of keys or any item found along the way, in one hand, while she moseys around our cramped apartment. She explores every nook, and her route changes depending on the mission. She has become an effective transporter and re designer of all things. Books come off of shelves, shoes are moved to the shelves, shapes go inside of stacking cups, table top items within reach are slowly removed and casually discarded en route to somewhere else, and frequently she heads to the corner behind the bedroom chair where Alan's guitar lives. There she plucks a few strings, walks away for a few seconds and returns to make some more music. And it is music she plays - she plucks very deliberately and listens. This is no ordinary strummer, Lily is channeling her dad yet again. Just when I was envisioning her future as an interior decorator, I imagine her on a stage, guitar in hand and this time she's singing and playing. So many possibilities in a life so new. My favorite daydreams are about Lily's future and the (hopefully) carefree years that lie ahead. My dreams now are all for her, a new reality that I assume comes with parenting.

It never ceases to amaze me when she displays some mannerism or trait that resembles either me or Alan. Her moves are organic and instinctively driven - she bops to music, grabs her shaker for accompaniment, music moves her physically as it does me. She pitter patters quickly when hoping to catch a glimpse of the two kids who live around the corner, she is hungry to socialize with other children - both Alan and I loved making friends but her "aggressive" pursuit of others is all her own. Just yesterday in a store after paying for Lily's new shoes, I turned to find her zeroing in on a two year old boy who she ended up throwing herself on. She was smiling as she stood before him, belly to belly and then she just lunged. Her excitement over slightly older kids is palpable and to see her chase after the ones who live down the hall is beautiful to watch and gut wrenching to witness. How I already wish I could offer her a sister or brother - someone for her to push in a wagon, someone for her to push out of the way, someone with whom she can laugh and play with all day long. A partner in crime, and more family to go around. I want to give her so much and if I can't bring her dad back how I wish I could give her someone else. More for me to love with all my heart. Not an attempt to fill a void, just another step toward the picture that Alan and I had painted in our minds. And they could have each other for the rest of their lives, long after I'm gone.

As we near Lily's first birthday it amazes me to think that this time last year I was waiting for her entrance into the world, my loneliness and grief immeasurable. She kept me alive then just as she does now. I love waking up to her every morning, no matter how early. And when she falls asleep in my arms as she did two nights ago, hands folded across her chest in the exact same position as Alan would sleep, I count my blessings that this beautiful creature who is so busy by day and so still at night has come into my life. There is another person home with me now, who walks the floors that her dad graced and delights in so many curiosities that Alan and I knew she would. It breaks my heart he isn't here to see it - but perhaps he has the best view in the house.

Here we go.

2010-01-25T13:29:00.003-05:00

Saturday, Lily and I went to her favorite restaurant for lunch. Thankfully she is now eating off the menu which makes our outings easier as I no longer have to pack a meal for her. She loves the diner. It is loud, bustling, has seats that attach to the table and if she's lucky, she'll be seated in a booth with a mirrored backdrop so she can show herself french fries in the reflection and leave her fingerprints behind. She eats with gusto, and is well practiced at loading up a mouthful as though food were going out of style. She devoured grilled cheese bits, fries, had some pancake and sausage - all while occasionally turning around to point to the men in the booth behind us. Lily now identifies everything as "dah" and typically she is quick to find all children in the restaurant. She then fixates on them, offering an occasional shriek or squeal to get their attention - and is thoroughly entertained as she eyes them while dabbling with containers of creamer and metal spoons. But Saturday it was all about the two men facing her when she turned around. And for a moment my heart sank. As she pointed to them she said "dah" and with that my mind began spinning. Immediately I wondered of she thought one of them was her dad. They really bore no resemblance to Alan but she sees pictures of him all the time and on a superficial level, they did share characteristics. They had scruffy faces and dark hair. Possibly enough for an eleven month old to believe. It was my first taste of "is she looking for him?" and I must brace myself for more similar experiences to come. I dread the ache she will feel when she sees other kids walking to school, swinging from the hands of parents on either side. I dread the absence she'll feel when being picked up at the end of the day. Many children face similar situations with just one parent but I am envious that some of them know that they'll see their father at dinner or perhaps he'll tuck them in that night. And if not that night, sometime soon they'll see them.

Some have told me that what children never know, they don't miss. That idea is both a comfort and nightmare. I want Lily to know who her dad is, was, I want her to know his many wonderful qualities. I want her to be able to imagine the softness of his voice, the strength of his arms, the warmth in his heart. I want her to feel as though his arms are always around her, and that whispers in the wind are his words of encouragement, that he's always there right by her side - In her steps as she walks with me to school, and in my excitement as I lift her into my embrace when I pick her up at day's end. I don't want her searching for him, I want her to know that she's found him within her. My greatest wish is that she feel complete - loved by us both, always.

More to fear, much to learn.

2010-01-24T21:20:00.015-05:00

There is a horrifying article on the front page of the NY Time's today: "A Lifesaving Tool Turned Deadly". I had been warned not to read it but, of course, I felt compelled to do so. Despite the fact that the fight we were engaged in is over, I still feel compelled to follow medical updates that pertain to Alan's life, and my life. The fantasy is that it has nothing to do with the treatment that Alan endured, the horror rests in the fear that it does. And then more troubling, I will probably never know. The story tragically illuminates multiple, undisclosed until now, cases in which cancer patients were given fatally errant doses of radiation treatment. Computer glitches accompanied by incompetent staff have robbed many people of their lives - in essence, technology failed and then human negligence sealed the deal. What is most frightening is that never ever in our consideration of Alan's treatment did we concern ourselves with such a threat. We were aware of the risks of radiation and knew it came with its own problems but the illness outweighed the long term risks associated with the treatment. We consulted with doctors in San Francisco, Boston and New York city. We insisted on the "best" institutions and sought out the most highly recommended experts to handle Alan's case. But never did it cross our mind to inquire about software failure, computer crashes or inattentive staff.

When you're immersed in the world of cancer you are well aware of the physics that go into plotting your treatments. Numerous 360 degree scans are taken to zero in on the disease, tattoos are used as permanent markers by lab technicians as targets, a week can be spent plotting and programming radiation doses and beams, molds are taken to further ensure the patient is held completely still during sessions, sedatives are often used to keep patients relaxed and still for what are often excruciatingly long and claustrophobic appointments. I was always in awe of Alan's strength, inner calm and courage - he was subjected over the years to months of treatments. Some sessions lasted ten minutes, some an hour. It required infinite patience and he was heroic. I remember appointments when I'd be in the waiting room and after twenty minutes sometimes a tech would come out and kindly give me or other people updates on their loved ones. Sometimes it was "he's doing fine but we're having trouble lining him up with the machine", sometimes it was "she's having a rough time and we're having difficulty maintaining enough stillness to finish plotting - we'd like to let her go home for the day and try again tomorrow". Sometimes it was "we're getting him an atavan because it's taking us longer than usual". I remember one of the last sessions Alan had, our favorite nurse practitioner, Joan, came out and said "He's having a rough time in there today, he's doing OK now, but do you want to go back there for a bit?" I jumped at the opportunity. To hear that Alan was struggling was unusual but he had been through so many unimaginable trials over the months preceding that it was finally catching up with him emotionally. To hear that he was having a hard time was heart breaking and I was led back to where the techs were. I must say, after reading the article I was fearful of error in Alan's case, but what I saw that day was reassuring. Two techs had their eyes glued to computer monitors and occasionally one would focus on Alan on the camera screen overhead. When patients are undergoing treatment techs talk to them over speakers so they're never meant to feel alone or unattended. I was able to talk to Alan but I don't think I actually did that day. I asked that they tell him I was there just so he knew. I didn't want to make the situation more loaded, I just wanted him to know I was there, watching him and waiting for him.

But with all of the skepticism we have for our doctors and hospitals I don't think many imagine that "state of the art technology" can go awry. And we assume that if good doctors are overseeing the treatment, that there is little room for error. I continue to believe that that was the case for Alan. Yet Alan did not die from cancer. He died from complications from treatment. Generally unexplained complications from treatment. Doctors suspected the complications were inevitable side effects from prolonged treatment and as the disease spread his situation became more and more dire - but I hope, I pray that his overall treatment didn't hasten his passing. The stories mentioned in today's article were horrendous examples and showcased patients that had been blatantly mistreated - I do not think Alan was a victim of similar circumstance. He was a victim of an incurable disease and dangerous treatment that never promised anything. If Alan were here today reading that article he still wouldn't be angry at the injustice of it all. It wasn't in his nature. He'd perhaps want to discuss it with his doctors but then he'd leave it at that. I on the other hand would be ready to call our doctors to reaffirm he was and had been in good hands, I'd have written letters and contacted the president of the hospital just to double check. "Soapbox Susie" is what Alan called me when I ranted about similarly infuriating exposees. Tonight he'd surely call me that. But after reading this article, one can't help but wonder about any radiation treatment that anyone has ever received and it certainly is worth asking about if ever faced again.

Deep breath. Sigh. Must go check on Lily, just to be sure of her.

Someone else's shoes.

2010-01-21T14:28:00.001-05:00

An acquaintance of mine, with two children, just lost her husband to a long illness. When we first met there was so much that I recognized in her eyes - the concern, the exhaustion, the strength and the sadness. I remember seeing her one day, and she had told me her husband was in the hospital, again, and with resignation she shook her head and said "It's always something." I knew that sentiment all too well - feeling as though we were caught in the constant swell of a wave - nudged toward the shore but just as we could feel the sand beneath our feet we were dragged back out again, barely catching our breaths, treading water. Tragically, they too lost the battle. Though I have suffered similar circumstance, I am at a loss for words - and the frustration of not having anything of comfort to say saddens me to no end. But I know there is no way that I can console her. Her loss is profound and there is no "up" side.

What I want to say has much more to do with survival. I've suggested she just focus on getting herself to the next hour. To the next evening, then the next morning and so on and so on. I want to warn her that the world will look even more harsh, even more cruel. It will be even more painful to be in public, seeing the world go through its motions unaware of her loss. Sounds become a drone, people will seem out of touch and blatantly insensitive. Days will pass like dreams, waking moments will be nightmares. Most likely she will resent having to work, because nothing seems important when a life has slipped through your fingers, escaped hold of your heart. Almost everything will seem meaningless.

I am happy for her that she has two children for whom she must live. For no other reason she must hold on. And I would tell her to let those two blessings be her guiding light. I would warn her to leave herself alone. To let herself weep when she needs to weep whether it's at the bank or in bed. To let herself indulge in whatever soothes the aches - be it lying in bed, avoiding people or ignoring the mail. I would tell her to cling to her children, love them even more fiercely, eat, try to sleep and do it all over the next day. I would say don't make lists unless it helps you, don't say "I should...", just let yourself be. Let your body be. Let your heart be. Let your mind drift. I would suggest she allow her engine to slow down. When you take care of someone with a severe illness you are in constant motion, you do and you do and you do. And it feels as though that's barely enough so you push and you push and you push. And when you lose that person your mind and body will need months to unwind, and you will unravel in a way that leaves you feeling unsure, unsteady and doubtful of your abilities. I would tell her she's beginning a new uphill battle.

I would also say that although the journey is torturous, it is worth it.

I hated telling myself "you are fortunate to be alive" - because in the early days you are numb to that blessing. In my case, I loved Alan almost more than myself. When someone so dear to you is gone, life seems unimaginable without them. Though I knew I owed it to Alan to embrace what I was so lucky (and I think it is sheer luck) to have, for some time it seemed like a sentence, not a gift. Deep down I am sure that this woman knows life is a gift but for now it probably just feels cruel. I continue to have moments every day where I grapple with the unfairness of it all.

Being sixteen months "out" at times doesn't feel any better than one month out. In fact at times it is worse. I am still plagued with flashbacks and I am tormented by the "what ifs". I replay moments over and over in my mind and they continue to choke me mid breath and fill my eyes with tears. But I recognize that I have a purpose so I try not to linger too long on thoughts as they drift in the dark, and I try to focus on what I have, what Alan gave me, what Lily gives me. I recognize that I am needed and that I am so very fortunate. That is what I'd urge this woman to focus on - she is the center of her children's universe, and they, hers. So if she can just grab hold of that love, no matter how painful, perhaps in a year she'll be closer to where I am now. I know my life is richer having known Alan and I hope, at some point, that this woman allows herself to dwell on the beautiful memories she has of her husband - she will need those to pull her through the days. And when she shares them with her children, they will be lifted up as well and together, they won't move on, but they will move forward, slowly, but surely.

The Great Communicator

2010-01-12T14:22:00.011-05:00

It appears, within the last two weeks, that my daughter has acquired opinions. Her manners, in fact, have become outspoken, she pushes bottles away when she is done with them in quite a dramatic fashion - sometimes throwing them down or violently windshield-wiping it away frenetically with her hands. She has developed strong dislike for bananas (unless pureed) and avocado, a long time favorite is now officially "out". When she is offered either one, she whips her head into profile to express her distaste, the mere idea that they were even considered part of her diet a shocker to her, and ignores them until they are removed. If they are not removed, Lily is adept at doing so herself - she is a professional dropper and enjoys looking me dead in the eye as her hands do the silent work as though they are detached from her body. She has begun pointing to things which I am expected to get in a timely fashion and she now loves to hide items behind pillows, or in her lap and then make them appear again for me. We can do the hiding game over and over again - and she gets a thrill out of showing me her magic. Since the hiding game has begun I have found all sorts of things in hard to reach places, hours and days later. Only last week I found a rice cracker and orange stacking circle behind the couch, and a plastic cap in bed. I am reminded of a visit to my brother's when his son was a similar age and I noticed a jar of mustard in the toilet. We must be entering the "mustard age".

It is a whole new world now that she is connecting the dots, it is as though we are conversing. She is at no loss for words, and though they may need translation she loves to talk. Most items are now called "dah" but what's interesting is that with every "dah" there is meaning behind it. I can see it in her eyes, the wheels are turning, my curious girl is absorbing everything and any day now I expect I'll hear a word. Though Lily has her pensive moments she is proving to be more garrulous than her dad, I used to jokingly refer to him as "the silent partner" as Alan's words were economically used. He had his chatty moments but he was much more the silent observer. My favorite phone messages were from Alan perched in airport bars, they were always animated and even more humorously, long-winded. Perhaps Lily is channeling those moments. Or maybe she's a talker, just like her mama.

Passing on.

2009-12-21T11:59:00.039-05:00

What finally came to light as I procrastinated about the baby-proofing "project", paralyzed with the angst associated with organizing and clearing out our home - was that I needed to make space. And what festered underneath that simple concept were two, more emotionally loaded, thoughts: I needed to put more stuff in storage and more importantly, that some items needed a new home. The discomfort that had been overshadowing it all started to make sense. It was time for some of Alan's clothes to be passed on to others. Things which I had grown used to seeing in our closet, that comforted me whenever I opened the doors but which also nagged at me in the back of my mind for some time.

So finally the moment came.
I found the courage to donate Alan's suits.

His beautiful, tailored suits that I loved seeing him wear.
The horrendous truth rearing it's head yet again - he doesn't need them anymore. Some of his favorite clothes have been passed over to family members and it gives me joy and satisfaction to see their bodies warm with his touch, and donning his inimitable style. That's ok too, it feels good to have him close by. I will forever hold onto many of his sweaters and tees,it feels good to wear them. I held on to the ties, couldn't get "there" yet, but I knew he'd be annoyed to hear that I had even kept his suits for this long. He would have wanted me to donate them, to have someone else use them, to benefit from them, and so that is what I did.
Pieces of Alan, moving on.
Not an easy task. But it was the right thing to do. Having his suits won't bring him back and I hope, I dream, that he can see some of the doll size frocks and pants and sweaters and coats that dangle from tiny hangers, lovingly, in their place. If Alan could speak he'd comment humorously with his unmistakable, dry wit "Oh... Hmm.. Look at Sus, movin' on in with your clothes - the 'merry widower'" he'd tease me. And I'd say "Noooooo Alannnnn.... It's the baby's clothes... But if you think I should get some for myself....". He still makes me laugh. And cry. I have heard the second year can be harder than the first and all I can say is it remains fresh and tragic and scarring. But his spirit continues to move me with laughing tears and for that I am forever grateful.

Lily currently averages a few shirts each day, as she is regularly drenched with drool, and many of the clothes "on-deck" are hand-me-downs. It is heartwarming to see her wearing items that once clothed other babes we love - they are not only practical but carry with them their own history. I think, I hope, that as others enjoy Alan's clothes they'll sense that another special soul once wore them too.

Walking Flower

2009-12-18T11:31:00.011-05:00

It seems that Lily is grown up at only nine and a half months. She is weaning herself, she is walking, she dislikes having her face washed and she has little time for stillness. This morning I awoke to her happy chatter, the past few weeks sponsored predominantly by the letter D and once she's up she's ready to go. I, on the other hand, woke up feeling lousy - tired and nauseous and our quiet in bed nursing snuggle gave way to, what she considers, playful bites and frustration that I'm not more pliable. And that is how our conversation goes. "No biting Lily, that hurts Mama", "Ouch Lily! No. No biting." And then we get a bottle. And later, "Where's Mama?! Here's Mama", "See Mama wash wash wash?" "Brush brush brush?" "See Mama's here! See Mama in the shower?" "Mama's putting socks on" "Socks go on feet" "Give to Mama, Lily" and on and on. Mama talk. Lots of it.

And now, Lily is walking. Quite early I might add. I am proud of her development but we/I could have waited.. a bit. She still prefers crawling but she moves with lightening speed and yesterday morning I went into the kitchen and after two minutes noticed "the quiet". I ran in to check on her and my nomadic roamer had pushed open what I thought was a closed bedroom door and was sitting in the bathroom hanging out with a sock. Thank god the cleaning products were recently relocated. Do racing hearts burn calories? Might be an advantage of sorts... But in the past month Lily went from crawling to walking with only a few breaths in between. Her steps are staccato, Frankenstein steps - a bit stiff and they come in clusters of three or four (or more whenever I am not present to witness) and she is quite pleased with herself. She is easily amused and often merely a good dose of standing will do - rocking forward and back on her toes a few times provides plenty of entertainment. When she crawls she enjoys taking a break to clap and look behind to contemplate the distance she's covered,and this morning I had to hide her alligator walker as it was just too early to rouse the neighbors with it's thunderous clap, caused by jaws that open and close to the rhythm of Lily's quickstep. My headache didn't need it either. Feeling sick on top of all of this is a test. Thankfully I had my mother-in-law for the early shift so I chose lying in bed over a shower and headed for work wearily, closing the door on a screaming, tired-sweet-baby-face and wondering if my strength would ever return. Gradually it does, mere thoughts of Lily help to curb the way I feel and if I can ever catch up on some sleep perhaps I'll nip this bug before it fully blooms. But when I feel like this my mind spins, how will I take care of her?, what if she catches it - we don't even have separate bedrooms and share very close quarters and I'm not ready to part from her for even a night other than sleeping on the couch in the other room. It's a desperate feeling because someone more important needs to be taken care of. I can and will do it, but emotionally and physically it can take it's toll. But Lily is resilient, I can even go so far as to say that she's tough. She has her delicate, sweet, soft moments but she is a girl on the go - all smiles, new teeth poking through, drool floodgates open as she glides across the floors and climbs among the furniture. Wipe outs are fairly frequent but she remains relatively unscathed.

Alan loved what I thought to be one of my sadder childhood memories - the day we made Native American drums in pre-k and all of the girls had already appropriated the "feminine" Indian names on the walls for their decor before I had gotten to pick one out for myself. They got the good ones: "Little Fawn", "White Deer" "Soft Cloud" - I don't know what - but I ended up with "Red Feather". My mom loved it, Alan did too - but I was disappointed. Still played my drum but never forgot the prettier names I could have had. Luckily, or unluckily, more serious issues dominate my trying moments. And I had a laugh yesterday as Lily stepped forward into my arms - her own drum name came to mind. "Walking Flower". I think Lily (and her dad) would be just fine with that, assertive yet delicate, just as she is.

How it goes.

2009-12-14T20:50:00.007-05:00

To say that parenting is hard is an understatement of epic proportions. Being a single parent puts it over the top. The last few weeks I have been struggling to juggle my return to work with being a mother and my time, our time, is now beyond limited. I rush everywhere. Race to work, race home from work. Weekends are more of the same -and all that I can no longer do during the week now fills the list of things that ideally would be accomplished during what once were "days of rest". But the weekend rolls around and the work week continues - 6:15 wake up, 7am Lily breakfast, dress, play, 9am Lily nap #1. I crash on couch for as many winks possible while Lily sleeps. 10:15/10:30, Lily's up, snack, play, lunch at noon, play, nap #2 at 1pm. Again I try to nap or scramble to do things in the apartment while she recharges. 2:30/3pm Lily's up, play, play, fresh air until dark, 4pm snack, play until 5:30, prepare dinner, 5:45/6pm dinner. 6:45 bath, 7pm read, boob, bed by 7:30.
And then "my time" begins.
Or doesn't.
I'm exhausted, and despite the fact that Lily brings me immeasurable happiness and love, I am lonely, depressed and dead tired. I have limited energy for phone calls, bills, it's a miracle if I cook myself something. I know my story mirrors that of other single parents but knowing that has no effect on me. Because all I really want is Alan back. I want him here to see how Lily crawls with such enthusiasm that when she kicks up her back legs they sometimes throw her balance and she tumbles over her arms. I want him to hear her early morning excitement in the dark as she sidesteps along the crib rail to get as close as she can to the bed to wake me. I want him to witness how she shoves broccoli into her mouth catching it as it goes down her wrist with a similar style as the way he ate popcorn. I want him to see how she now gets her own instruments from the bin in music class and holds onto them with vigor should anyone attempt a grab. I want him to see how she stands front and center of class and rolls onto her tiptoes as she listens to the guitar. I want him to hear the clappity clap of her walker as she pushes it more and more quickly down the halls. How I wish her first steps had been into his arms.
I'd love him here to help raise her.
I do have help, and am grateful for it. I do use it so that I can attempt to accomplish the things that must get done. And thankfully they are people who love her with all their heart and she loves her time with them. But when I leave Lily, the guilt and longing remain. And I know it'd be easier if I was doing errands knowing that her other parent was with her. Alan and I were extensions of each other and how I wish that if I cannot be with Lily, that she could be passing the hours of food and naps and play with her dad. It makes my separation from her much more difficult.
And what makes it all most daunting is that the love I feel for her is almost unbearable. Now I understand why my mother always offers me her food if my dish isn't good, why she'd give me her last bite and say she isn't hungry, little sacrifices that run much deeper. Because now nothing else matters more than my daughter. It is an awesome, and frighteningly overwhelming, feeling and how I wish I had Alan with whom to share the love and fear.
Lily in all her zeal seems to miss nothing and for now, that's all that matters.

Save the baby.

2009-11-18T22:11:00.012-05:00

I remember years ago a friend humorously being quoted as having said that her day, everyday, consists of making sure that "her boys don't die". I thought it so funny, I understood and respected the concept but only on a superficial level. Now I fully g r a s p the gravity, the deep dark truth of those words. Three days ago, I awoke and was amusingly surprised to see Lily happily sitting up in her crib, refreshed and bright-eyed after a good night's sleep, air conditioner remote control in hand. This morning I awoke to her happy babble and smiling face grinning at me in the dark, standing up excitedly, hands on the railing, eyes gleefully peering over. Jump, jump, jumping in place.
My daughter is mobile.
Months ago she was a skilled roller and even then I recognized that boundaries were in order; today, pillows against the console no longer do the trick. The days of her perched in full view on the bed - barricaded by pillows, entertained by animals and a shape sorter - are over. She established a game where she'd gradually climb the barrier every time I turned my back and giggled delightedly when I turned around and caught her in the act. It was our own version of Red Light Green Light. I know that when she's playing on the floor, while I prepare something in the kitchen, that three minutes of silence mean she's ventured into questionable territory. She can pull herself up, walk along side furniture, inch worm her way to toys and extension cords and enjoy a meal of postcard or board book. Often times Lily won't fold, she's on the go and is thoroughly enjoying her new found dexterity. She spent much of her afternoon nap today standing in her crib. I tried to minimize that fact by reminding myself that cows and horses sleep standing up. But the most daunting thing about all of this evolution before my very eyes is that it is time to empty the apartment. Move out the furniture, eliminate picture frames on shelves, barricade books, strap TVs to walls, pad the floors, latch the cabinets, lock the toilet, safeguard the oven, encapsulate power strips, fence the windows and on and on and on. The mission is well worth it but the endeavor is overwhelming. We have limited space as it is with a storage unit almost at capacity - what I would do for a walk in closet. One of my parenting books says that a cluttered apartment is good for a baby. It colors their world and is fodder for a curious mind - much more so than a minimalist environment.
I love that book.
But I love Lily more, and need to find that safe-happy-medium where she gets an eyeful without danger lurking. Apparently Alan said that the amount of money spent on storage could easily buy back any items you give away instead of storing. I love that man. But then how did he and I end up with an overflowing attic on 26th street? Perhaps it's time for it all to go to the curb. But that's no easy task for me, I am a sentimentalist and we both were nostalgic. So storage remains... But it's down to the details now. If he ever saw me wrapping presents on the floor he'd say "you can't leave the scissors there Sus when there's a baby" and when I'd forget something in the apartment as we were on our way out he'd dryly say "don't forget the baby Suuuus.." . Lily is impossible to forget. She is making her mark by the minute and she is precious. The innocence of babes is breathtaking and terrifying, they rely on you for everything and are far from grasping caution. That is what makes them so beautiful to watch, they embrace life without a care beyond the need of arms wrapped around them or carefully shadowing them as they explore the world. It is a unique phase, they are truly carefree. So while I worry and follow her every move, envisioning every disaster and tragedy imaginable, it is nice to know that in her eyes, everything around her represents nothing more than adventure and discovery,

Strength in numbers.

2009-11-07T21:33:00.006-05:00

This morning Lily and I had brunch with my support group friends from Gilda's Club. There were two other babes there and I hope Lily will know them for years, as they will understand what it feels like to know a parent through love that is present in a different way. I don't want her to ever feel alone, or self conscious of growing up under unusual circumstance - undoubtedly she will at times but if she has a bond with other kids such as these, as I do with my support group, she'll know that she is understood, that there is a place for her among others who are similarly so very special. It is oddly amusing to imagine how we all look, gathered around a long table in a diner - to the passersby, the other diners, we look like a happy, colorful group of people - perhaps connected through work - at one dinner we had, the waiter asked what the occasion was. When one in our group laughingly said something to the effect of "the death of our spouses" luckily he was able to roll with it. But it is surreal to step back from the table and to take it all in. We joke, we laugh, we cry, we confide. It is the only group with whom I can truly feel comfortable socializing - and little do the people around us know, that we are all connected by the deepest sadness - immeasurable loss, longing, despair, and the daily struggles of trying to live as productive, hopeful people again. I can joke freely with them, our sense of humor is dark - and it feels OK to laugh with them. Because I know they know how I feel underneath the surface, I know they understand the ache, I know their minds are haunted with similar memories, I know their daily hurdles mirror mine. We have dreams, we don't have dreams, we get the continuous comments. Recently someone told me, again, I needed to "move on". Ugh. A friend trivialized a routine I share with my daughter as though it were as base as taking the trash out. Recently someone complimented one of my group friends on her idea to wear her and her husband's wedding rings around her neck on a chain. The woman commented, "I can never get my husband to wear his ring - that's such a great idea". You have to laugh. It's too awful to contemplate if you don't. This world is full of people who cannot think further than "what's for dinner tonight" so introspection or heightened sensitivity of any sort is hard to come by. But we all ride the waves, and see the world with a different pair of glasses these days.

It is interesting to watch Lily develop as she doesn't need the glasses. Her thoughts are pure, she is open and loving to all that is around her. She takes it all in with no judgement, just delighted curiosity. Yesterday she gave me a round wooden circle. And later she gave me her spoon. She is beginning to grasp the idea of sharing. She has found another way to communicate. Lily is rarely still, the changing pad might as well be a hot plate, I am now struggling to change diapers as she attempts to crawl across the dresser. She was thrilled to be in a highchair next to another baby this morning, they held hands, Lily grabbed at her as they spoke with squeals. Gentle isn't part of her vocabulary yet, but it is refreshing and beautiful to see unfettered emotion, rooted only in the feeling that something, or someone, makes you happy.

My Lighthouse.

2009-10-27T22:23:00.013-04:00

Lily is eight months today. She changes hourly so my arrival home from work cannot come soon enough. Thankfully she called me yesterday afternoon, to pull me through the rest of the day. She panted, screeched and giggled - I could just see her happy drool, squinted eyes and crinkled nose. I could picture her attempt to chew on the phone. She is amusingly animated and though she has no vocabulary, yet, she is an exuberant, loud, communicator. As difficult as it has been to miss her during the days, she is the most wonderful little person, truly my guiding light - and it is she that makes time away that much more rewarding when I'm home. Nearly crawling, she takes pleasure in banging objects together, enjoys dropping things from elevated levels, is charmingly vain in front of a mirror and possesses an overall happy spirit. She was sick for the first time last week with a fever that has since grown into a cold and despite her congestion she is energetic and excited by all that surrounds her. I suspect that she caught her bug from Barnes & Noble - a wonderful indoor playground but a petri dish as well. We went there on a rainy weekend and stalked other children. Lily does love a good board book but she is drawn to other kids and cannot contain herself at the sight of another child. She is an extrovert around children under seven, curious, chatty and engaging. So instead of reading "Go Dog Go" she chose to hit on a Cheerio eating boy named Max near the SAT prep books. She also shook hands with two young boys and had a staring contest with a girl who said she was two, three, four years old. It was a grand social hour, and I guess we brought some of it home with us. Hopefully her congestion will dissipate, enough so that she need not come up gasping for air after every four gulps while nursing. Poor thing needs a snorkle. Maybe tomorrow will be a dryer day. Regardless, her disposition remains sunny.

Alan said to me at our wedding that I carried him, through the days, and as I struggle to adjust to this step back into the working world it is Lily that carries me. Holding her in my arms has almost curative powers. When she gently contemplates the rings that dangle from a necklace that Alan gave to me, I sense that she is aware of him - there is a peacefulness that comes over her as she examines them and with that, what feels like his awareness of us, washes over me.

Search for a cure.

2009-10-25T20:44:00.020-04:00

I actually read the front page of the paper today, drawn to it because of an article on MD Anderson - a mecca of sorts for cancer patients. Part of me was excited to read it, to learn of it's hopeful research and treatment, and part of me was fearful I'd learn of something experimental for hemangiopericytoma's that we had missed out on. In our research we heard mention of MD Anderson when we pressed for places that might have something experimental that was promising and while we wanted no one else to be plagued with the same disease, when it comes to a rare cancer, misery loves company - only for the simple reason that with disease, numbers mean funding and research. We knew MD Anderson had multiple cases of hemangiopericytoma (He - man - geo - peri - cy - toma) and that alone made it an alluring destination for a fresh set of eyes and ideas. But it wasn't an option. We had phoned them, I had a list of all of the reports and scans needed, but you cannot go unless you're a certain number of months between treatments and you cannot go while on any sort of regimen. The most excruciating aspect of the actual fight against cancer is the obvious: Time. And when you're fighting for your life, the thought of refusing treatment in order to attempt something else further down the line is a gamble with death. Pure and simple. I had spoken to the NIH, had information on trials, we went to Dana Farber in Boston for an opinion and MD Anderson was on my wish-list. Forget about the question of what you'll do about work, where you'll live or how you'll go back and forth to Houston, the concept of what might be there was worth it. The article was inspiring because it's entirely devoted to all things cancer, and they are at the forefront of critical research. It was also devastating because it acknowledges that there is yet no cure and positive results often mean extending one's life by months.

I was desperate to find a cure for Alan's illness. I would have gone to the ends of the earth to stop it's progression. And that is another struggle - you become obsessed with research and the quest for an answer and it occupies every sleeping and waking moment. Just the other day I used a purse I hadn't used in over a year and on a piece of scrap paper inside, was the name of a drug. Obviously I had read about it somewhere and written it down - the kind of note taking that becomes second nature when you're searching for any port in storm. When I came across it for a moment I worried I had neglected to look it up, to find out about it's potential for Alan - but I let it go, trusting that had it been an option, it would have been explored. Whether Alan would have benefited in Texas or not, I'll never know. Thankfully, what I do know, is that doctors talk. They exchange notes, share findings, and gather at conferences - Alan had excellent doctors thinking out of the box so I have to rest assured that no stone went unturned. We ended up at MSK because we were told that there was technology there that he needed that Columbia Presbyterian did not yet have. It took a selfless doctor to admit that, but thankfully, he did. Sadly bureaucracy and funding can limit even the finest hospitals.

I remember Alan cracking a joke during a visit to the radiation oncologist, having to do with Ted Kennedy being able to sail and live largely while top doctors scrambled to provide him with ground-breaking therapies. As it happened, they both ended up on the same chemo, and the Senator's prognosis (though a different tumor) wasn't any gentler. But it is exhausting navigating an uneven and poorly run health care system, insulting to consider that money or lack thereof could influence the length of one's life, and bottom-line, unfair. Health care is discriminating and Alan had strong opinions about it. He was furious at one point when we decided to move him to a private room because the nursing care was so poor on his floor - he felt it was unfair that he had that option. And yet he also felt it was fair for doctors and hospitals to charge what they did - the system had to pay for itself. But even with excellent insurance, Alan was cheated many times. He was repeatedly denied scans when he desperately needed them, hospital stays had to be fought for and when he did get scans the angst that went into getting them approved added insult to injury. Most of the time I was the one showing desperation, not Alan. He was the one with the sentence but it was I who openly and frantically sought the answers. He showed up to every treatment, surgery, scan and follow-up, he went to work and came home and loved and lived and did it all over the next day. That's the most admirable fight I can think of. So when I read of the patient who has shown up for sixteen, week-long stays within a nine month period, on the front page, my heart is glad she's getting some recognition from others beside her family and friends. And I hope she has years ahead of her.

Moving Forward.

2009-10-17T13:28:00.013-04:00

I am going back to work. For the first time in over a year, I'll be rejoining the masses heading to a daily destination, and leaving Lily at home in the hands of a doting grandmother and a nanny who loves her. Despite the watchful eyes on Lily I miss her already and have my own set of anxieties surrounding my return to the position I held for many years until Alan passed away. It will be the same room, same desk, and I will be facing the same photo from our wedding of Alan and me together with my employers, arm in arm, on the happiest day of my life. I know from the occasional part-time days I worked during my pregnancy that the phone will ring and I'll jump inside, thinking for a split second that it's Alan on the other end. My Alan. That was the routine - my employers are also Susan and Alan - so when my Alan called and I couldn't get to the phone in time, my employer would. And I can just hear her calling me from the other room, "It's Alan! Your Alan...". I can hear his deep, rich, soft voice in my mind, "Hi Sus" he'd say, and then he'd maybe suggest getting theater tickets for a show we'd read about, or fill me in on his office's politics or have an idea about where we could meet for drinks or dinner after work. Or perhaps he was planning on cooking that night or he'd fill me in on a doctors appointment. Sometimes it was just to check in. How I miss his reassuring voice and his level headed perspective, his calm balance to my dramatic inclinations. His warmth always brought a smile to my face and my employer never missed telling me that he had called if I had been out. She knew how important he was to me, and there were also many hours spent, waiting to hear back from him if he'd gone to treatment without me. I was, and still am, a worrier, so if too much time lapsed between appointments or calls my heart would race until I heard from him. And there were plenty of calls when I could hear in his voice that something wasn't right - a headache too strong, a dizziness, or a sharp pain - and though he'd play it down, I'd rush home, knowing that in a few hours most likely we'd be in the ER. It wasn't a regular occurrence, but each and every visit was one too many.

I'm getting better at catching myself in those brief moments - whether it's a phone ringing or a silhouette in a window. But the fantasy still remains. Just yesterday I had a daydream where I envisioned telling my Super that Alan was back. Explaining to him that there had been some mistake and that Alan was still here, and he had returned, and he too agreed that there was something wrong with the radiator. It was a fleeting thought, but a wish that resonates. The heat is now back on, with the usual photos of Alan and us arranged lovingly on top.

A woman I spoke to one early morning at the swings said she thought it was harder for the mom who's been with her child for seven or eight months to return to work, than for the mom who's time is up at the typical three months - the thought being that at the seven month mark you've been watching your baby develop and discover and grow in tangible ways. They're well beyond the baby "lump stage" and are evolving before your eyes - so the child you must now leave seems more human, and the connection deeper. And I understand that thought - because every day Lily is closer to crawling, her balance is less off kilter, her mannerisms more calculating. She is waving, feeding herself little Os, chugging from a sippy cup, and connecting mental dots. She knows that cups hold water, Spot isn't in the closet or under the bed - he's in the basket, that people come through the door, that music is fun to move to. She talks to her animals and knows that when she makes noise, she is heard. I find that when I'm not with her and I hear a baby cry, for a second it sounds like Lily. Once again someone is on my mind 24/7, and I'll have to go for hours without seeing her. Most moms do it, and I'm sure - I know - it's no easier for them. Makes me long for Italian hours - long lunches at home and siesta. How nice that would be. But I know I'll handle it, Lily makes everything worthwhile - and when I sit down at my desk next week I'll place her photo right next to the others and look forward to our twilight hour together, before she goes down to bed.

Fall.

2009-09-30T20:37:00.016-04:00

The new year has come and gone and I did nothing for it besides consume an entire cinnamon babka (over the course of a few days). I am not a religious person, nor was Alan - I think we both considered ourselves spiritual but not observant. Respectful of history and culture but that was the extent of our feelings. In fact I remember Alan saying one year that he had nothing to be forgiven for - and he didn't. He was the consummate good person. Flawless, no, but a genuinely fine human being - so as he gracefully handled the constant challenges to his body and spirit, I understood his attitude. As a friend said to me at one point, "it's someone else's turn". And it was. Disease does not discriminate, and when you face such unrelenting onslaught - faith feels pointless and it's promise, dishonest. Alan would say at times that he felt like he was walking into the wind and this month, for me, felt like that as well. A month that at one time celebrated the moment when we first met, and later our wedding, now marks anniversaries we cannot commemorate - so I am happy when certain dates come and go. Every day I reflect on what we had, and thank Alan for Lily, our most beautiful memento. But the grief continues and September felt particularly cruel. The seasons are changing and that means time passing. Time passing without him.

But I know Alan has been looking after us. Over the past few months he has graced us with whispers and music and signs. One day Lily and I watched as a young tattooed dad sat on our bench and played the guitar to his baby girl. Some mornings Lily and I, from our bench, have seen a woman jog by with a T-shirt saying "I (sign) A.R.". In California when I told someone my baby's name was Lily she smiled and said "Oh, that's my name". I said "Oh you're Lily?", she replied, "No, Susan. Its Hebrew translation is Lily." I looked it up and sure enough, it is. Alan chose her name and perhaps he wasn't aware of the connection - but to me it is fatefully serendipitous. And the other day when I was on hold, having a particularly low moment, on came "Midnight Train to Georgia". Many, many afternoons I sat alongside Alan on the bed as he played it on the guitar and cued me in on back-up vocals. It was his one request at our wedding - and oh how he smiled as he sang it with our friends, all crowded behind mics shared with the band. When he was happy I was over the moon, because Alan deserved to let go and relish in unfettered joy. Seeing that was beautiful. Tonight I playfully argued with him over Mardi-Gras beads Lily was chewing on. They typically hang over a portrait he made of his beloved Bulldog, Duncan, and Lily has taken to patting Duncan's photo and going for the beads. I cherish the moment while I worry about plastic, peeling, paint-coated beads made in toxic places. Alan whispered, "Oh Snooze, let her have 'em." We compromised. She gets a few chews and hums, and then they are gently pried from her grip and lovingly returned to Duncan's shrine. And then we tell Duncan to lick Alan for us and tell him we love him and think of him all the time. All the time.

Shhhhhhh...

2009-09-25T09:57:00.005-04:00

I have never written this early in the day but as it happens, my DAUGHTER IS NAPPING IN HER CRIB. So I have some "extra" time. It is miraculous, and comes on the heel of yesterday's nap of epic proportions lasting 2 and a half hours. I was concerned that Lily might feel after yesterday's feat that she had rollover minutes to apply for the next couple of months. Miraculously, she is commanding a repeat performance. I am currently celebrating by eating breakfast. Not only that, I am eating my breakfast in s l o w m o t i o n. One skill that comes quickly to new moms is the ability to "shove it in" - eating at lightening speed. Yes, unglamorous sounding, but when you are constantly preventing your child from grabbing spoons, shredding menus, chewing table edges, sucking napkins and consoling back-arching restless babes there is no rest, nor time for leisurely meals. Eggs and toast. And tea. I even browsed a couple of catalogs. I feel rested just knowing Lily is asleep. Must now pay bills, find work (out of the home, that is), do filing, laundry, and write thank-you notes. But can't do laundry, can't go through room to get it. Baby sleeping. Can't file, drawers in same room. Baby sleeping. Can't shower, bathroom connected to bedroom. Baby sleeping. Will do when she awakens, bright-eyed and smiling. Mom's are experts at the two-minute shower and getting out the door quickly. Mama minutes are equivalent to dog-years - a quarter of an hour equals at least two hours in real time. Amazing what one can do in an hour... when there is hands-free peace and quiet.

Squa, squa, squa, SQUARE!

2009-09-22T21:35:00.018-04:00

Currently Lily is often drunk with sleep deprivation but she wears it well. She continues to giggle, stagger as she stands, sit up with impressive posture, bang on the piano with her foot, lounge comfortably in the stroller, legs lazily draped over the bar and eat mashed food artfully. I on the other hand teeter between anxiety and amusement, exhaustion and loneliness, and fantasize about naps, showers and going to a movie. I ran into an acquaintance the other day, in a moment when I could hardly keep the tears at bay. It had been a difficult week and that morning I was particularly tapped - I was caught off-guard, twice, by two different songs, one at home and one in a restaurant. They played out of nowhere and left me raw and exposed. One minute I'm eating lunch, the next, subtly and self-consciously brushing tears from my face, feeling more and more isolated by the journey I've been on. The world rushes by, the tears go unnoticed. At times I cannot bear to let the emotion take me any further, the pain is almost paralyzing. Thankfully if I focus on Lily, waiting for me at home, I can pull myself out of the despair. "Yummy, yummy, yummy, I've got apples in my tummy!" Within seconds I'm back in the land of the living, singing over and over and O V E R again a line from one of her robotically cheery toys - that she activates unwittingly every few seconds to the extent that it stutters. Yummy, yummy - Yum - Yummy yu - Yummy yummy I've got... frequently we never get through the whole line, and it doesn't phase her in the least. I on the other hand am on the verge of mama-insanity and then all of a sudden "Sq, sq, SQUARE! I'm a blue, I'm a blue square!".
My day continues.
Ahhh... Motherhood.
I recently realized I neglected to rinse the conditioner out of my hair, a friend told me she discovered her shirt was on inside out after picking up her child who's shirt was on backwards, and another is struggling with memory lapses and frequently repeats parenting anecdotes. The other night I was pumping (breast milk that is) only to discover that the delayed feeling of warmth on my leg was the bottle overflowing. I cleaned it up only to find myself, minutes later sitting on the wet cloth I had used to clean the milk off the sofa. At times I find myself laughing so hard the tears start flowing. Those are good tears. Delirious, belly shaking laughter and tears that I know Alan would find amusing. We often laughed together and he loved my sometimes silent, bowled over hysterics which in turn, had him panting with glee. Lily has her own laughing pant and it too can be silent - Like mother like father like daughter. Luckily for me the dark moments are balanced with levity that is whimsical and mind numbing, heart warming and life-affirming.

Sleep Baby Sleep.

2009-09-10T19:18:00.024-04:00

There is nothing better, as an exhausted parent, than feeling a baby slumped on your shoulder, heavy with sleep. There is certainly beauty and joy that comes with holding a baby in your arms, hearing their babble, and feeling them kiss your cheek which, as of now, consists of a large open mouth that drools and energetically clenches your cheekbone with glee - but when you're feeling especially sleep deprived and desperate for some sense of reliable schedule, nothing beats the peacefulness that accompanies their rest. Since our voyage out West, Lily has fallen into a mercurial sleep pattern, which succinctly can be described as having no pattern at all. Or regularity. I texted a friend the other day who was also trying to get his babe to sleep and asked if nine minutes counted as a nap. "Yes" he replied, "if you're a hummingbird". Sadly, and happily, Lily is not. Days later, just when I think we're back in stride she's willful in her determination not to sleep or fitful as she does. As a parent, it is a test. Of sanity, and will. It feels like quicksand, laden with fears that out of desperation your "dynamic, soon-to-be self-sufficient" infant will become your bed partner for life, eternally parked at the milk truck, or spread out comfortably next to you, hand grazing some part of your body that you now cannot move. Last night I armed myself with a bottle of wine and a pound cake, prepared to indulge as I let the newest love of my life cry it out in the other room with my set limit of 20 - 40 minutes depending on my inner strength of the moment. It is torture hearing your baby scream, during which feelings of guilt, and fears of forever scarring your child take hold. You try to rationalize soothing them in order to help them form healthy relationships further down the line, or take comfort in the idea that leaving them distraught helps shape them into self-sufficient beings. Both options seem unacceptable, and sometimes coming in briefly to quietly calm them results in a burp worthy of a bar stool or calms them enough to help them get back to sleep on their own. If you do not go in, you envision them stuck in a position they cannot get out of, hyperventilating with sobs, or terrified, waking from a nightmare. Last night I ended up with a five minute interruption and the rest of the evening was golden.
I still had the wine and pound cake.
Earlier this evening armed with yet another backup plan I found myself walking around the apartment during twilight hours with a small bunny between my breasts, yes, a bunny - in my bra, hoping that my scent would rub off on Lily's friend to help ease her into sleep. As it happens, so far this evening the bunny, Bunny, has not been called to duty but he is in the crib with her, on deck if need be.

I need to work on my lullabies but I do remember a Simpsons episode where "Rock-a-bye Baby" was illustrated and the lyrics paint images that are anything but soothing - a bough breaks, the cradle falls, down comes baby.
Maybe not.
While Lily has her pre-bed aperitif I often find myself - beyond tired - nodding off, and in between nods I tell her how her dad was an enthusiastic nap taker. She needs convincing. But today was a long one for her that began with music class and ended with some dreamy Aretha in our room now evocatively lit like a bordello. So I am hoping, praying, that all of the activity will keep her deeply asleep throughout the night. Deeply asleep, deeply asleep.

Under Water.

2009-09-05T22:11:00.012-04:00

It is surreal to be preparing baby food for breakfast in the kitchen, hearing Lily's playful noises in the background, while simultaneously contemplating Alan's final days in hospice. I often find myself in absolute disbelief over what has happened. One moment I'm marveling at a photo from our honeymoon, wondering if it all had just been a dream - a distant memory that maybe never happened, and the next moment I'm replaying detailed medical procedures and conversations while stark images crowd my mind. I am lonely in a way that I suspect I will always be, and I often find myself floating through days viewing the world through Lily's eyes only. Much of the world I don't care to see. A widowed friend asked me the other day if I had seen an article about cancer drugs and the inability of pharmaceutical companies to do anything but prolong a life by mere days and I could only reply that yes, I had seen the headline, but had had no interest in reading the article. And that is how I have been for months, detached from most things that reflect sadness, inefficiency, faltering policies. I have no room for it in my heart, nor my mind, and when I must engage in conversation that encompasses subjects such as those, I do, but I check out. I switch to autopilot, I can't even say I'm conscious of what comes out - and I'm not sure where what I do say, comes from. And being unemployed as a single parent has left me with little outside stimulation. Traveling was good, it put me in social situations, I even got to an aquarium, but I still feel as though I'm in a haze and I wonder if the fog will ever lift.

My routine is built around Lily and I now find joy, as she does, in the simplest pleasures whether it's making funny noises, dancing or reading a board book. Sometimes I wonder halfheartedly if my brain is shrinking - but my other mom friends assure me that their worlds too, are currently "limited in scope". Much of it is a welcome distraction, and while it is daunting to have the responsibility of raising a child, for the time being (knock wood) three minute showers, five minute meals, and meditating on a blade of grass suit me just fine. I find humor in the mundane - the way Lily looks when she takes a sip of water is a mix of confusion, suspicion and near disgust. When I pick her up at night to comfort her, it is she that is now patting my back. I delight in her spontaneous screeches and bouts of surprise panting excitement, and she bowls me over with X-ray stares that hold my undivided attention. I love to watch her lean out of the stroller, watching shadows and the wheels as they cover ground, and I envy the ease with which she relaxes - legs kicked up on the stroller bar, one flopped over the side. Thankfully when she's nursing just as my thoughts begin traveling to the darker corners of my mind, I spot potato behind her ears and then flecks of it in her eyebrows. Lily brings me back to a safer place, and though she is the one in my arms, I feel as though I am in hers.

The Firsts.

2009-08-30T20:35:00.014-04:00

Lily is now six months old and with that milestone has come a slew of "firsts". She just took her first flights to the West Coast, she has begun sitting up (with the occasional sway, sag and plunge), she says mamamamamama, and dadada, she can expertly put her left foot in her mouth and the other day just as I picked up a bottle of Alan's preferred red wine she clapped. With every first it's incredible - they're moments that mark the culmination of weeks of attempts; erratic hand movements, elusive feet, and sounds without such specificity. I was truly overjoyed when she clapped, as I do it frequently when we listen to music and she has studied the movement intently for over a month but only observed. Occasionally I'd see her hands flex open and closed as she watched me do it but that was it. You can see the wheels turning when she fixates on something, so to see the final connection made was awesome. I was ecstatic and with that came the moment that I always dreamt about - being able to share it with Alan. Thankfully I was able to share it with family and a close friend who I knew would appreciate it but I became one of those mothers that wanted to show every passerby Lily's feat, and the ache of not having Alan to witness it made coming home to New York that much harder. She is truly developing into a little person - she is full of smiles and happy screeches, she kicks her legs with excitement over everything from seeing a dog to her reflection in the mirror. Her once peaceful nights have turned into teenage revolts and I am hoping, praying that that is a travel adjustment, but in this respect I could really use Alan. Parenting is hard. It requires infinite patience, resolve, hope, energy and a strong lower back. I miss Alan when I am exhausted at night, calming a wakeful Lily at 2am. I miss him when she cries for me when I leave the room for a moment - a new development which I hope will be short lived, I miss him when she hums with satisfaction contemplating a spoonful of food, I long for him when I see her smiling face peering at me from the crib at 5am. I hope he can see her delight as she peers at herself in the little mirror on her Excersaucer, that he can hear her squealed greetings when I hand her her piggy or her monkey chimp, that he can see her twirl her wrist with spoon in hand and then listlessly let it drop to the floor with her eyes on me as she does so. She is now connecting with objects and people - her discoveries are beautiful to watch. She acts with intention. I have seen her come out of a nightmare, and I recently heard a giggle as she slept. And she is ticklish.

One of the nicest things about traveling and staying with others was that I could show them Lily sleeping every night, I could share my obsession with my girl and they'd dote on her as well. They could see Lily in moments that only Alan would have experienced with us - late night sighs and her sweet sleeping silhouette, active early mornings and animated bath times. It is a joy for me to be with others who can appreciate such moments even if their enthusiasm is merely meant as support for me ~ It is love all the same. Coming home was difficult. Having our trip to look forward to was a comfort, returning to our home so wishing that Alan would be here to greet us was a challenge. He would have been so proud of our journey together. I dreamt about him the other night, the three of us in bed together, Lily in the middle. As I took Lily along side of me when she awoke shortly after, I whispered to her that in my dream we had been a family. But then I corrected myself because I know deep down that we have just enough and whispered again, that the two of us were a family as well - and feeling her sleeping next to me, I know it to be true .

My Girl.

2009-08-19T23:00:00.016-04:00

Lily and I are on our first adventure together. We are on the West Coast visiting family and friends and with every hour I feel more and more as though she were an extension of me, I feel so deeply connected to her. She is a very special, unique being and as I ease into parenthood I find that my new role, my purpose in life is to be her mother, her roots, her rock - I now fully understand the concept of guardian. The responsibility of being a parent is awesome, and with that come the fears, worries and even more vulnerability. I found myself on the way to the airport emailing my brother with last minute wishes for Lily should something happen to me. Neurotic I know, but I have already lost the person most precious to me in my entire life - so the thought of this beautiful piece of my heart, our hearts, without either one of us, is haunting. Even when I just need someone to watch her I know the general thought is "come on, she's safe, she'll be fine, worst thing that will happen is that she'll get upset and cry" but that's not the worst thing - I have lived through one of "the worst things" so I know that it does happen, hence my fears loom large. Experiencing separation from Lily whether it be with a relative or babysitter is a tremendous challenge and while factors such as trust and safety are of the utmost importance, the anxiety stems from something much deeper - she is mine, and I am hers and our mother-child bond feels primal. So for me, boarding a plane with her in my arms feels much greater than a taxi ride, and leaving her with someone else is an emotional test of almost herculean proportions.

For months after Alan passed away, before she was born, and now the months after, I've struggled with my identity. I read often on one of the widow "boards" about how people have lost their sense of self upon losing their partner and I too, feel as though the "old me" is forever gone. When I lost Alan, I felt as though much of me went with him ~ and I know he'd hate to hear that, to witness it, but when you are so entwined with another soul - regardless of your independence - the loss kills much of the spirit within; death deadens. It numbs. It leaves you feeling disoriented and I too mourn my loss of self. Thankfully, Lily has given me purpose, and it is her spirit that has begun to bring me back to life. Despite the fact that we're together nearly everyday, I have gotten to know her even better as my travelling companion. The flight attendants could learn much from her - she is patient, full of smiles, is nice to everyone and her obliviousness to unpleasantness around her is admirable. Her glee is infectious and more and more she embraces unfamiliar faces with an openness that dissipates with age. Lily is a sponge and absorbs everything around her. She entertains herself with lights, TVs, music and sounds. She is fascinated by older children, she squeals when dogs brush along side of us. She turns her face into the breeze, she grabs at leaves, she splashes in the tub with reckless abandon. For all of the sadness I have inside, I now have equal parts happiness. The way she brightens my life is staggering, and I am OK with being Lily's mom while I try to grasp at parts of me that have seemingly faded. Like other widows and widowers, I still care little for reading the paper and watching the news; events that once triggered emotive responses still don't move me, there is much I no longer care about. But as we make the rounds out West, reconnecting with family and friends and introducing her to many who have, until now, loved her from afar, I feel as though despite my ungrounded sense of self, she has proven to be my new anchor. So as we forge ahead together, Lily's life new with every morning and mine exploring unchartered territory I am grateful to have her by my side and am glad for her that she has me to dote on her and to love her with all of my heart.

Coney Island

2009-08-02T23:35:00.001-04:00

Some of the last photos that Alan took were of Coney Island. It was a bright, dry day in January, the streets were quiet but the signage and lights managed to evoke the summer soundtrack of rides, eighties music, screams, laughs and barkers. Coney Island is particularly special in the off-season - its lore is easier to imagine, the trash is limp in the gutter, its peacefulness enhanced by the empty beaches, its lonely streets asleep except for the occasional passerby. He did manage to capture a man surreptitiously rounding a corner with a large bag from Nathan's, I have a feeling Alan headed there shortly after. He loved Coney Island and I can just see and hear him driving out there on a winter day - perhaps he had had the day off for appointments, I don't remember him going - but I can picture him getting into our hand-me-down car, talk radio or classic rock on, sunflower seeds in one hand, a Dr. Pepper in the other. He was always the one behind the wheel and I got a kick out of Alan driving because it was one of the rare instances (aside from Yankee games) in which his "Brooklyn-ness" came out - he swore at other drivers, a hint of an accent coming out and he could get really pissed when others got in the way. I have to say it gave me a bit of a thrill - my gentle man, yelling unpleasantries at poor old ladies and having no patience for out of town drivers. It gave me such a laugh, he was sheer entertainment and it was a great surprise to see sides of Alan that only came out on occasion. I'm not sure he knew how people sometimes waited with curiousity or baited breath to hear what he had to say and when what came out was some rude "Come Onnnnnnn..... jackass...." it was hilarious, it was scary, it would actually shut me up on occasion. I loved it. I love him. Always.

It was startling finding the photos on his camera, again, something I hadn't known - or maybe I did and I forgot. Regardless, "after-the-fact" mementos are gifts; haunting at times, but a gift - to see the world through his eyes. The DVR still records some of his shows - American Masters, Iconoclasts, 30 Rock, The Office and I can't cancel them. I watch some and erase what I know he wouldn't want. But it is hard. It is such a comfort to see his actions continue.

Last weekend Lily and I went with friends to Coney Island. The first time we went was on Alan's anniversary, so she is a vet now. It was a steamy warm day full of crowds, hotdogs and trash. And it was wonderful. Lily took in the sights and sounds and smells - everything new to her eyes and yet so familiar to Alan's. My friends asked if I wanted to go on The Cyclone and I declined. The last time I rode it it was springtime and Alan was in the hospital. He had urged me to go on a bachelorette party excursion for a dear friend - Alan hated feeling as though he was ever holding me back and yet it was torture for me to ever leave him. I went, rode the roller-coaster and that decision too was difficult. My worries and "what ifs" were taking over at that point and my fear of something going wrong on the ride with Alan where he was, were a force to be reckoned with. I went on it, a three minute electrifying distraction, but that was the last time. This time around I have a giggling 14.5 lb love that replaces my worries of last year - and as neurotic as it sounds, I am her only parent. And I experience that often, decisions feel weightier, responsibilities more daunting without a co-pilot to confer with, to share my concerns. What I would give to be able to go out for an evening with Alan and we could ask each other every ten minutes if we thought Lily was OK. Alan would say "What do you think she's doing?" and we'd both want to go home to look at her, watch her while she sleeps. So this time at The Cyclone I declined. When Lily Alan wants to go on it she can - and I'll look on from the sidelines, a nervous wreck, praying that Alan's got her in his sights.

We Have A Bench.

2009-07-29T22:18:00.009-04:00

Lily is asleep tonight in her dress, we are both exhausted, worn out with love. A day that began with a text to my friend Sam saying "It's so humid out it smells like Venice" became a day revitalized with something I can only inadequately describe as "an expression of immeasurable affection". Friends and family of those who have touched our lives over many, many story filled years, contributed funds to have a bench in Riverside Park dedicated to Alan. It is breathtaking, it is perfect, it describes Alan succinctly (which he would appreciate) in a few precious lines that capture his character and soul so vividly it is as though he's been sitting there all along. Being there in the park, Lily held tightly against my heart, with intermittent showers clearing the air, hearing the patter of the drops on the trees, amid the mist and the heat and our extended family, it felt as though Alan had his arms around all of us. Despite the summer's stormy weather there was an ease and serenity that embodied those who were there, laughs and smiles and tears, new babes who will hear about Alan for years to come and new lives on the way as well. He must have been watching.

There is rarely a day that goes by that Lily and I aren't in the park. She loves the bucket swings and dances with her legs as she floats through the air, trapeze like, smiling with glee at me or else eyes fixed intently on the older kids that occupy the swings around her. She loves the trees, their silhouettes against the sky, and often we park on the grass for stories, songs and nature watching. And now we have a bench, with her dad's name, and my love's name, forever etched on it for all to see. We will go there whenever we can, we will read its words, we'll sit there and watch the world go by. And if others are sitting in our place we'll relish in our secret, knowing that the name they're leaning on will surely guide them in some positive way. This is a bench like no other, a spot brought to life by the memory of someone that continues to thrive and by those who contributed to the richness of his life with their friendship, love and devotion. So much love an affection in fact that there will soon be a tree planted in his honor as well ~ so we will go there too, and watch it grow along side Lily. And when it passes her in height we'll lie underneath it and marvel at Alan's strength in it's outstretched branches.

Beyond Words.

2009-07-24T00:21:00.028-04:00

One of my favorite diversions once Lily, my greatest diversion, is down for the night is a show called "So You Think You Can Dance". And last night I felt as though my experiences with Alan were portrayed with a beauty that left me weeping. I have always loved dance and it has forever been my "if you could come back as anything what would it be?" choice. There is something so deeply felt when you allow your emotions to guide your movement - it offers vocabulary that is unavailable in any language, it is simultaneously liberating and desperate and cathartic. When I saw this pair move through their piece I felt as though it perfectly articulated something I have been fortunate enough to survive, each gesture says it all. I have replayed it numerous times, it is validating and comforting beyond words. If you look up "So You Think You Can Dance and Breast Cancer" you may still find it on You Tube. It is worth the search.

Our Morning Child.

2009-07-19T21:10:00.016-04:00

Last night I fell asleep with my hand resting on a lullaby playing chimp. Ever since Alan passed away I haven't been able to leave his side of the bed unoccupied. For months it held a box of Kleenex and served as a backdrop for photos, and shortly after Lily was born, it became inhabited by my pregnancy body pillow - which now acts as a barrier on the edge of the bed. And now, Alan's side is shared with chimp, polka dot pink pony, a tiara toting purple elephant, water filled keys and a blankie with a green frog coming out of it. In the morning, Lily joins the crowd after her 6:15 a.m. morning drink and she brings his side alive again. She starts by lying on her back, frog in mouth, and begins her morning chants, muffled but with great energy and volume. After awhile, she sheds the blankie and excitedly borderline hyperventilates while staring at the ceiling fan. She squeals with early morning delight and often takes in a long dragging glottal breath before feeling around for her next toy. I watch, smiling, but try to refrain from conversation, in hopes my quiet presence will remind her that there is more sleep to be had. On occasion I help reposition her friends or assist her with getting the key into her mouth to chew but other than that she's on her own. After 40 minutes, she winds down and it's then that she begins her rolls toward me. One full flip and then a half roll so that she lands on her side, against me so we can spoon. It's moments like these that take my breath away because her character has begun to really show. She has intentions. She interacts. She loves. Even when we spoon she turns to look up at me and when she's on her tummy right next to me, she tosses her head up and back against my chest to connect with me. She leans into me, just to be sure I'm there.
And as chatty as Lily is at home, she can be equally quiet in public settings. She is the consummate observer - Lily does interact with others, she shares smiles and touches, but when surrounded by other babes she likes to watch. She hangs onto their every move and when there's a teacher in the room whether it's yoga or music, she's immediately on her stomach, watching their actions intently. At time's I wonder if I'm projecting Alan's traits on her but just recently her music teacher came over to her after class and quietly commented how alert and curious she is with everything - and then sweetly said "she's so self-contained". The description made my heart skip a beat, Alan's presence flooding my thoughts - she had nailed it. Lily is self-contained, just as her dad was. And at four and a half months Alan can be seen within her. So when I watch her during our mornings together, I marvel at how she embraces all that is new to her and am in awe of how miraculous life is. And when elements of Alan appear in her being, it warms my heart to know that there are already ways in which she'll know her dad, and understand him more than anyone else who ever knew and loved him ever did.

He's still here.

2009-07-14T21:14:00.012-04:00

There is a saying "To speak the name of the dead is to make them live again" and it was just that, along with bubbly Lily, that pulled me through July 5th. I can't say that the day was much more difficult than those that I have lived through during the last year, but it was a milestone - and the idea that Alan is no longer here, continues to be jarring for me. But knowing that so many friends were thinking of Alan, just as I was on "that day" made the occasion achingly beautiful. One friend relived a guitar jam session he and Alan had shared one summer evening a couple of years ago, and I received many messages leading up to Sunday and throughout the day that all contained the words "thinking of Alan". Those messages meant the world to me. It reminds me not only of how he touched so many others with his presence but also that I am not alone in feeling the loss. As time passes I fear that my memories of Alan will feel distant and begin to blur and it is a terrifying feeling. I don't want to forget a single thing about him and I want Lily to be able to grab on to tangible elements that defined Alan's character - I don't want her to imagine him as a compilation of generalities - I want him to be defined. I want his image to be dimensional, I want Lily to know him as best she can, so that she can feel a connection to him, and understand how much of him she possesses within her own being. It is important to me that she does not feel as though she is "without" a father. Surely she'll struggle, longing for his physical presence, and I mourn for the loss she has yet to realize, but daily I imagine ways in which I can make him real for her. On Sunday I was comforted knowing that others will do the same.

Shortly after Alan passed away, a friend asked me to "please let her know ways in which she could be of comfort to me - whether it be talking of Alan frequently, not talking about him at all - whatever might help ease the pain", and I was so appreciative of her ability to acknowledge her unfamiliarity with the territory and her openness to learn from what I was enduring. I love talking about Alan, I cling to memories others have of him, I hang on to dreams I hear of in which he has appeared. Some widows and widowers have to remove all photos of their loved ones, can't bear to look at images from a past once shared and I do understand that - but I am of the opposite camp; yes the reminders bring heartache each and every time, and just this evening I wept inside as I heard a friend speak of Alan, but it is those very words that keep him vibrant and alive. There is a family that lives down the hall on our floor, and whenever Alan used to hear their toddler girl running and squealing on her way to the elevator he'd smile and exclaim "It's Hannah - let's take the garbage out so we can see her" . He loved children, and I always wanted to tell her parents how much joy he found in her little life as she flitted past us in random moments - but it seems awkward and it's so emotional for me that I haven't. But just the other day after passing her in the hall - father and brother trailing behind her to the elevator - I heard her say in her loud whisper as we entered the stairwell, laundry dragging behind us, "There's the baby! I love that baby - ". It made me laugh and smile and cry. To me that was a line meant for Alan, and to me her words brought him alive yet again.

Three hundred and sixty-five days.

2009-07-03T23:31:00.017-04:00

Oddly, it seems common that many of "us" have spent at least one holiday struggling at the hospital or at home in no shape to celebrate it. And that was our situation, more than once. We spent one Christmas, and two New Year's Eves in the hospital or in recovery. It didn't matter, occasions such as those paled in comparison to our reasons for missing them but it is challenging to find one's self facing those holidays again under different circumstances. And this year, this weekend, marks an anniversary I hoped I'd never live to see. Alan passed away in the early hours of July 5th, 2008, and in all honesty I can't say I remember ever doing anything remarkable on the Fourth of July. But what I do remember, painfully, is the sound of fireworks in the distant night, echoing as the Fourth turned into the Fifth - wishing, hoping and praying that the night nor the day to come would be the day. So what I dread this time around, besides the obvious, is hearing those sounds again - the crackle, the snaps, the pregnant silence in between explosive moments. Sense memory is powerful and I wonder how I'll manage through the night. I look forward to sharing the history and sparkle with Lily someday, and perhaps then the holiday will regain it's intended significance. But I know that deep down, the date will be forever etched on my heart, and it will always have a different meaning for me.

The thing I wonder most about is how will Lily think of her father? How will she remember the man she never knew, how will she commemorate his passing, what will moments like these feel like to her and how will she feel knowing what he meant to me... I intend to shower her with details, regale her with stories, identify his traits in her character, show her where he appears in her distinctive features. Her life is already filled with people who loved Alan and that Alan loved, so I feel confident that as we reminisce about his beauty, his humor, his kindness, his warmth and generosity, those facets of his character will be illustrated for her ~ passed on to her in bedtime hours, greeting her in waking moments, shared over hot dogs, told to her while making cookies, preserved for her in letters and whispered into her ears in quiet moments. She studies his photos already, and studies her surroundings just as he did. I have no doubt that Alan's presence will always infuse the air we breathe, and in all of the nature that fills our world but losing him, in the physical sense, has left a void I struggle with hourly. So as the Fourth approaches, I fear the sound of fireworks and their celebratory cheer that so obliviously ushers in the Fifth. I'm told that often the anticipation is much greater than the actual anniversary. If that's the case, I'll be relieved. Because today and yesterday and the year that's led up to this weekend has been painfully raw; as though every nerve in my body was exposed. I shudder to think of where I'd be if it weren't for Lily Alan. I'm not sure I would have made it through the days. So this weekend it's she that I'll celebrate. And as I do everyday, I'll thank Alan for his love, and reflect upon how unselfishly he shared his final days with his family and friends, never once complaining about the unfairness of it all. There was such a sparkle in his eyes when I told him I had heard the baby's heartbeat - perhaps it was enough for him to know that someone, soon, would be here to help rescue all of us from the sadness, or at least to help move us forward, gently, through the grief.

How it is, how it was.

2009-06-23T22:08:00.013-04:00

There is something about connecting with others who stand in similar shoes that is both comforting and heartbreaking. Over the last couple of weeks I've been loosely communicating with a few other young widowed parents in the NYC area and when I heard from the first one, it was as though the initial wound was reopened. Somehow, despite the relief of knowing that there are others out there that are living through the loss, hearing that others have suffered as I have is devastating. I was at once sobbing, overcome with relief that there were others nearby who understood, but yet it's heartbreak all over again - as though I've lost yet another dear friend. And when I was told yesterday about a site, Young Cancer Spouses, I flew to it as though my life depended on it. Sadly, its content is unfinished and minimal, but what is there brought me back to last Spring and I instantly found myself weeping inconsolably. The site is geared towards those enduring the struggle right now, and had I known about it or ever been able to find the time for it last year, I would have clung to it with all my might. What was so jarring was that it described every situation, scenario and relationship dynamic so accurately for couples affected at such a young age. Had I known it was there, I wouldn't have felt so alone. Because your world becomes so intensely complicated, it's just not possible to explain to others - you have neither the time, nor the energy. And it is then that you recognize how precious time truly is. You do not want phone calls, you cannot afford walks, and the breaks you're encouraged to take - do just that. They take. They take away the time you have with your other half. And you are consumed with the fight; the regimens you must adhere to, the emergencies you have to navigate, the risks you're forced to take when you have no professional medical advice right then and there, the precautions you adhere to diligently, the unexpected problems you plan for in advance. The desperation and love that goes into every single move, every recipe, every everything. Love is so wonderful that the thought of losing that beautiful, special person fuels you with a devotion so intense it's indescribable. So as I near my one year anniversary of Alan no longer holding my hand, I find myself in moments reliving and feeling as raw as I did last Winter and Spring. In a way it's a comfort, as it turns back the clock, but then the grief swells and I'm reminded of where I am, and what day it is.

It has been observed that when elephants grieve, the mourning is widespread. Friends and family and fellow elephants from other herds, with no connection to the one who has passed, come to comfort the dying and visit remains. They often stand over the sick and rub them with their feet, feed them, rock back and forth above them. When the sick one dies, they mourn, some so saddened they refuse food themselves and die shortly after. When they pass a carcass months or years later, they still stroke the bones with their trunks as though to comfort or perhaps to remember to whom those remnants belonged. That is what I feel when I hear of others who have experienced similar loss - even if I don't know them, I mourn for them as well. And I sense that they too, share a similar compassion.

We Love You. (The Susie)

2009-06-17T22:42:00.023-04:00

If Alan was here this Father's Day I'd say let's go for a sail. Let's bundle up Lily in ten life jackets and go out on the water. I'll make gourmet sandwiches (Alan always laughed at me because I called everything I made gourmet), we'll go to City Island and take out a boat. Lily would love the water...
Today we had lunch overlooking the Hudson and between smiles and standing with wobbly legs in my lap, she'd stare out over the river. Alan loved everything about sailing and I knew that on days when he'd go out he'd be crashed in bed sound asleep by 8pm that night. The fresh air and the peacefulness he experienced in the waves quieted all of his thoughts - I think he loved being able to look ahead of the boat and relished in the luxury of being able to see what was coming. Because being able to navigate amid all of the river's obstacles was nothing to him, and I'm sure he took comfort in being able to control something. That was what was so wonderful about watching him guide the boat; the elements, of all things, had no hold on him. I, on the other hand, was always perched at the bow - on the lookout for tankers that I was convinced would be our doom. They approached so quickly and it was a test for me to trust that Alan knew just what to do. And he handled the maneuvers with grace. Lily would have watched his every move with awe. She has his quiet, observant stare and when she sees something that interests her, she watches, glued, with a fixation that tunes out the rest of the world. Not even a blink from her paintbrush eyes. That is how she would have been with him. And she'd watch him and watch him and somehow his soft expressions would coax her into one of her beautiful grins.
I miss him so, so much.
Alan loved children and was great with them. It is painful not having him for so many reasons - we'd introduce him to Banana, Little Black and White Dog and Sophie the Giraffe, we'd show him how good Lily is at rolling over to the right, how she loves the photo over the changing table of us at Yankee Stadium, how she likes to kick and splash in the tub, and she'd show him how she can make an impressive B sound as she blows impressive bubbles.
And she could experience how good it felt to be held in his arms.
How good he smelled.
Feel his warmth.
And when I'd show off how she has embraced sleeping through the night, he would whisper in my ear with his usual playful, mischievous humor, "Let's wake her up". He could never get enough time with a cute baby.
Alan had always said that, one day, he'd get a sailboat and name it "The Susie". If he were here today, I'd get him one. It would be our second home. Alan could lead, I'd be on the lookout, and Lily would pitter patter back and forth between us, barefooted but bundled.

Shaky Ground. Still.

2009-06-13T22:48:00.006-04:00

I called home the other day to hear Alan's voice on the answering machine. I could have played it from home but I needed to hear him on the other end. And I left a message for him. I had to. I knew I wasn't fooling myself but it felt good to feel for a split second that we were in close proximity, to suspend my disbelief and pretend for a fleeting moment that we still shared a life together. For months after Alan passed away I still came through the front door and said "Hi Babe" to him as though he were in the other room. There are some habits that you must ween yourself from and I'm not sure when I stopped that particular one. But I have many antics that linger: expressions, gestures, signals, jokes - and I'm not sure I'll ever let go of them. In fact, some I've passed on to Lily, and when she looks at me with Alan's eyes, I sense that she understands them.
Tonight a friend sent me pictures of us that I had never seen. It took my breath away to see him again, looking good, despite what he had been going through, and we both were so happy side by side. When I see new images of Alan, or hear a story about him that I had never known, I feel as though I've gotten him back for a moment - learning new things about him, or revisiting a moment that we shared. But these gifts, as well, catch me off guard. For that matter, pouring myself a glass of water this evening brought me to tears. It's not only specific memories that evoke such emotion, but the mundane moments as well that remind me of what has happened. Everything has become so very sobering. I broke down tonight after hearing from another widowed mom that when reading of my experiences she nodded all the way through. How tragic and comforting that someone else can relate to all of this... In all of this loneliness I'm not so alone. But that, too, for the very reasons I am writing, is a difficult reality to digest.
When I put Lily to bed tonight, she promptly rolled on to her stomach, her sleeping position of choice, but for fifteen minutes I heard her from the other room, babbling away. When I peered in quietly through the doorway, there she was, head looking up in full cobra position, at a photo of Alan placed over her crib, jabbering away. At times I'm convinced she knows him as well as I - I do believe that babies and the very elderly are connected to the spirits of those who have passed on - and I hope that with every image and anecdote she'll feel the bond that links us all together.

Night Moves and Early Hours.

2009-06-10T23:03:00.013-04:00

Lily is rolling over. And sleeping through the night. And a chatterbox. She is a pro at getting four fingers into her mouth. And she loves her lower lip. Often even in her talkative moments the sounds are loud but muffled, mouth still closed as she doesn't want to let it go. It's her pacifier of choice, with two thumbs at once a close second. Now that she rolls over, preferring to sleep on her stomach, my nights of water ballet are over. I used to love it when her coos and noises woke me up at 2am to find that even though the lights were off and it was the middle of the night, Lily had an entire performance choreographed for me. With mesh bumpers now in place - all I could make out in moonlight shadows were her legs surfacing in the air. Kicking in fits and then subsiding... Next, a leg, pointed in the air floating quietly as though she were pondering it from below. Sometimes a pause and then a burst. Elegant, suspenseful and funny. Often I'd go over to the crib and there she'd be, looking up at me, bright eyed and smiling as though it were the middle of the day.
Sometimes when I used to stir at night, Alan would be up, and as I'd turn over he'd say "Hi Sus". I loved it. Just like that, as though I'd just entered the room, or picked up the phone. Every moment with him I savored and even at 2am foggy with sleep, he could make me smile like no one else. Until now. Now Lily Alan has inherited that role though I won't wake her up to do so. But sleeping always with one ear alert, I love to hear her funky breathing noises, and her sighs as she readjusts her positioning. In the morning when she's first awake, I listen to her talking and can see her looking around - contemplating the distance she has covered during the night. Usually her head is where the feet were the night before. Sometimes she drifts back to sleep, and despite my exhaustion, I look forward to her waking up again. The mornings are my favorite time of day with her as they were with Alan. The day is new, there are fresh kisses to give and receive, it's daylight again and the odds of it being a good day seem to be leaning in our favor.

Nearing twelve.

2009-06-05T20:18:00.016-04:00

ELEVEN months for me today and it's as grey outside as I feel within. It scares me to think how I might be doing if I didn't have Lily. And then that thought makes me wonder how I am really doing. Because I read posts on a widows board that are loaded with anger and rage and while I get it, I don't generally feel it. Generally. The anger I've experienced is not directed toward Alan, or even my circumstances. My anger has always stemmed from the insensitivities that surround the circumstances. People who couldn't understand my need for distance shortly after Alan passed away, people to whom I'd explain my situation and they'd hardly bat an eye (perhaps they didn't hear correctly?), and most commonly, people that are just sour on life who are rude to you for no reason and don't realize how good they've got it. But perhaps they've been through something awful as well. Thankfully Lily has given me new love and smiles and a reason for living. She is a wondrous distraction for which I am eternally grateful.
But at night when she's down, the silence creeps in and my mind begins to spin. Memories of the darkest moments, when things were terrifying, replay in my mind - and they're difficult to shake. They are memories with a perpetual echo. Voices, faces, sounds - torturous. My heart aches for those who do not have a child or a pet to cling to because the trauma feels like it was yesterday and the loneliness is shattering. What I feel is profound, deep, sadness. But the anger at him "leaving"? Not at all. Alan didn't leave, he was carried away by something well beyond his control, and I still bask in the love that we shared for one-another. In fact, despite the tragedy, I feel incredibly fortunate to have found such love. A few of the notes I received when Alan passed away mentioned that some spend a lifetime never finding the love that we had. And I do feel lucky to have found Alan. A couple of times, when people heard of Alan's passing, they'd casually asked if I knew he was ill when we met. Ugh. Not sure what they were getting at- or actually, I do. It felt like an underhanded jab, maybe unintentional, but I think it was their way of saying "you knew this was a possibility" or "why would you ever?..."
Yes.
And?
I did know Alan had had a brush with tumors. They were under control, in a form of 'remission' - and they were not cancerous at the time. But regardless of knowing or not knowing, I fell in love with Alan, period. True love is unconditional. I have no regrets. Maybe that is why the anger isn't raging. I took a chance, embraced it and lived on the edge with a beautiful human being. We suffered immeasurable loss but it was worth every minute. Both of our lives were richer and truer because of each other. And to this day I think "Yes! I had it. Maybe for a heartbeat, but I had IT. And that IT, gave us Lily."
So now my life has a huge void and a new joy. A turbulent and blissful combination. But Lily smiles and laughs and raises her shoulders to her ears with glee - so I remain hopeful that the grey I experience within won't permeate her wonderful world. And when the torment sets in at night, I have only to peek at her sleeping peacefully, her little chest puffing up and down to remember that there is light and hope. She's already proven herself a risk taker; she insisted on enduring a pregnancy fraught with grief. So I think - like her dad, and her mom - she is resilient and one who embraces life.

Love is everywhere.

2009-06-01T22:38:00.012-04:00

Years ago, I went with a friend to her cousin's estate sale. I was in the bedroom, looking at belongings. A little girl came in and went over to one of the women with whom she had come. She was holding up a beaded necklace, which she clearly had decided she wanted to take, but said as a question, "So and so says this is just junk". The woman took her onto her lap and said quietly, "It is not junk. It is a memory."

I'll never forget that, and it's always helped me rationalize my pack-rat inclinations. Because I am a sentimentalist. I find there is a story that accompanies just about everything. Alan was always anxious to clear stuff out, get rid of old items that were just accumulating dust, yet he too, held on to many trinkets and toys and photos - all memories. And I still find myself surrounded by many of his possessions and I'm not sure when they'll be relocated. On a widows website one woman was wondering what she should do with her husbands underwear. For many that sounds absurd, but I could relate all too well to her quandary. I found (and continue to find) that even the seemingly mundane articles from Alan's life (that he would have been so bothered to hear I had held on to), were beyond difficult to dispose of. In fact thus far, the only way I have been able to eliminate, store or pass on any of his belongings has been by doing the same with some of my things. Hence, anything of Alan's that has been packed away for safe-keeping, has been nested among items of my own. If clothes were set aside for Goodwill, I contributed to the pile as well. In essence I couldn't and cannot let go of his belongings without them being accompanied by something of mine. It's a way of continuing our journey together. If some of Alan goes, parts of me go with him. I don't want him ever to be alone. So much still rests where it has always been, unmoved by me. Not untouched, or unsmelled but still left in it's "place". Because with everything there is a memory. With the items of a coat pocket I can reconstruct a cold winter evening. A matchbook - a dinner at the bar of one of our favorite restaurants, a plastic figurine was an early dating memento, a candy wrapper was his breath, a pill - part of a regimen, a book - a love, a passion, a pursuit, something that had been held by his hands. A grocery store receipt - his special recipe with our favorite dessert, a leash, a connection for him to the dog he had cherished. And so on. The only way I am able to separate myself from anything is because I can hear Alan dismissing the item without a care or story attached. And if his spirit has given me permission, then I can physically and emotionally let that something go. And when I can, I have to do it quickly and efficiently, without lingering on how it was a part of Alan's life. The obsession can make you crazy.
I remember when the house that I grew up in was lost in a fire, we lost so many personal belongings. Yet it was such a freeing experience because my parents had escaped, alive - and that truly was all that mattered. Everything else paled in comparison. I just didn't care deeply about anything lost. Yet now that Alan's passed on, I cannot bear to part with his belongings. I know that I have everything I need in my heart and in my mind - but the belongings keep him close and fresh as though he was just here. And he was just here. On the widows website, the board I follow is the "6-12 Months. Reality sets in". section. Perhaps it's all just too soon for me.

Lily Alan

2009-05-28T21:06:00.006-04:00

Today when I was holding Lily I thought I saw Alan looking up at me. It was such a serene moment and such a contemplative look. It lasted only a few moments but it felt so good to see him in her eyes. She's her own little person and I find myself looking at her and seeing bits of Alan and bits of me but mostly Lily ~ I still marvel at the fact that she came out of me and that she is the product of the two of us and yet, this morning, her gaze into my eyes was almost like seeing Alan in a dream. I believe in signs and I'd like to think that that was one of them. Because when you lose someone so special to you, you ache to see them again and the longing is torturous. I think that's where the suicidal thoughts that some have, come from. It's not necessarily that you want to end your life, but the desire to see them again is a force that's ever present and a powerful draw. And one hopes that in death, you'll see those you miss so much - once again. You'll be together again. Together. And until then, I do believe that people no longer here can send signals to those who are.
When I'm outdoors with Lily I tell her that her dad is everywhere - in all the nature that surrounds her. And when we were lying together in the grass last weekend, looking up at the trees, a leaf floated down and landed on her face. She didn't flinch or seem surprised - she just let it happen. It was Alan kissing her - I know it was. And I think she knew too. What she felt on her cheek wasn't scratchy or dry, it was soft, it was graceful, it was a gentle nudge from him.
My widowed friends and I sometimes talk about dreams and we're all hungry to see our "other halves" in them. It was so long before Alan appeared to me in my dreams - months went by and friends would share with me that he had been in theirs. I was desperate to know how he seemed, what he was doing. He was always fine, he was joking, he was Alan in the truest sense. It was good to hear that. But his absence from my dreams was frustrating, in fact, that's often where I felt most abandoned. The few times he first appeared, months ago, he wasn't well. They were almost flashbacks. But in recent months I have seen him. And he is beautiful. He looks healthy, tanned, toned and happy. In the last dream he was even laughing at me, and that felt good. He could always make me smile, his humor was unparalleled, his temperament even-keeled, his presence calm. I think that's what I saw in Lily this morning - there was an openness in her eyes, an understanding and not an ounce of sadness - it was just an all-knowing connection that the two of us shared. And Alan was right there with us.

The Two of Us

2009-05-23T21:03:00.000-04:00

Now that it's warm out, Lily and I head to the parks as frequently as possible. It is liberating for me to get out, and special for us both to enjoy the outdoors together. I love to watch her look up at the trees, see her fall asleep on a blanket, and sleep soundly after a day in the open air. But yet another hurdle for me now is seeing the many families out doing the very same thing. And by that I mean moms and dads - dads running along side their kids still shaky on their bicycles, families spread out on the grass with bats and gloves and a pizza, parents zigzagging behind a wobbly toddler as they discover all that's around them. Unfortunately for me, the beauty of our experiences together serves as a constant reminder of who's not here. At Whole Foods today I found myself looking at "new baby" cards and of course gravitated to one that said on the cover "Two's Company" - I immediately thought, how perfect for the single parent - and was so comforted that someone had actually thought to create a card with that sentiment. And then I opened it up and it said "Three's a family". I felt like an idiot having fallen for the thought. Yesterday a woman was commenting on how beautiful Lily is and she said to her, "Yes, you're so pretty, you have to go home and tell your dad that!" And that's what I encounter on a daily basis. The reality that our family is different. Having each other is enough, and we are our own family - but seeing conventional, nuclear families, everywhere I turn, and hearing first hand how friends are spending the weekend with their families or planning excursions for the summer months is painful. It's natural to hear it and if Alan were here, we'd be doing the same thing - planning an outing, a getaway or just relishing in parenthood at home in the city. But without him here on days like this, the loneliness feels even more profound. When I walk along the Hudson River, pushing a stroller with the most amazing little being kicking and cooing below, the guilt I feel is gut wrenching, and Alan's absence, still shocking. He should be here, with us. Sailboats glide by, and I hear and see Alan scanning the water for sails belonging to his club. Everywhere is a memory. And Lily, for now, is oblivious to it all.

Not By Choice

2009-05-21T22:58:00.000-04:00

Desperate to meet other single moms/parents (I've just about given up on the widowed faction) a few have mentioned "Single Mothers by Choice", a group formed by women who started families just that way - by choice. I cannot articulate how envious I am of their network. I discovered them on line months ago, early on in my pregnancy, but factored them out as an option as that just wasn't my situation. Yet recently I almost attended a group meeting with the hope of just connecting with "mothers who happen to be single". But I didn't, as it was obvious that it wasn't the club for me. And I get it. Their issues are different. And my situation is different. And that, too, is isolating.
What was beyond hard to endure when I told people that I was pregnant, were the responses that expressed joy for me - but in an off-putting way - because many of the congratulatory statements neglected to acknowledge the circumstance. "How wonderful that you now have a part of him", "at least you'll have a new life to love" - those comments are all true and I was equally grateful. But it was hard for me to relish in the news and I feared that to others I appeared unappreciative or even resentful of the blessing. Yet I wasn't. What I longed for was the acknowledgement that yes it was the ultimate blessing but it wasn't bestowed upon me as we had planned. And that was all I really wanted to hear. I remember in my birth class the instructor warned us of what we might experience if we had to have a C-Section when we had hoped for a "normal delivery". "People will say 'who cares how it was delivered - you had a healthy baby' but what you'll want people to understand is 'yes, I have a healthy baby, I had always only wanted a healthy baby - but having the C-Section was not as we had planned' ". When I heard her offer up that response to help us articulate the disappointment we might feel, a light went on inside my head. That was it - that was all I had wanted people to understand - that I was never not appreciative to have this being, this... legacy, inside of me, but that the wish was manifesting itself in a very different way. . I was overjoyed at the thought of this combination of the two of us – to have this dream we so longed for, but it was and is difficult to embrace the joy without the one who so deserves to be here with me to embrace it. And many on the outside, the periphery of our lives, could not grasp that. They felt that a baby carried Alan’s presence on, and that I will ‘get him back’ in one way and have happiness to replace the sorrow in another way. Yes those were/are both true, but people failed to recognize that this was not the way either of us had planned it. We planned and dreamt of a baby of our own – and then we fantasized about what it would be like once we had one – how we would be as parents, how it would look, walk, what it’s movements and mannerisms would be. How it would waddle and peer in at us from a doorway, how it would greet us coming home at the end of the day. How it would wake up from a nap, rosy cheeked and sweaty. It was a shared experience that we looked so forward to as we brought someone new into the world. And it is that loss that I mourn so. And the guilt I feel for witnessing this without Alan here to experience it washes over me in an endless torrent. Not only do I have my own life, but I have a bit of our lives in a new person to love and to cherish ~ I devour every moment, every move, every expression, every sound that Lily initiates - but it is a struggle to keep the darkness at bay, that nagging voice in the back of my mind that says over and over and over again, "He should be here".

Forward, and back.

2009-05-19T20:50:00.002-04:00

I now have someone to live for. Lily has turned the volume of life back up. She is music and color and unadulterated happiness to me. She has brought light back into my life and provided distraction from grief that once dominated my days and nights. But I'm not really sure what it means to heal. And we live in a culture where most cannot stand to see others endure sadness and pain. I get it, - it is tough to see the ones you love in distress and so they choose to shortcut seeing others mourn to protect their own emotional well being. OK. But then they should stop there. Because when they don't, you get the comments, the cliches many feel reluctant to offer yet they do anyway, and then that becomes yet another burden to the one who's suffering. I was told early on in my pregnancy – “come on, you had a choice, you made a choice, this should be the happiest time of your life!” – ugh – such ignorance it leaves me dumbfounded at times. People cannot stand to see grief so they gloss over it and dismiss it having never faced it before themselves. And my being pregnant was supposed to compensate for the loss. They say time heals – and I want to say – and? What? What does that mean to one who is heartbroken right now?! Time crept along for me in the months after Alan's passing, and they would still if it wasn't for Lily Alan, so that idea meant nothing to me. It was a test to get from morning to day to night and then day again. I looked forward to getting to tomorrow just so that I could say that I had lived another day. I couldn't read the paper, I cared nothing for the news. I still at ten months cannot read the front pages nor listen to news shows. I lived for our pregnancy and that was it. Days went by where I didn't go outside, or even get dressed. People are desperate to see you “heal” or “recover” and they are uncomfortable acknowledging profound loss. So they look for signs that “you’re better” “you seem perkier today… sometimes I find you just have to consciously change your mood/outlook” – You become the receptor of boundless unsolicited advice. They ask how you are and then tell you how you should be. They want to measure your “progress” rather than just letting you be where you are. You become self-conscious of your response when others ask how you are. You know they want to hear that you're doing "a bit better", so to look at them, being true to yourself and bluntly responding, "not so good" or "shitty" begins your journey of self-criticism where you are constantly evaluating where you are in the survival/healing process. It's taken me months to be OK with where I am. And that was because of my support group. I was surrounded by others who had also suffered profound loss and realized that "where I was" was the norm. It was a horrifying comfort to hear others had been out of work for a year, hadn't gotten out of bed for three days, had contemplated suicide, attempted suicide. It was the one place I felt normal. Because when you lose your other half everything around you is silenced. And life, as you knew it, really did end. You're in a bubble, watching a world of which you're no longer a part, float by. And no one notices. No one knows what you're enduring. No one gets it. Bank tellers, postal workers, store clerks - none of them know how hard it was for you just to step up to the counter. Getting out the door was one step forward, the spontaneous tears on the subway seems to move you back. And then you realize there is no where to get - forward means nothing because the distance is infinite, the loss will always be there, you just learn how to navigate and adjust to the loss. The best friends and family comfort the most when they acknowledge the shittiness - and let you be where you are. That is the truest form of respect and compassion. And I am grateful to have those people, so real and open to unchartered territory, that are comfortable seeing me through the days.

I'm a widow.

2009-05-16T21:23:00.000-04:00

I love that one of the ads that Google has temporarily placed in the sidebar of my blog is for Senior Dating. Their web crawler has clearly picked up the word widow on my blog title and it automatically associates "widow" with age. How I wish I was in my 80s or 90s or even 70s and had truly lived a long life with Alan. That is the misconception with widowhood... People are shocked to hear my story, as I would be had it been someone else - and that is one of my greatest challenges on a daily basis. I was two months pregnant when Alan passed away and all throughout the pregnancy, medical technicians referred to my brother-in-law as my husband, and even when he wasn't with me people still referred to my "husband". At prenatal yoga I was asked if "my husband was ready", in my birth class info packets were "one per couple", "here's an opportunity for you, dad, to massage mom". Trying on maternity bras the fitter tried to sell me "sexy" lingerie for the pregnant and breastfeeding woman - "he'll love this", she said. Even on the day of my daughter's birth when nurses couldn't be bothered to read the first THREE lines of my birth plan explaining my situation, they were asking me if I wanted them to get my husband. SURE. I'd love you to go get my husband. Jesus, if they can do that they're in the wrong profession. At the pediatrician, the nurse asked for "dad's occupation" and there's nothing more challenging than having to bring a death certificate to the hospital to verify your child's birth certificate information. I just celebrated Mother's Day and I took my daughter to a local place so we could have our picture taken together and it was at a scrap-booking store. The gentleman there said to me "Maybe now you'll do a scrapbook with all the photos". I smiled, not able to share the truth on a day where I was desperately trying to focus on the joy in my arms, and said "not so sure I'll have much time" to which he replied - "well that's when you hand her over to dad and say 'I'm going to work on this for awhile'". I nodded and lowered my eyes.
I'm actually surprised, - rather, disappointed that in this day-in-age with so many differently structured modern families where there are two moms, single moms who did it "by choice" (that's another entry...), two dads, etc... that people aren't more sensitive to those dynamics. "But you wear a ring" my friends protest - Yep, I still wear my ring. But who's to say what or who it represents. So many assumptions people make - we're a much more old-fashioned society than we care to admit. So when it comes to becoming a widow at age 39 you're an oddity. I was discussing with my other "widowed friends" the awkwardness of laying the news on the ignorant soul who put their foot in their mouth and it's uncomfortable all around. You feel bad for the person who's made the comment and yet it's never going to be as tough for them as it is for the person who must deliver the news. One of my friends said, "so what - let em feel awkward - it's the truth". And it is. The awful, horrifying truth. And you face it day in and day out, and every moment, around every corner, every encounter with someone on the street or on the phone feels unexpected and heightens your anxiety – because we are beyond vulnerable. I get sideswiped with memories, hormones, emotions, smells, someone’s gait from behind, a profile out of the corner of my eye. Alan is everywhere. My heart is swollen with longing and even now, the reality has to be digested over and over and over again. It is an exercise, and one that I am reluctant to practice, though I know I must for my own well being. And it's tougher to do when you get the ignorant comments. And yet, the flipside is that moving forward, away from the tragedy, threatens the loss of memory. And the memories are the ties that bind. There is not a single thing that I wish to forget about my life with Alan, even the horrors we endured and his final days. Those moments were our life together and they were filled with depth that is impossible to put into words. Thankfully, even for me married only ten months, I do feel like the eighty year old widow. Because when I met Alan I felt like I had known him forever.

Where are they?

2009-05-13T22:54:00.002-04:00

So tonight I had dinner with widows and widowers I met at Gilda's Club. I am grateful I met them and have them to relate to, to laugh with, to cry with, and to share thoughts, dreams, experiences with. We are, as many sadly joke, 'the club no one wants to be a member of'. Despite the fact I have them in my life I still long to know more. More young spouses who lost their loved ones, or single widowed women with babies - I've seen online that women widowed while pregnant are out there, but they are states and countries apart. Having a child is the most instantly rewarding relationship I think one could have - and yet the beauty and happiness makes the loneliness and longing for your other half that much more excruciating. When you lose someone you love, every moment following is a "first". The seasons change and you're alone. A new President is sworn in and you're alone. holidays come, mail comes for them, phone calls come, unknowing emails float in and estate sale vultures send postcards. And those "firsts" are never-ending. And now with a child, those firsts are beautiful and heart-wrenching. They should be here to witness it. All of it. I do believe Alan is watching closely, always by my side, but I want to touch him. And him to touch our girl. Our creation. I am so truly happy that few are in my shoes, but just as AA, NA, OA or 9/11 groups exist, the new foundation you must build to survive is facilitated by the support from others who are also living through the tragedy. And yet in NYC, not much exists for YOUNG widowed spouses...

An excerpt from last Fall: I cannot believe in a city of this magnitude it is as hard as it is to find others, meet others who have endured similar losses. And by that I mean young spouses who have lost their partners to cancer. Surely I am not alone. I saw a few young people at MSK that were there with their partners. And I am sadly sure that some of them face a similar predicament – if not now, soon they will. Because that is what makes it different for those who battle a life threatening illness. You fear even when you deny it or defy it that sooner or later it’s going to get you. Maybe not. .. That’s the hope, the dream and source of strength. There is and always was hope. But when you’re in a cancer hospital surrounded by terminal illness you know the fight is worth it but you also are acutely aware of the odds. And you share corridors and rooms and elevators and doctors with others who are similarly affected. Teary family members, comforting each other in the halls, the pediatric patients you see so tired in such new lives, compassionate yet removed doctors, nurses who must feel it’s groundhog day, people who in passing say they’ll pray for you - everywhere you look it’s almost a mirror reflection. Either it’s you now, or will be soon. There are moments when you get lucky and things seem to be on the upswing. But the fear you keep at bay is haunting. That is the difference. Yes a heart attack or the flu or a fluky illness is no less unfair, cruel and devastating. But I believe that the suffering that one feels when enduring a serious illness or an illness of a loved one is a torturous journey – where because of your awareness, every day you celebrate what you have - and mourn what you have to lose. And it is the mourning, the inescapable end that looms in the immeasurable distance that makes this experience different. You are witnessing and enduring the end of a life that is yours and someone else’s. And you have no control. And your hopes diminish and fears turn to reality, and you are aware, somewhat, of what the outcome ultimately will be. It is unbearable.

Rewind (an excerpt). This was us.

2009-05-12T00:07:00.000-04:00

Everyone says time will heal. But this week, three weeks past, feels more awful than the last two. Alan was my world. We were intricately woven together. Newlyweds still madly in love. I was so crazy about him that at times I would physically run to him when I saw him. When I met Alan it was such a relief. And I believe it was for him too – We had both found peace at last in each other. A deep, soulful connection – there was so much I grew to know and love about Alan – we shared so many thoughts and dreams and we were similarly dark and sad on certain levels too. Much of Alan’s sadness came from his illness – the threat – the everpresent looming of some force, ready to take away whatever happiness and goodness he embraced. He was all too aware of the harder lessons in life – mainly that all things good never lasted. And in Alan’s case, he suspected it would be sooner rather than later. And he was right.
We recently saw a young child lose her balloon to the sky above and she was devastated. “Gotta learn the lesson” Alan said… I was so resentful sometimes of Alan’s pessimistic moments and yet, deep down I knew he was right. Sure the balloon doesn’t leave everyone’s grasp but for many it does. It slips away and you’re left with nothing. I had found the love of my life – and deep down I shared his worries – now that we both had found “It” how would we, how could we ever endure the fear of what might happen, if Alan’s life were jeopardized, if it was to be threatened by the worst thought imaginable. Our inner temperament was not unlike the look on Dustin Hoffman and Kate Ross’ faces in the last shot of The Graduate when they’re in the back of the bus, escaping the wedding, looking fearful, shocked and contemplative of what they had just done, and of what might lie ahead. That was the two of us. Embracing the future and scared shitless of the underlying circumstances. What was to become of us.

Here I go...

2009-05-11T23:45:00.000-04:00

Over the last year and a half I married the love of my life, lost him to a rare form of cancer and had our first child. There is much to endure when you've lost someone you loved and continue to love with all your heart. The purpose of writing this down, is mostly for me, yet I'm posting it with others in mind who may or may not find it helpful ~ I've been writing for several months, so I may back-track and start off where I was when I lost Alan.