Category — Tear Jerkers

I have lost many people in my life. My wonderful grandparents on both sides of the family. My step-father. Beloved pets.

But I’ve never lost a friend. I’ve never had a friend die.

Die. Dead. How can a friend. Be dead?

The words don’t make sense in the same sentence. Because people who die are gravely sick, or old, or addicted to dangerous drugs, or reckless and irresponsible. There’s an explanation for the death. There’s a moment or a choice or a lifestyle or an illness that you can point to and say, “Oh, he died of a heart attack,” or “She died from cancer.”

A dear friend died in a motorcycle accident yesterday. His sister contacted me through Facebook to break the news and we spoke on the phone shortly afterwards.

The news was so shocking, so abrupt, that I thought it was a joke.

The finality of death, the eternity of it, the forever-ness of it, has always been the most painful thing to understand. But at least there’s always been a cause.

This time, though, I’m at a complete loss. He’s still here. I can still hear his voice. I can still hear his motorcycle pull up to the house. I can still hear his uproarious laughter bouncing off the walls.

There’s his spot on our couch. He swam in our pool and ate Chinese food with us. We all got fired from our jobs together. We all started our own company together. We exchanged secrets.

Our cats peed on his motorcycle helmet and we bought him a new one. He clogged our toilet and, while piss-water flooded the bathroom, he calmly asked, “Errr….you got some towels or something?” He formed a band with my husband. He didn’t flinch when Chris burned a rack of ribs on Memorial Day.

He took me on my first (only) motorcycle ride. He gave me binoculars for my birthday. He took me to Chili’s when I was pregnant. He came to my baby shower.

His hair turned gray. He laughed louder. He got smarter and sharper. He was finally going to buy a couch for his apartment.

And then he died.

Dammit, Troy. God dammit. We miss you.

Today is my birthday. I am 32 years old. My 30′s suddenly seem so . . . inevitable.

Normally, I’m the one to celebrate my birthday the loudest. A birthday is your own special holiday, a day the world became a little bit different because of your existence. Every birth has a story, a history, the artifacts of which you carry with you every day of your life.

***

It’s been an unseasonably wet and cold winter in Florida. Where we normally take sunny days for granted, we now remark on the days when the gray skies part to give us a glimpse of what is being obscured.

A cold front, and the rain it bears, kept us stuck in the house again today. The girls were losing it. I was losing it. Not bothering to change the girls out of their pajamas, I took them out to the front yard.

We sat, the three of us, on an old porch swing by the front door, a swing I’ve used maybe three times in the past five years. The simple motion — back, forth, back, forth — invoked instant calm, the memory of rocking in the womb.

The wind picked up. The girls got down. Without hesitation, Althea buried her feet into a pile of wet leaves, sitting down to squish the earth and twigs between her fingers.

Elise picked up handfuls of leaves and trotted around the front yard, shrieking with delight.

Both girls stuffed piles of dirt into their mouths, an unapologetic exploration of their ever-expanding world.

Builds immunity, as our 93-year-old, World War II-vet neighbor would say.

***

In some tiny corner of my mind, I mourn. I long. My daughters’ lives evoke these feelings. I don’t embrace these feelings. I don’t hide them either. It’s just a dormant seed that I do not plant. But in fleeting, gray moments, I mourn. I long.

I mourn because my daughters will know so much about their lives — of their father, their future siblings, of each other, of the day they were born.

Things I don’t know about myself.

Much about my birth day is a mystery to me. I know that I was born in a small town nestled in a valley in the Pyrenees mountains of northern Spain. I know that my mother did a natural child birth. According to my Spanish birth certificate, I was born at the vague hour of “noon.” I don’t know how much I weighed, how long I was, how active and alert I was.

I don’t know what I looked like. I will never know what I looked like.

And so (teensy tiny nebulous little thought that I do not nurture) I mourn the irrevocable loss of my infancy. I long for knowing.

***

This year, my parties and presents and over-indulgences are overshadowed. My desire to celebrate my day has dissipated. Today is now something more. I share the day of my birth with my my children, my whole family.

These are my gifts this year: my daughters, my husband, our family. Love. Cloudy days. Playing in the dirt.

As it should be.

I know, I haven’t been blogging. Shame, as my grandmother would have said.

I’m tired. I’ve been working a lot, mostly at night, and staying up much later than I’m used to. I’ve been working while sitting on an old, uneven couch, which is killing my back and shoulders.

I’m stressed. About the house. About money. About feeling overwhelmed — kids, house, money. What to make for dinner. Laundry piling up and spreading disease and pestilence.  You know, typical stuff.

But mostly, I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because my daughters are going to turn one next week. I’m having flashbacks of where I was, what I was doing, this time last year.

This time last year, I was spending most of the day on the couch, having contractions that I didn’t know were contractions.

This time last year, I was shuffling down the street, trying to walk myself into labor.

This time last year, I had (gestational) diabetes.

This time last year, I had a 50-inch waist.

This time last year, I knew what day my daughters would be born.

This time last year, I didn’t know what my daughters looked like.

This time last year, I had no idea what I was in for. I had mentally checked out. All I needed to know, all I needed to do, was give birth to healthy twins. I didn’t know about the worry, the ignorance, the fear, the sleep deprivation, the protectiveness.

The hopes and dreams. The smiles. The laughter. The pride. The love. My god, the love.

***

I don’t know these folks. Haven’t interacted with them prior to their loss — a loss I truly, truly can’t imagine (happy birthday, little one). Even now, I feel that all I can do is leave sympathetic comments. But I think about their family often, especially in times like these when I get caught up in the charade that being a parent can bring on.

***

Now, typing all of that, I feel ridiculous for worrying about a fucking party. Fucking streamers and fucking balloons and the fucking idiotic Dixie plates I bought at Walmart, worrying that they weren’t fancy enough and theme-y enough and that people would judge me as an uncaring mother because I didn’t pay $5 for eight paper plates.

I love my daughters. I love my daughters.  And that is what’s important — to them, to me, to us.

I bought these today.

Freaking out. Freaking. Out.

When I think about what I thought I’d be like as a mother — let me tell you, it didn’t include being all sentimental at $8 “Birthday Girl” shirts. And it certainly didn’t involve walking into a Carter’s outlet store and almost having sex with the first guy that walked by in order to get pregnant after seeing an adorable (ADORABLE!) teensie tiny wittle baby newborn onesie.

Every day, I see my babies looking a little bit more like little girls. Little girls who will start walking soon. Walking by themselves. Talking. Talking to themselves. Pretending. Playing. Going to school. Having a crush. Getting in trouble. (I really hope they play pranks on teachers, because what good is it being an identical twin if you don’t?)

Best friends. Back stabbing. Crying.

First kiss.

Second kiss.

Beyond. Etc. (Freaking out!)

Broken hearts. Hugs. Hugs hugs hugs.

I have a lot on my mind as we approach the end of the girls’ first year with us — all conflicting and confusing and convoluted thoughts, of course. Thoughts about breastfeeding and weaning, thoughts about the future, thoughts about our house and our families and my age. Thoughts involving teensie tiny wittle baby newborn onesies.

Shopping sure can be complicated.

And he taketh away.

We just got a knock at the door at 10 p.m. A neighbor. How many cats did we have?

Kramer is alive and purring next to me on the couch. Vincent Van Gogh, the father of the rest of the kitties we have, is dead. Hit and killed by a car.

R.I.P.

Kramer did fine through the night. I talked to the vet this morning. As far as they can tell, he has a fractured palate and broken jaw. His eyes are swollen shut now, but when they were still somewhat open, he did have his vision. Most of all, though, he has his wits about him. He purrs when petted, and rolls onto his back to have his belly scratched. Just like Kramer.

The doctor was actually very hopeful that, with surgery, Kramer could lead a relatively normal kitty life. She thinks he’d be at higher risk of seizures in the future because of his head trauma, but the fact that he actually did well during the first 24 hours was a promising sign. She said they usually degrade or pass in the first day if they’re not doing well.

She recommended he be transferred to an emergency vet about an hour away where they have a dental surgeon on staff. The idea is to have Kramer put under general anaesthesia just one time, to do X-rays and the surgery all at once.

We’ve decided to give it a shot. Financially, this is not smart. But. If he were not going to have good quality of life, if he were a vegetable, if we had to squeeze his belly to make him poop, if he had a feeding tube the rest of his life . . . all that would be one thing. I don’t think it’s smart to save an animal’s life if they’re not going to enjoy their time on earth. But I honestly couldn’t live with myself if we let him go when he had a good chance of having a good, normal life.

Chris is at the other emergency vet right now with a very beat-up looking Kramer. I would post a pic but I can’t look at it so I won’t. I’ll update as I get more news. Please, some healthy kitty vibes, prayers, positive thoughts, whatever would be much appreciated.

I ran over one of our cats this morning. Specifically, MY cat, Kramer, that I had before I even met Chris. I felt it when I ran him over and I immediately knew what happened. He was alive when I last saw him.

Between Chris and I, we spent four hours looking for him. Neither of us had any luck.

Late tonight, Chris was plagued by guilt from watching “The Dog Whisperer” and decided to take the dog out on a random walk. That’s when he found the cat.

They’re at the emergency vet right now. Kramer’s eyes are pretty messed up and his jaw is quite obviously broken. But he meowed a few times and is alive and breathing.

Update when I can.

This afternoon, I was changing Althea, my little firecracker. She was doing her thing, twisting her back and legs to flip herself over, making me curse a few times in laughter and frustration. After some goofing around, she flipped onto her back and I managed to get a diaper under her. Her happy cheeks round with a smile, she grabbed the fat — er, skin on my forearm with her strong little fingers.

In that moment, an otherwise insignificant moment captured in time, I remembered my grandma.

Grama had a lingering Boston accent and enjoyed a cold beer on a hot day. She smoked. She laughed. She read voraciously and snacked on Spam with crackers, taking careful nibbles with her front teeth while flipping the pages of another Agatha Christie mystery. She took clogging lessons.

Grama was buddies with the Lord and didn’t care which church she found him in (she, an alabaster Irish woman, once attended an all-African American gospel church — even purchased traditional African garb — and found that the Lord there was the same Lord she prayed to anywhere else, goddammit).

When I was a little girl, Grama would drive me to the 99-cent store in her long, white Oldsmobile. On our walk through the parking lot, I would stroke Grama’s arms, the sagging, loose skin so soft under my fingertips. I would explore the thick veins in her hands and caress her freckled arms.

This skin was different from mine. I delighted at this discovery, the soft skin loose and saggy with age. I would rub at it with my fingers and tell her how soft she was.

When I grew up, I wanted to have soft skin like Grama.

Now that I’m an adult, I realize she probably cursed all that loose and sagging skin, probably thought it was disgusting and unattractive, a reminder of how not-young she was. But to me, it was human silk, a touchy-feel that represented all that was comforting and right with the world.

My Grama’s skin.

Althea’s fingers digging into my forearm, I slid the diaper under her tiny little bum. Those big, bright eyes. Those apple-round cheeks. The gummy grin. Grabbing at my skin with exuberance and innocence.

Rainy morning. The lack of sunlight in the windows meant the girls slept in. Althea was up first, mumbling and sucking her fingers to get our attention. Elise slept soundly by her side. I decided to forgo efficiency and nurse them one at a time, spending a rare few moments with them one on one.

I know and have read of twin mamas who feel a quiet and occasional resentment at having two babies to care for. If we had “just one” to care for, we could casually feed her, gazing down at one set of eyes, taking our sweet time to enjoy just one little body snuggled against our skin. If we had just one baby, oh! the free time we’d have to change only one dirty diaper, soothe only one crying infant, wash only one set of clothes, bathe only one wiggly little baby. Our child would be playing and babbling and sitting up and walking on time because we’d have enough time to devote to helping her learn and grow as an individual. With just one baby, we wouldn’t feel the guilt of cooing at one while the other stares at us expectantly, waiting for mom to pay attention to them, too. 

We’d go out more often without help because it’d be logistically possible to wander around the park or go grocery shopping with just one baby. We’d have a free spot in the backseat because there would be just one car seat. If we’d carried just one baby during our pregnancies, maybe, just maybe, we’d have a shot at wearing a bikini again in this lifetime. 

Do I have to quit my job? The cost of childcare for two is beyond our means. 

Althea’s little body breathing against mine. I nursed her casually, speaking to her softly and telling her how special she is, just on her own. How much I love just her.

I passed off Althea to Daddy so I could spend easy, slow alone time with Elise too. I love you, just you. These moments are rare.

I know it’s possible to love two babies with the same unending devotion at the same time. But how do we twin moms make sure that each baby knows how valuable they are as just one person?

We took the girls to the county fair today.

You don’t understand. I LOVE THE FAIR. I love it so much, only capitalized letters can possibly capture my love affair with fairs. Polish sausages with onions and peppers. Foot-long corn dogs. Multi-colored cotton candy in bags. Deep fried things on sticks. Airbrushed hats. Embroidery while-u-wait. Mechanical bulls. Teeny-boppers dressed skankily. Toothless rednecks with mullets. Carnies. The Zipper.

Yes, I love love love the fair.

Last year at this time, the girls were tiny balls of cells embedding themselves in my uterine lining. I didn’t know. I mean, I suspected. I kind of knew. But I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get pregnant again right away (I’d miscarried just two months earlier). So I drank a few beers at the Budweiser tent. Chris and I rode my beloved Zipper and the Egg Beater. I smoked. I smoked a lot, with the abandon of a woman who secretly suspects she’s pregnant but is so self-indulgent she hasn’t given up cigarettes just yet.

Tomorrow, Monday, marks one year since I found out I was pregnant. I woke up feeling hopeful. Maybe a little scared and guilty too. I had a stash of early pregnancy tests ready, two days before my period was even due. With the early spring sun streaming in the bathroom window, I ripped open the foil packet to my First Response Early Pregnancy Test. No need to read the directions — I was a pro already, having spent entirely too much time Googling pregnancy test result photos. Piss piss piss. I set the test down, went about my business, peeking out of the corner of my eye for that second pink line.

And there it was. Faint as hell, but there it was.

I often think about my past. The way I’ve treated my family. The dangerous situations I’ve put myself in. All the horrible things I’ve done and said to the people I love most. Sometimes, the guilt and shame make me want to stab my ears with steak knives. Honestly, that bad.

So, while stuffing my face with a pretzel dog at the fair today, I glanced at these two (two!) little beings who trust me and their father more than anyone else in the whole wide world and I wonder what the fuck I’ve done in my miserable life that has given me this incredible privilege of raising two (two!) painfully beautiful little people.

Happy first year together, little people.