A Letter For Gabriel

Dear Gabriel,

          
         My sweet son.  I have thought day and night about what I might say to you if I had the chance.   If only you could have known how much you are loved and the impact you have had on your father, me, and everyone around us.  Since you did not have the opportunity to live your own story, I would like to share it with you now.

          Your daddy and I tried for five long years to have you.  We went through fertility treatments and many failed pregnancy attempts but we didn’t give up.  We wanted you so badly.  I finally got the phone call that I had been waiting for for so long.  I was pregnant with my precious baby.  I was sick in the mornings but I didn’t care.  I dreamt of the day that I would hold you and I imagined what you might look like.  I wondered if you would inherit your father’s amazing sense of humor.  I couldn’t wait for you to meet all of your cousins and your grandparents.  You were already so loved. 

          Shortly into my pregnancy, I got very sick and had to go to the hospital.  I was terrified that I was losing you.  They reassured me that you were fine but they needed to do regular ultrasounds to monitor us both.  I was excited about that because more ultrasounds meant that I got to see you more often and hear that precious heartbeat that warmed my heart. 

          On one of the ultrasounds that they did, they found a bulge coming from your belly.  They told me they could fix it but it was going to be a tough six weeks after you were born.  I was worried but I took comfort in their confidence that this could be fixed.

          They sent me to a specialist who performed more tests.  It was then that our true nightmare began.  You had some other abnormalities that were consistent with a disorder that was fatal.  They would have to do yet another test to confirm this but I knew in my heart that this was really bad news.  That evening I went for a walk.  I walked around our neighborhood and I felt you moving and kicking in my belly.  You were so active.  How could something be wrong?  I started to say goodbye at that moment.  I felt so guilty.  I had not even received a confirmation that we were going to lose you and yet I was already saying goodbye.  If your own mother didn’t think you could survive this, how could anyone else?  For that, I am so sorry.  I think that maybe if I had just believed a little harder, you could’ve had a chance.  I know deep down that isn’t true but I carry that guilt with me anyway.  Unfortunately, my guilt was only beginning. 

          When we got the call from my doctor that our fears were confirmed, my whole body went numb.  I heard some of the words he was saying but I was having trouble stringing them all together.  I heard words like “incompatible with life” and “will not survive childbirth.”  After rattling on for what seemed like forever, he asked if I had any questions.  The only question I could manage was, “Is the baby a boy or a girl?”  He told me you were a boy.  My precious son that I had wanted for so long.  I knew then that I would name you Gabriel as you deserved the name of an angel.

          Our lives became a whirlwind at that point.  Our doctors’ recommendation was to induce me early.  If we continued with the pregnancy and you, by some miracle, survived childbirth, you would suffer in a way that was unbearable for me to even imagine.  I was faced with a decision no mother should ever have to make.  I had to choose whether to induce early and let you go peacefully or continue with the pregnancy knowing that you would suffer and that the odds of you surviving were almost zero.  The death blow had been struck.  We knew this was the beginning of the end. 

          Your father and I made the decision to induce early and let you go peacefully in the only environment you had ever known rather than introduce you into a new world where you would feel nothing but pain and fear.  I will never forget the feeling of standing in that hospital staring at the doors.  It was surreal.  I felt you moving and kicking inside of me and I knew when I walked through those doors, you were going to be lost to me forever.  What kind of mother was I to do this to her son?  Why couldn’t I save you?  I felt completely helpless.

          After 26 hours of labor, you were born.  My precious Gabriel was here.  You were perfect in every way and we loved you instantly.  You were so tiny.  You had your dad’s nose.  We held you for 12 precious hours.  I never knew how short 12 hours really can be.  Those were our only 12 hours to be a family.  We talked to you, took pictures with you, took footprints, and held your tiny hands.  Your dad told you all about Notre Dame football and his thoughts that Michael Floyd might, indeed, be Superman.  You even got to meet your Aunt Susi who instantly adored you.  She would have spoiled you rotten.  Those 12 hours were the saddest and yet the happiest hours of my life.  When we had to hand you over to the funeral home, your dad and I held each other and cried.  We felt a pain that went so deeply into our souls that I knew our world had forever changed and we would never be the same again.  We lost a piece of ourselves that day and it took me a long time to understand that that was okay.  It is a piece of us that belongs to you alone and it is that void in our lives that will hold on to your memory and keep you alive in our hearts forever.       

          After we said goodbye to you, I went through a period of time where I felt robbed.  I felt robbed of the hopes and dreams that we had for you.  I felt robbed of the opportunity to watch you grow up, push you on a swing, and teach you how to ride a bicycle.  The holidays became torture.   I plastered a smile on my face and tried really hard to be happy when I watched other kids open presents on Christmas or hunt for eggs on Easter but, inside, I felt angry, jealous, and alone.  I would walk into your nursery and stare at your empty crib and cry.  It infuriated me when people said things to me like, “Don’t worry, you can still have more kids.”  I didn’t want any other kids.  I wanted you.  People did not understand the pain of our loss because they never knew you.  They had never met you.  I felt that this diminished your existence and it made me angry.

          Little did I know that nothing could diminish your existence.  As time went on, I witnessed something amazing.  I watched as our friends and family came together in support.  I watched my relationships grow and change.  I watched our friends hug their kids a little bit tighter and tell them just one more story at night.  Their appreciation for their children had changed, because of you.  I watched as my relationship with your father grew.  We became stronger and closer than we had ever been and we have you to thank for that.  You gave us the greatest gift we could ever ask for.  You made us parents. 

          I have had the ability to help other parents through the agony of losing a child and you give me the strength to do that.  Every time I talk a mother through her grief, I feel closer to you.  Not only did your life serve an amazing purpose, you helped me find my purpose as well and, for that, I can never repay you.  You gave the ultimate sacrifice.  You gave your life to enrich ours.  You give us hope, strength, and courage.  You remind us every day about what is truly important in this life and to hold on to the precious time we have with our loved ones.  Do you know how proud that makes me?  I’m such a lucky mother to have had you for a son. 

          I’m about to do one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.  I’m going to get on stage and share your story with other parents.  I thought it was only fair that before I share your story with them, that I share it with you first.  I hope that you are there, somehow, to hear out loud how much you are loved and missed and how proud of you we are.  I know that your story will continue to help other parents through their grief so, rest easy, my sweet Gabriel, that we will keep breaking the silence and never let your memory die.

Until we meet again,

Your loving mother.  

One Foot in the Grave

I really can't stand when people touch my feet. So, unlike most girls, I find pedicures to be pure torture. However, summer inevitably rolls around, and I am forced into the salon to protect the people around me from the horrific sight of my unpedicured toes.  I always wait until the last possible moment when my toenails are starting to grow into my skin and my calluses resemble something you might see on Fred Flinstone’s feet to once again bear the burden of my extra X chromosome and submit to the torturous ritual called a pedicure. 

So, this year, as the weather started to warm and my feet begged me to allow them to make the transition from boots to sandals, I begrudgingly entered the torture chamber and allowed them to touch my feet. As you can imagine, they were not particularly happy to see me.  They quickly disappeared into the back room to gather their tools which I assume consisted of a pair of pliers, a utility knife, and a belt sander.  They talked amongst themselves in Vietnamese in what I assume was their version of rock, paper, scissors to see who the lucky winner would be to go to work on my piggies.  They apparently had a new girl who was just starting. After getting a good look at my feet, they decided this would probably be good practice for her. I, on the other hand, was not so thrilled about having an amateur work on my feet. See, when I do go and get a pedicure I am not one who wants this to be an hour and a half long process while they massage my feet and pick at my toes. I want to be in and out of there in the absolute shortest amount of time possible with perfect toenails that look fantastic for 2 1/2 months because you know that I'm only doing this twice during sandal season. Not having to subject myself to pedicures is one of the very few things that I love about the winter.  

So, they gestured toward a seat that I walked toward as though I was headed for the electric chair and sat down across from a man who was currently getting his eyebrows waxed and I tried not to stare at him while I stuck my feet into the bacteria bin which I knew had probably held thousands of disgusting infected toes. Luckily, the water was scalding hot, so not only was I sure that it had killed any sort of organisms that might be lurking behind, it also peeled off my top layer of skin so the organisms wouldn't have had anything to attach to anyway.

The woman doing my toes offered to do a manicure as well since she was learning and practicing so I reluctantly agreed since my hands didn't look much better than my feet. She told me to sit back and relax and enjoy some TV while she went to work. I looked up at the TV, and in a moment of sheer irony, on comes a commercial for toenail fungus medication. I reached for a magazine instead. 

The new girl started to look distressed pretty quickly, not that I blame her. She started to sweat and said something to one of her coworkers which I told myself was probably a comment about how adorable my feet were and she needed to come and see them right away. In reality, it was more of a plea for help because she was clearly in way over her head.  Over walked the seasoned manicurist who decided to pitch in and help. New girl kept working on my feet and old girl went to work on my hands. She started massaging my hands, which is the only part of this process that I thought I would enjoy.  Well, that was until I realized that my next step would be to the hospital where they would repair my four broken fingers from the deep tissue/tendon/bone massage that she performed.

Meanwhile, on my feet, new girl decided that she was going to try a hot wax treatment on my legs.  It would have been nice if she asked me first, but she just brought the wax over and placed it on my legs before I realized what was happening. Unfortunately I had just shaved my legs prior to this visit in an effort to not look like a complete Neanderthal. Have you ever put hot wax on freshly shaven legs? I would highly advise against it.  Luckily, my feet and legs had started to go numb anyway from her constant prying, filing, and other torturous rituals that she could come up with to punish me. So I turned my attention back to my hands.  When I looked down, I realized that four of my fingers were bleeding from where she cut me while trying to trim my cuticles. Luckily, she dabbed some alcohol on them to get the excess blood off so it wouldn't ruin my French manicure that I was having done. My eyes started to tear up, but I still refused to say anything, because the man across from me still had not complained once about his eyebrows getting waxed. By the way he was now getting his hands and feet done too.  If he could do this, so could I.  I would not be shown up by a man.

Then came my favorite part of the experience...the part where I almost died. I always thought my headstone would read something cool, like “Eaten by a great white shark” or “Slipped and broke her neck while trying to climb on stage at a Chippendale's show,” not “Death by pedicure.”  Again, remember they are working on my hands and feet at the same time in an effort to get me out of their shop as quickly as possible.  The manicure I am receiving requires a UV light to set.  A UV light requires electricity.  My feet are still in the water basin of death when the seasoned manicurist decides the best way to handle this is to place the electric UV light on my lap with both of my hands inside.  I’m sure, in her mind, this is a great solution to getting finished quicker and, at the same time, making it impossible for me to move, squirm, and writhe away from their every move.  Unfortunately, as she turned around to grab something, the light started to slide towards the tub.  Defenseless with my hands inside of the machine and my feet in the bin, my life flashed before my eyes and I yanked my feet out of the water, kicking the new girl in the shoulder in the process.  At the same time, I pulled my hands out of the light sending it crashing down at the manicurist’s feet.  I strung together a slew of words that would have made a sailor blush and they responded with a string of words that I didn’t understand but I can tell you that it didn’t sound like, “I’m sorry for almost electrocuting you.” 

I was a bit shaken and I insisted on a different manicurist who wasn’t a homicidal maniac coming over to finish the job.  I glared at them all while he finished up and then I paid a ridiculous amount of money for my bleeding fingers, water-wrinkled feet, and newfound trauma before stomping out to my car and slamming the door.  How on earth do women enjoy this experience??? 

The logical part of my brain told me that, next year, I should just embrace unpedicured toes and use that money to buy wine and therapy from this year’s experience.  Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain is very small and the vengeful side is large.  So I’ll be back, sadistic salon workers, and I’ll be sure that my feet resemble something out of your worst nightmares next time around….