For years, I believed in a cosmic vending machine. You put in your prayers, your good deeds, your unwavering faith, and out popped the desired outcome: a healed loved one, a landed dream job, a world free from strife. It felt logical, a system I could control. But then, the universe asserted its power until I gasped for air.
The loss of my 26-year-old son shattered the illusion of the cosmic vending machine, a wish dispenser. Grief, in its crushing honesty, revealed the illusion of my control. My desperate prayers richocheted off the heavens and went unanswered. My cosmic vending machine turned totally defective and inoperable.
My beautiful friend, Michelle, ever the optimist, saw things differently. A solid Christian woman, every morning, she told me after she became a sudden widow, she now prayed for one very important thing, actually a number of them, dozens, in fact: donuts. She prays for donuts! Not a grand plea. Small enough to grasp in your hand – and in your mind. The more I thought about it, the more I saw how the simple request symbolized something profound.
It took loss to understand the fundamental truth my friend embodied. I didn’t have to give up on my faith, only realize I wasn’t the one responsible for the weather that I had no control over from the get-go – but I could pack an umbrella – maybe one big enough that I could even sweetly share.
Just like the twelve steps of recovery teach, I learned to let go and let God (or the universe, a higher power, whatever resonates with you). In this way, the stress alleviated. I didn’t have to demand, only release myself to the mystery of life and surrender to the flow, whether it meant a gentle current of a river or a maelstrom in an ocean or sea.
Don’t get me wrong. My cosmic vending machine is still a very cool-looking device that is a fun fantasy. It’s a healthy escape, but not a blueprint of a reality. It’s different now. My words form donut prayers, always asking at the end for the strength to pick up the scattered crumbs on the counter.
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Growing up, I idolized my older brother Paul. Between his army years, he was the fearless chef, whipping up magic at a fancy seafood restaurant while I fumbled plates as an underage waitress serving alcohol (those were the days when labor laws weren’t always scrutinized!).
My vivid memories not only include him teaching me the restaurant trade, but the laughter of summer afternoons spent on the water fishing with the daredevil captain in his motorboat, and his joyous yell – “Look at me, I look like a lobster!” – as he emerged back on the boat after a spontaneous dip in Long Island Sound, his skin flushed from the sun.
Years flew by. One year, we cleared out some of our excess in our parents’ house for a weekend garage sale before I left for college. Our family had decided that all proceeds would go towards my college fund. It was while hammering a garage sale sign onto a utility pole that my irritation with Brother Paul, chain-smoking beside me, reached a boiling point.
“You can’t do anything without lighting a cigarette, can you?” I lashed out, a cigarette smoker myself at the time, but come on, you could take a breath in between!
Brother Paul, ever the chain smoker, lit another cigarette in reply to my remark. (Little did I know this would be one of his last packs and he would quit soon enough, cold turkey.) The point is that this dynamic happened to be part of a familiar pattern. When something about him rubbed me the wrong way, I’d lash out. The cycle would then repeat, with the roles occasionally reversed. Repeat.
In my youthful naivety and fierce independence, I took family for granted, assuming it was an unchanging fixture in the ever-shifting world. We think we have endless time in the world to say sorry, to mend fences. But life offers no such guarantees. That mindset, needless to say, wasn’t a recipe for a strong relationship with Brother Paul. My early twenties were a whirlwind, and while I eventually made significant amends to him and his wife, Diane, the harsh words exchanged left lingering scars. Let’s face it, neither of us were perfect back then.
Certainly through the years, we took each other for granted, assuming “lobster skin” resilience. We forgot about the fragility woven beneath the shell. This fragility, often ignored by our “get-up-and-go” culture.
This truth hit home recently when Brother Paul faced some health challenges. While the details are private, it was a wake-up call that I actually experienced in slumber. Recently, I had a dream where I tried to comfort him with empty promises of “everything will be alright.” Yet, a chilling voice whispered the truth: “No, it won’t.”
I brushed off the dream, hoping it wasn’t a portent of something terrible. However, it did serve as a stark reminder of life’s impermanence. The truth is, even for the most devout and faith-filled, the finality of death can be a difficult pill to swallow. We crave a pause button, a chance to hold onto forever. But the reality is, life is finite.
At the moment, everything has simmered down. However, Brother Paul’s recent health struggles unleashed a wave of guilt and regret for some of our past words and actions. We also found ourselves acutely missing my son Marshall. His absence magnified the emptiness in our already dwindling family circle. Yet, amidst the pain and turmoil, the experience also ignited a spark of hope. Hope that we would have more time to rebuild a stronger bond, filled with shared laughter that once turned us both lobster-red.
So, here’s my two cents’ worth after being zapped by this most recent wake-up call. Take a deep breath, reach out to those you love, and truly listen where judgment has no place. There are stories waiting to be told, adventures waiting to be had, and sun-kissed swims yet to be taken.
Don’t wait. Embrace the present moment. Yell, “Now is all we have!” Dive into the vast ocean of life now, because even its seemingly endless depths have their limits.
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Sometimes life’s curveballs land right between you and the people who once mattered the most. When you are young, navigating the complexities of life and friendships, your emotions can get tangled up in arguments and hurt feelings. Distance may create walls that seem impossible to climb. But the aging process has helped create a shift in some of my most difficult relationships. I believe this change is because we are beginning to view the world through a different lens, one etched with the wisdom of time and the stark reality of life’s impermanence.
A few weeks ago, for instance, a group of us had gathered for a brunch at my house that reminded me of the incredible power of time and forgiveness.
The atmosphere was electric – in the best way possible. We reminisced about old times, poked fun at each other with gentle jabs. We listened to stories, to dreams simmered and unshaped, the paths we’d taken as a result. What struck me most was the overwhelming sense of love. In spite of all the tough times, we were still here, still connected by a shared history. Everyone left that brunch feeling lighter, closer, and reminded that even the most strained relationships can be nurtured back to health, like a wilted flower receiving a much-needed shower.
A friend once shared a truth that stayed with me: in the kitchen, surrounded by the murmur of conversation, a home finds its heart.
A week after the brunch, I received a thank-you note from one of the group. It was a simple gesture, a few heartfelt lines, but one sentence struck a chord deep within me: “Your house is so warm.”
It might sound simple, but those words meant the world to me. Throughout my life, I’ve always dreamed of having a “warm house.” The warmth I’d craved wasn’t about square footage or architectural style. My desire resided in a place that radiated not just heat, but feelings of belonging, comfort and love.
And here I was, feeling as if I was living the dream. The recent brunch served as a sweet confirmation of our 23-year journey, filled with joyous celebrations and moments of shared sorrow. An important reminder of the enduring connection that fills every corner of my house.
The world around us might change, relationships might evolve, but some things remain constant: the fragility of life, the power of forgiveness, and the enduring warmth of a welcoming home. A place that reflects the camaraderie shared not just in meals to feed the stomach, but in the nourishment of “soul” food exchanged and savored.
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To backtrack for a moment: Like many, I carry invisible scars. Some days, venturing out feels like navigating a minefield. There was an event out of town, one that involved a precious child I adore. Logic dictated I should be there, celebrating with everyone else. Yet, a deep, primal instinct urged me to say no and stay home. Guilt gnawed at me, the familiar monster of “shoulda, woulda, coulda.”
With a sigh, I embarked on errands. As I wrestled with the “should haves,” a familiar wave of loneliness washed over me. Trips, at last completed, I climbed into the car and turned on the radio. The lyrics, a powerful ballad by Melissa Etheridge titled “This is Not Goodbye,” which I had never heard before, transcended physical presence. The lyrics spoke of goodbyes that weren’t endings, but simply chapters turning.
I pulled over, unable to contain my emotions. In that moment, it became crystal clear. It was not about blind faith, but trusting the divine spark within us. Even when it feels counterintuitive to follow the spark that guides us on our unique paths.
By honoring my intuition, my own needs and saying no to the event, a space had opened up. A space of grace that, quite literally, allowed a visit from my son, Marshall, who had passed over four years ago at the far too young age of 26. However brief, it was a confirmation that love endures, that some connections defy the boundaries of time and space.
So, the next time that nagging “should I?” creeps in, take a moment. Breathe. Listen within. You might just be surprised by the unexpected beauty that awaits when you honor your own truth. It might just guide you towards something far more magical than you could ever have planned, reminding you that you are always held, loved, and guided.
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Not much different from today, the 70s boomed with a culture of body shaming, fueled by a relentless push to sell magic formulas for a beauty standard that was as warped as the false eyelashes and diet pills I clung to. The “miracle pills” whittled me down to a frail 102 pounds, a desperate attempt to mold myself into something peer-approved pretty.
You, on the other hand, Mike, were the pragmatist. Your words were few, but each one landed with the weight of your well-worn cowboy boots sinking into the good earth. I can still picture the glint in your eyes, even then, as a young man, when you asked me as I batted my extended lashes, “What ever happened to natural?”
Natural? The concept flew over my bleached-blonde hair.
Turns out, dear bro (and maybe you knew this all along), I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. It took me five whole decades to finally grasp the meaning of “natural.” It wasn’t just about rejecting the miracle products and noise from greedy marketers, but also the well-meaning (but often misguided) voices of family and friends anchored by their faith (or traditions), trying to mold me into their own images.
Finally following your lead, I, at last, retreated inwards, finding solace in the quiet and contentment in the slow burn of a candle. This newfound space helped free me from external manipulation, my decisions stemmed from the deepest well of my being – my soul, (sadly, a missed opportunity for my son). In this way, a new understanding of myself blossomed within me, carried on the wings of redemption, faith, and the quiet hum of grief. It was a womb-like homecoming – a return to the essence of who I was always meant to be. Like the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinth that pushed through the warmed earth, bold and bright as jewels. In the process, I embraced myself. Judgment and distortions disappeared. A sense of liberation bloomed – a feeling as light and airy as the warm breeze that chased away the last of winter’s chill.
This personal freedom extended to giving others space. I let go of my ego. Of “fixing” prayers and forced agendas. Life, I found, often worked in mysterious ways, guided by a hand far more divine than mine and impossible to understand fully.
So, dear brother, thank you for planting the seed of the concept of natural in my heart. These last two years, in particular, are showing me that the overdue path for my true self is now under construction. Looking back, I see the past woven intricately together, not by chance, but by a divine hand that holds mine with compassion.
Specifically, since January 2023, I have lost over 35 pounds, all on my own without any drugs or shaming or a doctor’s fearful words. Out of the blue, I “happened” to have fallen upon the program NOOM (disclaimer: I’m not affiliated with them), and it has changed my life.
It wasn’t about quick fixes – NOOM focuses on behavior change and mental well-being, which resonates with me. NOOM’s app uses science and personalization to track food and lifestyle choices, promoting healthy weight loss and long-term habits, which I’ve incorporated into my life.
Sharing my initial progress with only one person backfired when they dismissed my one-pound weight loss after a month on NOOM. But I tuned out the negativity and continued to focus on myself. Every pound since then feels like a major victory on this amazing journey. Ultimately, losing weight isn’t just about the numbers on the scale. It is part of my powerful journey of self-discovery, because, as I already mentioned, I alone have claimed what was so loving and freely given to me all along: my authentic self. (While it looks like the naysayer is headed for a knee replacement, I am not, at least not at the moment!)
Just as amazing, too, and completely by happenstance, today also marks my one-year anniversary of becoming a pescetarian! There was no pressure, no specific date in mind – it just happened. (Plus, this time, I kept my secret to myself, secured in my judgment-free zone!) And that’s when I realized the most profound aspect of this journey: sometimes, the most meaningful changes come about organically, like a nudge from a higher power that reigns over all the super human powers.
My inspiration for this eating shift had been brewing for a long time, fueled in part by your gentle spirit and by my amazing daughter, Alexandra. She’s been a vegetarian since she was just eight years old, and at 29, she’s still a passionate advocate for animal welfare. Witnessing her compassion has brought the joy of spring to me every season, her dedication is always rubbing off on me. Then there’s my niece who’s poured her heart into working at an animal sanctuary early every Sunday morning for over a year now.
From the start, I felt a deep conviction about my dietary path. Then, just a few weeks in, a fantastic article in the New York Times, Peter Singer: Fix Your Diet, Save the Planet, practically fell into my lap, seemingly confirming my intuition. Since I gave up eating animals, even on days when the world feels like a relentless battle, I go to bed knowing I’ve made a positive impact, however small.
So, big brother, you were right – “natural” truly is beautiful. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in aligning myself with the universe’s flow, dancing with it rather than resisting, keeping my world free from the super human powers that get in the way and cause an accident.
Today, on what would have been your 78th birthday, I celebrate not only your life, but also the newfound vibrancy in mine. Who knows, maybe next year on your birthday, I’ll discover another divinely inspired way to move through the world that can sometimes feel so serious, a joyful expression in your memory.
But for now, I raise a glass (sparkling water, please!) to you, brother, to my incredible daughter and niece, and to the life I’m so grateful to share with them and all of you. Let’s weave faith into the unexpected twists and turns of life, and see what beautiful and unique tapestry emerges. Regarding that natural process, I’m profoundly grateful. Now, I can simply rest and watch the masterpiece unfold.
Happy Birthday, bro!
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As a child raised in the Ukrainian Catholic Church, I spent countless hours participating in rituals. Crossing into adulthood, however, these memories transformed into associations with aching knees from kneeling, a stiff back from standing for what felt like an eternity, and a constant glance at the clock’s hands that seemed frozen in time, like a nagging hemorrhoid.
Despite my aversion to the rigid structure of my religious childhood memories, as an adult, I found myself drawn to the role of Cubmaster and leading my son’s Cub Scout troop for several years. While vastly different, the organization provided a surprising sense of comfort and familiarity through its own set of rituals. This experience reinforced the idea that while we may evolve throughout life, fundamental human needs, like the desire for connection and belonging, endure.
These memories and discussion of heritage brings me back to the day that my older brother, Michael, passed on March 18, 2002. It was one of profound grief that forever altered me. Later that year, when Bruce Springsteen’s album “The Rising” was released, the song “You’re Missing” became a source of immense comfort, its lyrics resonated deeply within the void left by my brother’s absence. I sang along to it repeatedly as I drove aimlessly through our neighborhood. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the steering wheel in a silent, unconscious ritual.
Two decades later, this March and my brother’s passing feels particularly poignant, perhaps triggered by a beautiful blog post titled “Photographs,” Reclaiming the Forgotten, written by Anand, the son of my dear friend, Preema, whom I consider my Indian karmic sister.
In the moving reflection, Anand remembers his brother, Shyam, who passed away in 1994. “Nobody has asked to see my brother’s picture for a while. In a house full of books & papers, stationery & cutlery, clothes & bags, old letters & broken hardware – that I don’t have a ready picture of this feels like a small betrayal.”
Reading these inspiring words, a realization dawned. Over four years ago, following our family tragedy, I, too, had unknowingly committed a small betrayal. Grief narrowed my world after losing my son, and I had pushed my brother away. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten him or erased him. It was more that the raw pain of losing Marshall had painted gray shades over everything, etching little space for anything else.
To my surprise, as Anand delved into photo albums, reminiscing about his brother, I found myself drawn to a different kind of search. Borage seeds, to be precise.
These vibrant white flowers have thrived in our front garden for the past two years, and I felt compelled to plant a third batch yesterday – a little earlier than usual, on the anniversary of Mike’s passing. Planting the seeds felt like a fitting tribute to leaving room for my brother’s memories. It was a simple act that promised to become a cherished annual ritual. (My photo albums in the attic of Mike as well as my son can’t wait much longer either!)
After reading Anand’s beautifully written elegiac blog, which triggered so many other layers of grief in me, I also started to reread a blog, Big Brother Musings, I had written about Mike two years ago. That particular blog includes a letter I wrote in Mike’s honor. The following is an excerpt from it, “Not because you were handsome, strong, generous, compassionate, highly intuitive and intelligent and a war hero to boot, but because you knew that everything, no matter how utterly defective, stained, sinned or doomed, could root, grow and live under one condition: that it is planted in a bedrock of unconditional love.”
Was it a coincidence to purchase the seeds for planting in memory of the bedrock of his legacy?
The letter ends, “Dear Big Brother, I hope I see you someday. Feel your arms around me again and see the twinkle in your eyes when you gently whisper, ‘Peace.’”
This spring as the seeds sprout and mature, I hope to begin each day gazing out my window, the sight rekindling a sense of peace and gratitude. Though flowers bloom only during certain seasons, faith, in the face of loss, can blossom and flourish year-round, only needing a minimal space of its own to take root.
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The wind howled, whipping my hair into a frenzy as I stood on the familiar shoreline of Sherwood Island State Park. It was one of the windiest days of the winter, yet there I was, drawn by an unseen force to this place of memories from my young adulthood, offering me once again a refuge I desperately needed.
Suddenly, tears welled up, hot and heavy. Tears for George, for the loss of a dear friend, for the fleeting nature of youth, and for the profound absence of my son, gone too soon just over four years ago. It were as if my defenses had crumbled, leaving me raw and exposed to the harsh winds of life.
The release of pent-up grief became a cleansing storm, mirroring the fury of the wind around me. And then, nearly an hour later, something shifted. Exhausted, but paradoxically refreshed, I looked around. The wind still raged, but the world seemed sharper, more vibrant and my senses heightened, my heart open to the raw beauty of life.
In that moment, faith wasn’t about words or doctrines. It was about the wind in my hair, the sand beneath my sneakers, the immensity of the ocean stretching out before me. It was about feeling fully alive, without restraints or judgments, simply existing in the present moment.
As I returned to my car, three small, smooth, white stones caught my eye, each one whispering tales of the sea. They were like perfect replacements for the missing ones I’d left at my son’s gravesite – the ones inscribed with our family’s names, now likely swallowed by the earth. Clutching the newfound stones in my palm, I carried them back, already picturing them marked and repurposed. It felt like a symbolic victory, a reclaiming of strength after weathering the storm.
I realized the wind still felt strong, however there was a lightness to it that intensified my sense of victory. I had faced my pain, embraced the rawness of life, and emerged feeling more connected, more alive than ever before. The beach buoyed me up as it always had and reminded me that even in the midst of grief, life persists, an ever-changing evolution, ever-renewing, just like the tide rolling in and out, forever constant, forever powerful.
Remember, your faith may not look like someone else’s, but it doesn’t make it any less valid. Trust your own journey, find solace in the unexpected, and know that you are never truly alone.
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Life, isn’t it a curious thing? One moment, basking in the warm hum of sunlight, the next, trudging through knee-deep burdens and sorrows. Shoulders that once held dreams become stooped under the weight of worries, the ache in our hearts echoing the echo of unanswered prayers. We carry loved ones lost, dreams delayed, anxieties that whisper tensions into our ears.
That’s how I feel often, like a melody stuck on repeat, minor key and somber. Even the sunlight seems to carry a nameless weight that is all too familiar. Then, in the midst of that personal symphony of despair, on my way to George’s funeral mass, a song washed over me, unexpected and pure. “Only Passing Through,” it whispered, sung by voices I didn’t recognize, The Taylors, they called themselves.
Since I first heard it that morning on the radio, I’ve been listening to it, a gift of faith in the midst of mourning. I haven’t looked the group up, purposefully. This song, it carries no dogma, no sermons veiled in melody. Metaphorically, you can say that it simply sings of journeys and departures, of resting places beyond horizons. You can say that it speaks of life as a passing train, each stop a pause, a goodbye laced with the promise of a hello.
When the darkness presses in, the chorus of “Only passing through” rises, a gentle reminder that this isn’t all there is.
The song helps me to get through the noise, take a moment, close my eyes. Listen. I find peace in knowing that I am just at another bend in the track, leading me closer to that final, glorious station, bathed in the light of eternity.
P.S. Maybe one day I’ll look up The Taylors. But for now, I’ll pass. Clear mind, open heart, and a whispered ‘all is well’ at the moment.
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Today, my blogging community welcomes my little faith-based blog into their personal worlds, and what better way to celebrate than by singing the praises of a woman who shines brighter than any launch party sparkler – my dear friend, Camille (or Ethel, as I, the Lucy to her Ethel, know her!).
Photograph in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Camille, where do I even begin? Life has thrown you some hefty curveballs, the kind that would leave most people curled up, defeated. But that’s not you, Ethel. You’re the epitome of grit, a true warrior.
We connected after you lost your son, Robert, my son Marshall’s best friend in 2011. He was your sunshine, and you were his unwavering rock. And when the world tilted on its axis for me over eight years later after I lost Marsh, you, Ethel, were there with a steady hand and a fierce “Mamma Bear” spirit that chased away my shadows and ignited my faith.
I remember your kindness, the quiet gestures, the shared tears, the unspoken understanding that only two mothers who’ve walked through that fiery furnace can truly share.
But oh, Ethel, to me, you’re so much more than just sorrow-shared. You’re a firecracker, a laugh that spills just when you need it during a dry spell and an insight like no other; actually an insight that duplicate’s your intuitive son’s. You’re fiercely loyal, with a heart that could hold a universe of compassion. You’re the life of the party, even when all you want to do is crawl under a rock.You are who you are. You wear your scars like badges of honor, proof of battles fought and won and, yes, lost too.
And yes, Ethel, you can be a pain in the Lucy! We wouldn’t be Lucy and Ethel without our little spats and quirks. But even then, I know, deep down, that your fire comes from a place of love, a relentless desire to protect those in your orbit.
So, on this day, as our little community welcomes my little blog, I celebrate you, Ethel. I celebrate your birth, your life, your love, your unyielding spirit. You are an inspiration, a testament to the human capacity to not only endure, but connect deeply.
Photo by PhotoMIX Company on Pexels.com
May your birthday be filled with laughter, sunshine, and sweet cake. And may the year ahead be your brightest yet, paved with joy, renewed hope, and the unwavering knowledge that you, Ethel, are loved beyond measure. Happy birthday, my friend!
In 1993, while my infant son, my first born, lay in the NICU, his pediatric cardiologist plopped a hefty textbook about pediatric cardiology onto the surface of the nurse’s station. In fact, one of the chapters was written by my son’s doctor himself. This dense tome, a relic of a pre-internet era, was to become my constant companion, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
Seventy-two hours after giving birth on January 18 of that year to a seemingly healthy baby boy, my world, which had already been turned upside down by a seven-day stretch in the Labor and Delivery room and an unexpected premature delivery, spun out of control. Doctors diagnosed my son, Marshall, with not one but two congenital heart defects – a ventricular septal defect (VSD) and an atrial septal defect (ASD).
A VSD is a hole in the wall that separates the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles), while an ASD is a hole in the wall that divides the upper chambers (atria) of the heart. Fortunately, the ASD would heal on its own within the first year of Marshall’s life. However, the VSD, shockingly, turned out to consist of multiple holes, not just one, and only open heart surgery could repair the condition.
“A Swiss cheese heart,” his doctor said in his description to me, painting a vivid picture of my son’s condition. I can still recall the doctor’s words, “Ventricular septal defects are the most common congenital heart defects.”
At the time, I interpreted this statement as a reassurance that we were dealing with a relatively common condition. Okay, we’re with the majority. It’s good. My affirmation helped me put one foot in front of another on those endless shining granite-colored titled hallways that seemed to loop around like never-ending hamster wheels.
However, while researching this blog post, I came across a startling statistic: “About 1% of babies born in the United States have a congenital heart defect, such as a hole in the heart.”
This statistic struck me with a jolt. In so many ways, as I’ve previously written, there was nothing typical about Marshall’s birth, life, or death. He truly was a one-percenter.”
Good thing back then I didn’t also know that almost 7 out of 10 infants born with a hole in the heart survive into adulthood, because I would have also obsessed about the three infants who don’t survive into adulthood.
As a new mother, I was understandably overwhelmed by the news of my son’s congenital heart defect. Textbook statistics and medical jargon did little to soothe my worries, and I couldn’t help but focus on the possibility of complications.
Despite my fears, within the first 10 months of his life, baby Marshall underwent two successful surgeries and emerged stronger and healthier than ever. However, our journey was far from easy. During his first year, he struggled with colic, an uncontrollable crying (screaming) condition that left us both exhausted and frustrated.
Hearing the constant wailing was heartbreaking. It was as if our son was in constant pain, and no amount of comforting or soothing helped. Both his pediatrician and pediatric cardiologist assured us that colic was unrelated to his heart condition, but it was hard to believe that a seemingly healthy baby could be in such distress.
As a stay-at-home mom, working as a freelance writer, I felt the weight of responsibility more heavily than ever. The endless cycle of crying, feeding, and soothing left me drained and desperate for a solution. One night, actually early hours of the morning, in a moment of sheer exhaustion and despair, I had a horrifying thought: what if I just tossed my son out the window?
The thought was fleeting, but it shook me to my core. I realized that the stress of caring for a colicky baby had pushed me to the brink.
Fortunately, I had been actively involved in various therapeutic undertakings as well as a 12-step program over the past nine years. These interventions, which I still consider to be the most profound healers in my life, provided me with the strength to navigate this challenging period. I had a reservoir of coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with whatever life threw at me. I remained grateful for the power of faith and fellowship, and most importantly, my son taught me an invaluable lesson: the essence of unconditional love.
You see, exhausted and at my wit’s end after recounting the sleepless nights, I would often conclude my sharing in support groups with the poignant declaration, “I’m learning how to love.” It was a testament to the profound impact my son had on my life.
Gradually, the crying subsided, and Marshall’s congenital heart defects became a successful chapter in our lives. He grew into a healthy toddler and our routine returned to a semblance of normalcy, though our son’s unique challenges remained. He was a fighter, determined to live life on his own terms.
For instance, administering his medication was a daily battle. The only way I could manage it was with the help of my 80-something-year-old dad, who would hold him down while I forced drops of medicine down my son’s throat. Similarly, buckling him into a car seat was another 20-minute ordeal. Marshall had an aversion to being confined, and he would resist it with every ounce of his mule-like strength. I vividly recall a struggle in the back seat of our car at a grocery store parking lot. It took me over 20 minutes, the golden number, to finally secure him in his seat. When I left the back seat, ready to hop into the passenger seat, an older woman, with her arms crossed and a face contorted with rage, confronted me. She shook her head, likely assuming I had just beaten my son in the back seat, but she didn’t investigate any further and, instead, stormed off without a word.
Dental appointments were an entirely different ordeal. Marshall’s fear of the dentist was so intense that he became hysterical in the waiting room. On one occasion, his behavior was so disruptive that a staff member reprimanded me; I mean, the responsibility always falls on mom, right? From then on, we scheduled our appointments at off-peak hours when we could avoid the presence of other children. While it was embarrassing to have to make special arrangements, it was the only way to ensure that Marshall received the dental care he needed.
Wouldn’t you know it? Marshall’s dental issues were far more severe than those of an average child. He seemed to be a one-percenter when it came to tooth problems, so we were frequent (solo) visitors to the dentist’s office.
Around the age of five or six, Marshall seemed to have outgrown his fear of the dentist. We arrived for our appointment, and everything appeared to be going smoothly in the waiting room packed with other children. However, as the hygienist approached wearing her workday garb, Marshall bolted up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. It took nearly an hour of coaxing and reassurance to convince him to come out. Despite the setback and leaving a few kids and their parents frazzled, we managed to complete the appointment, just as we always had.
“I’m learning how to love.” My update to my fellows remained the same — week after week; month after month; year after year.
When Marshall first entered kindergarten, some of his behavior was a stark contrast to what had turned into, at least for a good deal of the time, a calm demeanor at home. Specifically as soon as he arrived home and got off the school bus, he ran around the house, screaming uncontrollably. Little did I know that a lot of his behavior stemmed from the actions of his teacher — a story I won’t delve into at this point.
Consulting with the school’s psychologist revealed that Marshall exhibited exemplary behavior in class — a trait that remained consistent throughout his school years. What the psychologist further explained was that he channeled his pent-up emotions from the classroom and school grounds the minute he stepped off the school bus and onto home turf, a safe zone where he was unconditionally loved and able to express his true emotions and feelings. In this case, it was a lot of fear and frustration from performing properly on the world’s stage. Great! This knowledge helped me enormously. I bit the bullet.
Marshall’s determination to live authentically, even within the haven of love and trust, often sparked conflict with those closest to him, the casualties of his relentless quest to shed the shackles of his false self, which I didn’t learn about until his last year on earth. Once someone told me I should have received the Purple Heart medal (which my eldest brother Mike actually did, along with a few other medals, while he was in the service during Vietnam) for raising my son. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Throughout the challenges and joys of parenthood, I never lost sight of my gratitude. First, for the privilege of becoming a parent in my 30s, a rarity among my generation in those days, and second, for the honor of nurturing the most precious gift on earth: human life. It’s a concept that still amazes me to this day.
Admittedly, I didn’t always handle motherhood perfectly. I made mistakes and fell short many times. But through it all, I discovered that the extraordinary act of prioritizing another’s needs above your own — the essence of motherhood — was my ultimate purpose and it still is.
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A few months ago, as I was recounting the experiences of raising my son to my dear friend Michelle, my co-author of her memoir. I told her how, especially during the many trials, I would often reiterate, “I’m learning how to love.” And then, as we conversed and I reflected on the profound impact my son had had on my life, I added, “Out of all the lessons he’s taught me, he’s taught me how to love the most.”
To that statement, she amazingly replied, “He still is.”
She couldn’t have been more accurate. Marshall would have been 31 this coming Thursday, January 18. The pain of what was and what could have been, as my therapist Louis, who had lost a daughter of his own, had promised, has softened through these years, but it remains a constant presence. My life has taken on a different dimension, with everything now filtered through the lens of his absence. Marshall is forever young at 26, and I am forever a heart broken senior citizen who understands the fragility of life at the first heart beat.
It brings to mind a podcast, All There Is with Anderson Cooper, (September 21, 2022) with Stephen Colbert: Grateful for Grief. The excerpt is below:
Anderson Cooper: Wow. Something I’ve been feeling a lot with my kids because they’re so perfect. There are these moments of such frailty that, my heart is breaking at just the beauty of this experience. And yet there’s this sense of sort of the awareness of the frailty of it.
Stephen Colbert: The first experience that I had holding my first child, my daughter. The first thing that occurred to me was, how beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end.
How beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end. I repeat that line all day in my head and it never fails to rekindle my sense of gratitude.
In this new, old world of mine, I’m totally indifferent, and that’s okay. I do not need a textbook to interpret my lot, for it is a journey reserved solely for me not bound by external factors, but my own inner compass. Yet without question, intrinsically I know the the path was carved for me to walk; the metaphorical bullet others dodged, but I took the hit. Each step, a small victory over the overwhelming feeling of defeat that threatens to consume me. The hallways endless; granite tiles, cold and unforgiving. Faith forward, my final spin on the hamster wheel of life.
Damn. I’m learning how to love — without victory, without reserve.
Love transforms you. It stretches your limits until you feel like you’re in a league of your own, a realm that only a select few will ever experience. It breaks you down, only to rebuild you stronger, more resilient, and more capable of love than you ever thought possible, a medal of honor with no comparison.
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WTF? (Where's the faith?) 