My Daughter After Spending Many Months Pregnant

Dears,
Here's my daughter growing a son.
xo Amy

Mom-Up!

A friend of mine is being stalked by a mixed up ex-friend in college. 

The stalker has a history of troubles, and has been diagnosed, medicated, and locked up, but is currently off his meds, and on his own. In discussions of restraining orders and such, the conversation often turns to questions about his mother...

Where the hell is she and what is she doing about her son?

I feel for the mom. I had a paranoid schizophrenic uncle who blamed and tormented my mom all his life. Their own mother was dead, or I assume he would have blamed her instead. But my mom had to take her mom’s place. My childhood memories of my uncle’s calls and visits were of my mom’s helpless despair. 

That was when I learned that untreated mental illness was wildly contagious and could burn through an entire family, bringing the household to its knees. As a kid I only wished my uncle would get hit by a truck.

 

Every time my uncle got a new case worker, they’d call my mom wondering how any sister could be heartless enough to let her own brother wander around being so miserable and crazy. 

They’d barely conceal their contempt for her. 

After they’d tried to help him for a while, however, the accusatory calls would slow and eventually cease. There would be peace, until my uncle was either arrested again, or got a new case worker some other way. Then the shame and guilt inducing calls would begin again. Even the hospice nurses on his death bed judged us harshly.

So, where do I get off asking about this stalker kid’s poor mom? You’d think I’d take pity on her, and I do. But still, I believe there's a difference between sisterhood and mother hood.  

As my own mom once said; “You belong to your child from their first breath to your last.” There's no time off.

On one hand, I hate it that mothers get blamed whenever their kid does anything bad.

 On the other, I don't think moms are allowed to shrug and walk away. 
The stalker's mom doesn't get to say, "I tried, but this is hard and my kid is a mess, so I give up." Giving up on your kid is not an option.

Elsewhere in the news, (this may seem unrelated, but it's not) I recently had a gig teaching writing to "at risk teen girls." Today I learned that one of those girls, age 16, 17 at the most, has just become a mother.
  

To me this kid had seemed like an immature, semi-pathetic but not quite tragic girl with a crappy family and no particular skills or dreams. I know there are wondrous stories of people turning their lives around, but it’s hard for me to imagine this particular kid having what it takes to do much besides whine.

True, some moms leave their babies in dumpsters. Some species eat their young and there are times in every mother’s life when she totally gets why some moms run away from home. But for the most part, some super strength kicks in, and moms pull on their mom-pants, and do their best.  

I just hope my ex-writing student can Mom Up when needed. 

And I hope the mom of my friend’s stalker will, too.

xo Amy

9th Cancer-versary

My daughter Em just reminded me that nine years ago today she was diagnosed with cancer. She was 14 at the time. Wow, what a long/short time ago. Since that time how many thousands of mothers have gotten that news -- Have bundled their children off to the hospital trying to find the right words to explain it to them -- Have not let themselves think even a day ahead, refusing to entertain possible outcomes? 

Here's what I remember about that day: 

The odd look on our pediatrician's face when she felt Em's swollen glands. 

The Dr. on the phone saying it was Hodgkins Lymphoma, and telling me to take Em to Children's Hospital where they had a bed waiting.

I remember not being able to get off the kitchen floor, phone still in hand. The word "floored" thus defined. 

I strapped Diana into the van beside me. Diana is the sacred purple cow Em has slept with every night since she was two, and now has tattooed between her breasts.  I don't remember packing anything else. I got Em out of class and probably babbled some explanation, but it was the sight of Diana that told her it serious.

And then there's a blank.

Well, not a total blank, but a blankish thing that stands in for the memory/denial/confusion/terror/functioning/survival/panic that followed.

I must have called my friend Sue and told her to meet us at the hospital because she was there when Em, Diana and I walked in. She'd brought Em a Spirograph. 

Husband Mitch was out of town, far away and useless to me.

My father-in-law and his new wife were visiting and probably waiting for dinner.

My son needed to be picked up from school. Someone had to tell my parents and Mitch's mom in Michigan. I must have called my brother and told him to break the news.  

Em needed a biopsy immediately, but she was afraid of shots. 
They gave her la-la drugs and put a surgical gown on Diana. 

A nurse called me "Mom" and hugged me as they wheeled Em away. 

The morphine made Em heave.

But it was nothing compared to the heaves to come. She got her first chemo that very night from a tall nurse in a blue rubber gown who referred to herself as a Smurf. It took many stabs to find Em's veins.

My sister-in-law Susan flew in from Michigan and brought little airplane bottles of Baileys. She and Sue listened and talked to the doctors for us as a tag-team.

I slept on a slippery chair-bed beside Em's bed. The nurses shoes squeaked in the hall. We were led and wheeled down halls, up elevators, into waiting rooms for bizarre tests and sci-fy scans. We got the giggles.

Very sick children were everywhere. 

It was impossible to take a full breath.

Em's best friend Allison climbed into Em's hospital bed and refused to leave. Em's other best friend's father wouldn't let her visit because she was freaking out so badly.

Someone brought us a huge basket of trail-mix and snacks and I fed out of it like a horse at a trough.

Mitchell returned. He took our son Ben to the batting cage and told him to pretend the balls were his sister's tumors. 

People called and called and called and called. Some came and stood around the room. Some sent balloons. Many wore terrible faces. Emily and Diana held court from their bed-thrown. 

One roommate left and another took her place. We were embarrassed that neither had visitors. 

We were eventually released. Allison pushed Em and Diana in a wheel chair to the exit.  Em wore a striped paper surgical mask to keep germs out, her lap piled high with flowers and gifts. Mitch brought the car around to the curb in the parking lot. Our first breath outside the hospital in how long? Three nights, five? A week? Separating all life into Before Cancer and After Cancer forever more. 

Nine years is a long time. A wonderfully long time. It is lovely to forget. 

xo

Amy