When we lived in Green Bay on Summer Place I got into the wonderful habit of walking our dog Boomer on a trail that began at Ted Fritsch Park. The park itself was just about five minutes from our home, just across Mason Street (HWY 54) and down a hill past a few houses. The winding entrance to the park is flanked by a grove of pine trees on the right and a ball park on the left. Surrounding the playground and groomed fields is woodland belonging to the Oneida Indian tribe. This wood was the perfect place for human and dog to bond every morning about 6 AM.
Boomer, a spry Australian shepherd-border collie mix, absolutely loved these woods! As we reached the trailhead I would take the leash off and he would run like the wind through the long grass incline into the woods itself. I wouldn't see much of him unless I whistled, as he would have squirrels to track.
As for me, I would enjoy the view, the sun, smells, and wildlife. The narrow trail quickly hit an incline with a view and scent of abundant lush undergrowth, seasonal wild flowers, downed tree trunks, deciduous and pine trees and last seasons dead leaves underfoot. The sunlight would prism down through the tall trees here and there and cause me to stop and say a prayer of thanks. Periodically, Boomer would check in, huffing and puffing with a big smile on his face, and then run off again. Pretty soon the trail would slope sharply down, then around a bend and open to a clearing where I could see the rushing creek to my left. Sometimes Boomer would head down to the water for a drink before whizzing back up to look for more squirrels. After climbing the next hill we would arrive at the flat forested area stretching some distance before hitting a golf course. There were several large tree trunks across this stretch of trail. This was a great place to teach Boomer to "jump"; he had his own obstacle course there and loved it. Sometimes we would find signs of someone's campfire - fire ring with beer bottles scattered. I would curse whoever was too lazy to clean up after themselves and vow to bring a garbage bag next time. We'd walk the big loop of the trail eventually meeting our path back out past the creek, down, around, up, and down until finally arriving back at Ted Fritsch park.
We very rarely ran into any humans on our morning hike, but occasionally would see wildlife. Wildlife could range from three deer, to a snake, to rabbits, squirrels, ground squirrels, to butterflies and bees. Not to mention mosquitoes.
Boomer's gone now - been deceased for 5 years. But whenever I'm in Green Bay visiting, I like to go back to Ted Fritsch woods and reunite with Boomer's spirit, which is no doubt there chasing some phantom squirrel, and eager to be with me too.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
The Catchment Trail: A dog tale
In Hong Kong there are a few places I can walk our dog Rigby. The most frequent route is a 25-30 minute walk around Red Hill, a one-mile road that is one big circle. The sidewalks shift from narrow to wide and the view shifts from sloped and maintained mountain, to beautiful distant mountains with inlet ocean water dotted with bobbing yachts, to 20 story blond brick apartments with a view of the mountains and water where some colleagues live, to 5 story pastel condos that cost $10,000 per month to rent, minimum. On this route we meet many other dogs being walked on leash by their owner's helpers, mostly Philippina women who are likely to greet us "Hello, Mom." The dogs range in size from golden retriever to jack russell and are either guided to the opposite side or take a moment to sniff each other in choice areas. The women pick up droppings with newspaper and put it in the bins along the road designated specifically for dog poo. Rigby, a milk-chocolate chow mongrel rescued from Hong Kong Dog Rescue, walks with a spring in his 6 year-old step and sniffs as often as I will let him. He likes to back up against the slope on grassy areas to do his business. Depending on the time of year we may come home wet from the humidity even though the route is leisurely.
Another, and even more breath-taking route I like to take, but less often, goes down to Tai Tam village. First Rigby and I take the elevator from 7th to the 5th floor exit of our building, then down a series of four flights of stairs past the middle school campus, the track, the landscaped flowers, and the guard off of the grounds. From there we wind down a paved country-road until we reach the water's edge. This is a bay off of the ocean. It is dotted with yachts to fishing boats floating equidistance from one another on the dark blue, quiet water. We go left on the road with the sea inlet on our right and jungle underbrush and trees and a bit of trash on our left. After a few more minutes we will hit the edge of Tai Tam village. When I am alone I like to walk through the village and look at the gardens, the banana trees, the stone homes stacked up into the hillside with cemented in windows on the street level and signs of interesting water sports gear like kayaks and paddle boards. But when I'm with Rigby we turn back here because there are a few street dogs that are quite territorial and Rigby is afraid of them. They bark too loud and tend to growl or follow you, making you uncomfortable.
A third route is to take Country Road Park. This is the most beautiful of all. This one begins just a few minutes past the middle school guarded gate where the guard always smiles and says hello. We walk up an incline past drivers in Mercedes and Cadillac vans waiting for school kids when the day is done. They are parked all along and on the sidewalk so that we are forced to walk on the road instead. After crossing busy Tai Tam Road we reach the entrance of the Park. Here there is a waterfall on the left, (really it's the run-off from rain and mountain water cascading down a cement stair from the catchment above). On the right there is an amazing view of a 100 year old one-and-a-half lane bridge straddling a placid, freshwater reservoir which begins where we are and ends below a dam just on the other side of Tai Tam village. The reservoir reminds me of a Wisconsin lake, except because it is a reservoir the capacity ebbs and flows with seasonal rain and runoff and there are no humans allowed on or in the water. Recently, with all the rain, the reservoir is filling again, so there is maybe only one meter of exposed red clay sloped beneath the jungle trees which line the water and seem to go on forever, turning into misty mountains stacked on top one another. On a very ambitious day, Rigby and I could walk all the way over the mountain and into the city of Hong Kong. The entire route would be paved black and wide and we would see dozens of people along the way making the long trek up or down the mountain. But usually we just walk one hour; this takes us past three different BBQ picnic areas, over several bridges with the view of the pristine reservoir, and through the tree-lined, spider infested jungle. Here large dogs are usually off leash, well-behaved as they greet each other and Rigby. Singles, couples, families, expats, Cantonese, Chinese all come here to enjoy the walk, the hike, the picnic spots, or the view. We might run into a bride and groom on a wedding shoot. If we are ambitious there are many off-shoot trails we could take, some paved, some not.
Finally, there is the catchment trail. This is a trail that takes about 5 minutes to reach. It's entrance lies across Tai Tam Road just past our public bus stop. One must climb up like a child (and on the return, jump down) to get to the long narrow stairs which take you to the catchment. Turn left and you will eventually arrive at Stanley, our nearest town. Turn right, and you will reach a stair leading down to Country Road Park and next to that waterfall I spoke of. The catchment is a concrete ditch designed to catch the water run-off from the mountain. Along one side is the sloped mountain rising twice to three times as high as the Southwestern hills of Wisconsin. On the other side the concrete continues as a narrow sidewalk meant for repair workers to easily reach the catchment. We use it to walk. The views are beautiful up there. At points the view overlooks the ocean and our nearby local Turtle Cove beach. At points it overlooks the school and nearby Red Hill Plaza. At points all you see is bushes, trees, flowers, butterflies, and huge spiders pressing in on you. Much of the time there are metal railings, sometimes there are not. Such a trail is perfect for letting your dog off leash to sniff and walk or trot as he pleases. Here we spend about 30 minutes walking and enjoying the smells and the view, but NOT the spiderwebs that invisibly crisscross the trail and which cling to my arms and legs as I pass by.
Another, and even more breath-taking route I like to take, but less often, goes down to Tai Tam village. First Rigby and I take the elevator from 7th to the 5th floor exit of our building, then down a series of four flights of stairs past the middle school campus, the track, the landscaped flowers, and the guard off of the grounds. From there we wind down a paved country-road until we reach the water's edge. This is a bay off of the ocean. It is dotted with yachts to fishing boats floating equidistance from one another on the dark blue, quiet water. We go left on the road with the sea inlet on our right and jungle underbrush and trees and a bit of trash on our left. After a few more minutes we will hit the edge of Tai Tam village. When I am alone I like to walk through the village and look at the gardens, the banana trees, the stone homes stacked up into the hillside with cemented in windows on the street level and signs of interesting water sports gear like kayaks and paddle boards. But when I'm with Rigby we turn back here because there are a few street dogs that are quite territorial and Rigby is afraid of them. They bark too loud and tend to growl or follow you, making you uncomfortable.
A third route is to take Country Road Park. This is the most beautiful of all. This one begins just a few minutes past the middle school guarded gate where the guard always smiles and says hello. We walk up an incline past drivers in Mercedes and Cadillac vans waiting for school kids when the day is done. They are parked all along and on the sidewalk so that we are forced to walk on the road instead. After crossing busy Tai Tam Road we reach the entrance of the Park. Here there is a waterfall on the left, (really it's the run-off from rain and mountain water cascading down a cement stair from the catchment above). On the right there is an amazing view of a 100 year old one-and-a-half lane bridge straddling a placid, freshwater reservoir which begins where we are and ends below a dam just on the other side of Tai Tam village. The reservoir reminds me of a Wisconsin lake, except because it is a reservoir the capacity ebbs and flows with seasonal rain and runoff and there are no humans allowed on or in the water. Recently, with all the rain, the reservoir is filling again, so there is maybe only one meter of exposed red clay sloped beneath the jungle trees which line the water and seem to go on forever, turning into misty mountains stacked on top one another. On a very ambitious day, Rigby and I could walk all the way over the mountain and into the city of Hong Kong. The entire route would be paved black and wide and we would see dozens of people along the way making the long trek up or down the mountain. But usually we just walk one hour; this takes us past three different BBQ picnic areas, over several bridges with the view of the pristine reservoir, and through the tree-lined, spider infested jungle. Here large dogs are usually off leash, well-behaved as they greet each other and Rigby. Singles, couples, families, expats, Cantonese, Chinese all come here to enjoy the walk, the hike, the picnic spots, or the view. We might run into a bride and groom on a wedding shoot. If we are ambitious there are many off-shoot trails we could take, some paved, some not.
Finally, there is the catchment trail. This is a trail that takes about 5 minutes to reach. It's entrance lies across Tai Tam Road just past our public bus stop. One must climb up like a child (and on the return, jump down) to get to the long narrow stairs which take you to the catchment. Turn left and you will eventually arrive at Stanley, our nearest town. Turn right, and you will reach a stair leading down to Country Road Park and next to that waterfall I spoke of. The catchment is a concrete ditch designed to catch the water run-off from the mountain. Along one side is the sloped mountain rising twice to three times as high as the Southwestern hills of Wisconsin. On the other side the concrete continues as a narrow sidewalk meant for repair workers to easily reach the catchment. We use it to walk. The views are beautiful up there. At points the view overlooks the ocean and our nearby local Turtle Cove beach. At points it overlooks the school and nearby Red Hill Plaza. At points all you see is bushes, trees, flowers, butterflies, and huge spiders pressing in on you. Much of the time there are metal railings, sometimes there are not. Such a trail is perfect for letting your dog off leash to sniff and walk or trot as he pleases. Here we spend about 30 minutes walking and enjoying the smells and the view, but NOT the spiderwebs that invisibly crisscross the trail and which cling to my arms and legs as I pass by.
The time he Proposed
I'll admit it wasn't the most romantic proposal. Matter of fact, the Prom-posals at the school where I teach are more romantic and planned: 8 friends lined up to give roses to the blushing potential date finished with the boy asking the girl. But that is not my story. In my story, I visit my beloved once again on the weekend during our year-long distance relationship. We are at Brent's one-bedroom apartment on a Saturday evening in November having a very chill evening together. The frozen salisbury steak dinner is cooking in the microwave when I hear Brent call me into the bedroom. He is standing near his dresser and suddenly trusts a small box with a diamond ring in it in my direction. "Here," Brent says.
I am caught totally off guard. We've not talked about getting married much. We've not ring-shopped like some couples do. It is just some nondescript Saturday night in November like so many others that have come before it. The microwave dings.
"Are you proposing?" I ask incredulously. "Are you going to get down on one knee? Are you going to say the words? You need to do it right," I demand. So he does. Moments later he seems relieved as I burst an enthusiastic "yes!"
The salisbury steak tastes particularly wonderful this night.
I am caught totally off guard. We've not talked about getting married much. We've not ring-shopped like some couples do. It is just some nondescript Saturday night in November like so many others that have come before it. The microwave dings.
"Are you proposing?" I ask incredulously. "Are you going to get down on one knee? Are you going to say the words? You need to do it right," I demand. So he does. Moments later he seems relieved as I burst an enthusiastic "yes!"
The salisbury steak tastes particularly wonderful this night.
Testosterone
It's not every parent who helps their daughter turn into their son. But that's me. That's what I've got to do.
The doctor's office sports a rainbow sticker and waiting men who look like k-pop stars. My 14-year old and I wait a long time before entering the doctor's small room. He greets us and checks the baseline tests for estrogen and testosterone from our first visit last month. The results indicate that Adam is biologically clearly female. Beginning this day, that will begin to change. Blood is drawn for a second month in a row to see what changes have taken place with the estrogen suppressor from month one. A bit of acne and a slight change in voice is already evident in just one month with more to come. The doctor has a rough time finding a vein, or "drilling for oil" as Adam says. He has him lie down and ends up trying the arm and the hand before finding a cooperative vein. Adam fusses about it and recalls the time he had an IV in his hand two years ago.
The visit isn't done yet, though. There's a shot of testosterone - literally - waiting to be administered. It goes directly in the bum. It is the real start of a new life, a life as a male. A life that is eager to emerge.
The doctor's office sports a rainbow sticker and waiting men who look like k-pop stars. My 14-year old and I wait a long time before entering the doctor's small room. He greets us and checks the baseline tests for estrogen and testosterone from our first visit last month. The results indicate that Adam is biologically clearly female. Beginning this day, that will begin to change. Blood is drawn for a second month in a row to see what changes have taken place with the estrogen suppressor from month one. A bit of acne and a slight change in voice is already evident in just one month with more to come. The doctor has a rough time finding a vein, or "drilling for oil" as Adam says. He has him lie down and ends up trying the arm and the hand before finding a cooperative vein. Adam fusses about it and recalls the time he had an IV in his hand two years ago.
The visit isn't done yet, though. There's a shot of testosterone - literally - waiting to be administered. It goes directly in the bum. It is the real start of a new life, a life as a male. A life that is eager to emerge.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
The amazing scaffolding trick
Who knew bamboo was so darn strong? Until living in Hong Kong I never had an understanding of the strength of bamboo. In Asia bamboo is used for a lot of things; one of the more impressive is its use as scaffolding. Sure, I'd seen dozens of buildings in Hong Kong cocooned with bamboo and green or white mesh, but I never really paid attention until one day. . .
Our school and eight story apartment building were both scheduled for painting. This meant that in the span of two days these two structures (the HS and Scenic View) would be swaddled in gauze. I spent a good part of both days simply watching the dozens of men build the structure from the bottom up. It made me think of an army of ants building a grid from lincoln logs. Each bamboo stick varied from 5 - 2 inches in diameter with a length of maybe 4 - 5 yards. Bamboo isn't heavy, but it can't be that easy to balance! These guys made it look easy, though. Place the bamboo either vertically or horizontally, depending on the need, then bind it together with a plastic strap by winding it around several times every which way and then tying it off. No zip-ties here! One man would hand another man bamboo who would hand it over or up or whatever until the right guy got it, placed it, and secured it. He would then move to the next space and do the same.
This process was impressive enough in the 3-story courtyard of the school at a distance. But what really amazed me was watching these men seemingly climb up the outside of the wall below our 7-story balcony. At 4:30 my son called me out to the balcony, "Look, Mom, they are building the scaffolding just below us." Up, up, up, they built. First we could only see the tops of their heads one or two floors below us. Maybe 6 or 7 guys were visible. No securing ropes or hardhats, just monkey-men. Men straddled a single upward reaching expanse of bamboo which was accumulating itself higher and higher each moment, secured to the outside of the building every now and then by some drilled attachment. By supper time the men's heads were even with our balcony, and we watched them as we ate our tacos. It was a quite unusual dinner entertainment. A man posed for my picture, smiling and flashing a peace sign before turning into shoes by dessert. And so it continued through the afternoon until they had surrounded us entirely to the 8th floor.
The next day the men swaddled us in gauze. And now we are cocooned, awaiting our metamorphosis.
Our school and eight story apartment building were both scheduled for painting. This meant that in the span of two days these two structures (the HS and Scenic View) would be swaddled in gauze. I spent a good part of both days simply watching the dozens of men build the structure from the bottom up. It made me think of an army of ants building a grid from lincoln logs. Each bamboo stick varied from 5 - 2 inches in diameter with a length of maybe 4 - 5 yards. Bamboo isn't heavy, but it can't be that easy to balance! These guys made it look easy, though. Place the bamboo either vertically or horizontally, depending on the need, then bind it together with a plastic strap by winding it around several times every which way and then tying it off. No zip-ties here! One man would hand another man bamboo who would hand it over or up or whatever until the right guy got it, placed it, and secured it. He would then move to the next space and do the same.
This process was impressive enough in the 3-story courtyard of the school at a distance. But what really amazed me was watching these men seemingly climb up the outside of the wall below our 7-story balcony. At 4:30 my son called me out to the balcony, "Look, Mom, they are building the scaffolding just below us." Up, up, up, they built. First we could only see the tops of their heads one or two floors below us. Maybe 6 or 7 guys were visible. No securing ropes or hardhats, just monkey-men. Men straddled a single upward reaching expanse of bamboo which was accumulating itself higher and higher each moment, secured to the outside of the building every now and then by some drilled attachment. By supper time the men's heads were even with our balcony, and we watched them as we ate our tacos. It was a quite unusual dinner entertainment. A man posed for my picture, smiling and flashing a peace sign before turning into shoes by dessert. And so it continued through the afternoon until they had surrounded us entirely to the 8th floor.
The next day the men swaddled us in gauze. And now we are cocooned, awaiting our metamorphosis.
Elegy for Marsha
April 19, 1987. It was one month before college graduation and a day I would never forget. I was student teaching French at Winneshiek High School in Iowa, about a 15 minute drive from the apartment I shared with five other college senior girls. Someone interrupted me telling me Michelle was on the phone with an important phone call. I nearly didn't answer it; one never leaves the classroom for a phone call. But I did go. Michelle told me I needed to come home right away. I can't, I replied. I'm teaching. No. You must come home immediately. Marsha's been in a bad accident. Come home NOW.
I was young and we were all invincible. The words couldn't make meaning right away. But I heard the urgency in Michelle's voice and so I left for home.
In the fifteen minute drive home I had some time to process the brief phone call. It was true that Marsha hadn't come home last night. While not unusual, it could leave room for something to have happened. If the accident were as bad as Michelle's voice implied, then would she, could she die? If she did die, that would be horrible, unthinkable, tragic! But I didn't want to get ahead of myself. I needed to wait and see exactly what was going on. Yet, I remember also thinking, If Marsha does die, then I know she lived her 22 years of life to the fullest. Somehow that was comforting in this surreal moment driving the soulless fields and low hills of Northeastern Iowa.
I don't actually remember the details of what happened when I returned. But somewhere in there someone uttered the words we all dreaded: "Marsha was removed from life support and died at the hospital." She had been involved in a head on accident late at night and had had massive brain injury and other fractures. Had she lived, she would no longer have been the live-loving, piano playing, literature reading, boy crazy, angsty 22 year old that we knew. She would have been a vegetable.
What followed was immediate and unadulterated grief like I had never known and to this day have not known again. I felt a piece of my very soul had been ripped from me. I felt a chasm between the life I had lived and the life I would know thereafter. In that instant, Death became viscerally real. Death knew me and I now knew Death. Two days later the funeral sped by - drinking in the van with friends on the way there, the large crowd of students and church family, a grieving immediate family, a long trip out to a cemetery on a lonely hill that I would never be able to find again. In the weeks that followed I wrote my sorrow and anger and questions in poems. I cried. Friends gathered and talked endlessly about a precious life cut short and all the memories we had acquired. I prayed and found that God was just as grieved as I was and I learned the truth: that accidents do happen and that Fate is not always in control. I looked in the mirror each morning and told myself, "Marsha is dead." It was the only way to begin making a new normal - one in which the world was void of truthful short stories and beer softball, and long blond curls and a devilish smile, and a laugh that told you "Life should be Lived." A new normal where "Desperado" and Bon Jovi and Sharon Olds and Wagner would always make me smile and think "Marsha loved this."
And so began my life without Marsha - a life without my best friend and sister and roommate of four years. A life in which Her life would need to live on in ME. A life in which classical piano music would always make me shiver as her soul would brush up against mine. A life which would challenge me to write better, read more, play and practice more, enjoy more, forgive more, love more. - be MORE because she was no longer here to live it, so some part of me needed to live it for her.
Since April 19, 1987, I've lived falling in love and out of love (more than once), marriage, infertility, adoption. I've lived having a career and a life of travel all over the world. I've lived a life as daughter, sister, lover, friend, wife, and mother. In each case, for each year that I outlive Marsha, I live a piece of it for her, because she didn't get to do it or feel it or see it or become it. And I know her gift to me has been just that, that my life has been made more precious because Death had come and taken hers away on a day I'll never forget.
I was young and we were all invincible. The words couldn't make meaning right away. But I heard the urgency in Michelle's voice and so I left for home.
In the fifteen minute drive home I had some time to process the brief phone call. It was true that Marsha hadn't come home last night. While not unusual, it could leave room for something to have happened. If the accident were as bad as Michelle's voice implied, then would she, could she die? If she did die, that would be horrible, unthinkable, tragic! But I didn't want to get ahead of myself. I needed to wait and see exactly what was going on. Yet, I remember also thinking, If Marsha does die, then I know she lived her 22 years of life to the fullest. Somehow that was comforting in this surreal moment driving the soulless fields and low hills of Northeastern Iowa.
I don't actually remember the details of what happened when I returned. But somewhere in there someone uttered the words we all dreaded: "Marsha was removed from life support and died at the hospital." She had been involved in a head on accident late at night and had had massive brain injury and other fractures. Had she lived, she would no longer have been the live-loving, piano playing, literature reading, boy crazy, angsty 22 year old that we knew. She would have been a vegetable.
What followed was immediate and unadulterated grief like I had never known and to this day have not known again. I felt a piece of my very soul had been ripped from me. I felt a chasm between the life I had lived and the life I would know thereafter. In that instant, Death became viscerally real. Death knew me and I now knew Death. Two days later the funeral sped by - drinking in the van with friends on the way there, the large crowd of students and church family, a grieving immediate family, a long trip out to a cemetery on a lonely hill that I would never be able to find again. In the weeks that followed I wrote my sorrow and anger and questions in poems. I cried. Friends gathered and talked endlessly about a precious life cut short and all the memories we had acquired. I prayed and found that God was just as grieved as I was and I learned the truth: that accidents do happen and that Fate is not always in control. I looked in the mirror each morning and told myself, "Marsha is dead." It was the only way to begin making a new normal - one in which the world was void of truthful short stories and beer softball, and long blond curls and a devilish smile, and a laugh that told you "Life should be Lived." A new normal where "Desperado" and Bon Jovi and Sharon Olds and Wagner would always make me smile and think "Marsha loved this."
And so began my life without Marsha - a life without my best friend and sister and roommate of four years. A life in which Her life would need to live on in ME. A life in which classical piano music would always make me shiver as her soul would brush up against mine. A life which would challenge me to write better, read more, play and practice more, enjoy more, forgive more, love more. - be MORE because she was no longer here to live it, so some part of me needed to live it for her.
Since April 19, 1987, I've lived falling in love and out of love (more than once), marriage, infertility, adoption. I've lived having a career and a life of travel all over the world. I've lived a life as daughter, sister, lover, friend, wife, and mother. In each case, for each year that I outlive Marsha, I live a piece of it for her, because she didn't get to do it or feel it or see it or become it. And I know her gift to me has been just that, that my life has been made more precious because Death had come and taken hers away on a day I'll never forget.
Monday, April 25, 2016
The Time I loved my AP Lit kids
2015-16 I was blessed to teach an amazing group of students in AP Literature at my school. There were 11 students in all: Jeffrey, Andrew, Josh, Arjun, Sophia, Charlotte, Georgette, Elaine, Charlotte, Maggie and Lauren. We had decided that one day we should do a photo shoot of our class to get a great picture for our website. We all marched outside to the pictureseque island, someone mounted a good camera on a tripod and I positioned people. First, the idea was that I would be reading happily, while others were also scattered about with their books or computers or phones or whatnot. It was all staged perfectly. Our class entertainer, Arjun, brought out a soccer ball and tossed that in the air central to the picture. It was a lovely and funny juxtaposition to the rest of us. We laughed and joshed as we took new positions or sat together for a serious group photo. Fifteen minutes well-spent. . . until we realized that Elaine was absent! No way!
The Time I Met My Son
Before I saw him, I heard him. He cried from the other room while Brent and I waited on a low bench in a small dressing room usually used by nurses. Only a few minutes had passed since we had been asked to take a seat and wait in our silly blue scrubs. Our son was born C-Section from the belly of a remarkable woman named Cindy who had chosen us by our online profile just 5 weeks before. She had black hair, a short but petite build and a big smile. Well, not today. Today had to be one of the toughest days of her life - to bear a child and then to know she would say goodbye to him. We knew all these things as we sat waiting for the word that our son was born, but it didn't quell the excitement at that time.
In moments, a nurse appeared and asked us to follow her. My heart raced. The little baby cry became louder as we approached the sterile white room. We had had strict orders not to enter the operating room and were surprised when the doctor motioned us to "come". We were too confused to pass the threshold to cut the umbilical cord, so he did it himself while we watched.
It wasn't long before I was holding baby Alec. Cindy was being stitched up and going straight into the recovery room, so we would be the first of the three parents he would meet face-to-face. We were in awe of this tiny little purplish, squirmy, spindly amazing child who had already won our hearts. I was awed and humbled and had no idea what would lie ahead for any of us, just that we were destined to be a family.
In the hours to follow our family would begin forming, parents and siblings from our family and Cindy's family would all arrive at the hospital in turn to wish our two families well and to coo over the new life that had just entered the world. My sister and brother-in-law would arrive with fresh purple leis in hand for each woman there; they had just arrived back to the Mid-west from a Hawaiian vacation. Seeing my son with a gorgeous purple and white lei around his neck is one of my favorite first memories. This was to be the beginning of a very special bond that few outside of the adoptive world could imagine - and maybe few inside of it as well. It is a bond that remains strong to this day. It is one of love and mutual respect and gratefulness between two families brought together by disparate but mutual pain.
In moments, a nurse appeared and asked us to follow her. My heart raced. The little baby cry became louder as we approached the sterile white room. We had had strict orders not to enter the operating room and were surprised when the doctor motioned us to "come". We were too confused to pass the threshold to cut the umbilical cord, so he did it himself while we watched.
It wasn't long before I was holding baby Alec. Cindy was being stitched up and going straight into the recovery room, so we would be the first of the three parents he would meet face-to-face. We were in awe of this tiny little purplish, squirmy, spindly amazing child who had already won our hearts. I was awed and humbled and had no idea what would lie ahead for any of us, just that we were destined to be a family.
In the hours to follow our family would begin forming, parents and siblings from our family and Cindy's family would all arrive at the hospital in turn to wish our two families well and to coo over the new life that had just entered the world. My sister and brother-in-law would arrive with fresh purple leis in hand for each woman there; they had just arrived back to the Mid-west from a Hawaiian vacation. Seeing my son with a gorgeous purple and white lei around his neck is one of my favorite first memories. This was to be the beginning of a very special bond that few outside of the adoptive world could imagine - and maybe few inside of it as well. It is a bond that remains strong to this day. It is one of love and mutual respect and gratefulness between two families brought together by disparate but mutual pain.
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