[/caption]Last summer I told my visiting brother, Kirk, about a magazine writing contest I felt inspired to enter. I mean I felt driven to enter this contest, something that has happened to me neither before or after that particular one. Although I knew I was not the best writer who would submit, I felt that maybe I would have a different perspective to share on the topic- When I First Knew Love. The contest was in Real Simple Magazine and the top prize was a trip to New York City. I started furiously writing. Then I sort of gave up. Didn't think I could possibly win, my writing wasn't good enough, too busy, too full of grief, I had loads of excuses. As the deadline approached, I re-read what I had written. I thought it wouldn't hurt to submit it, I mean I'd already come that far. So I began editing. The day the contest entry was due, I was scrambling to get it in. I realized I needed a set of fresh eyes. I contacted my sister, as I always do in an emergency type of situation. She read it and was quite certain that I would win. She suggested I send it to Kip, my other brother, because Kip is an excellent writer, he could help me if any restructuring of sentences or new word choices needed to be made. I also contacted my superb friend Wendy because she used to edit medical textbooks, I thought if anyone would know where to put a semi-colon, she would. So I had my A-team: my cheerleader (Susan), my creative editor (Kip), and my mechanical editor (Wendy). I quickly e-mailed/text-ed to ask for their assistance on my submission which was due at midnight (Wendy wondered it that was EST or CST? See how excellent she is with details?)
And after everyone jumped in to assist with this project, I felt not so alone, so much so that I felt as if I already HAD won.
Well, I did not "win" the competition, as I originally hoped. The outcome was much different than what I anticipated. Maybe my urgency about submitting was more about the camaraderie I felt entering the contest or the catharsis I felt writing this piece. Below is what I submitted.
I thought I knew love when my first child was born, a beautiful, perfect baby girl, Ellie. The kind of baby that just seemed wise, an old soul. I had always dreamed of becoming a mother. This was my dream come true. I never knew love could be so overwhelming, so big. So ferociously protective. The smell of her baby self, I wanted to dive into a pool of its deliciousness. Everything about her I adored.
I thought I knew love when my sweet baby, at 20 months, was discovered “broken”. Hidden inside Ellie’s brain was a tumor. That love was filled with heartache at dashed dreams, an astonishment of what the heart can endure and a knowing that THIS was what we came here to do.
I thought I knew love as I watched my daughter’s strength and tenacity. She utterly refused to live in a world of brain tumors or war or suffering of any kind. As she said to me after a needle poke or a painful medical procedure, “She didn’t mean to hurt me (referring to the doctor or nurse),” and proceeded to make friends.
I thought I knew love as my daughter the day after surgery would tell anyone and everyone entering her hospital room that she was jilled (joy filled) or happy. She was such a great teacher. She became my hero.
I thought I knew love when my second baby, Ben, was born. He was filled with enthusiasm, like another angel sent at just the right time to distract me from the chemotherapy which was slowly
deteriorating my precious five-year-old girl. I marveled at how he looked up at the trees as if he could understand what they were saying. He never seemed to walk; he bounced or ran instead. Mud puddles were his favorite past time for quite awhile. I appreciated Ben’s nonchalant acceptance of the hospital as a continual part of our lives. Even in a sterile hospital he was able to find fun, and play. Like the day Ben, barely able to walk, pretended to throw up into a plastic container mimicking Ellie or the day when a tiny Ben raced to give Ellie a hug as she re-learned to walk after surgery. He taught me how to love in an exuberant way, jumping right in. I thought I knew love when a year ago, August, we were once again blessed with another angel disguised as a baby. We named her Lotta Joy. And she has certainly lived up to her namesake. The baby-ness of her was like a tidal wave that overtook our family; we were all drowning in love. She smelled like freshly baked bread and felt as soft as silk. Lotta tended to do things early. She always seemed slightly offended when she was not doing the same things as the rest of us. I watched this ever so easy baby flow into our lives, giving us a distraction from the numerous brain surgeries and hospital stays Ellie was undergoing. What a strange and wonderful time to have a baby. As she gained skills, like laughing and smiling, her older sister was losing them. How bizarre it felt to witness Lotta’s joy AND the sorrow we were all feeling at the slow seeping away of Ellie’s life. Lotta was never seeing or feeling our worry, she loved the moment she was in. She reminded me to be present to the gift of each and every moment.
Now with Ellie gone, buried beneath a big tree in Tennessee, I reflect on all those times I thought I knew love. How naive I was. I struggle with how to continue to hold my family together in this crazy disorienting time. I struggle with how to love who is here without being drained by the sadness of who is not. It is love, the remembered love of Ellie and the love of Ben, Lotta and of course Thom that sustains me in these times as we reinvent who we are, a family with a daughter who died, and so much more than that.
Every time I think I know love, life presents me with a fresh opportunity to expand. My heart bursts wide open and love emerges in a new, sometimes raw, but always fresh way. Like a prism, continually turning, creating yet another new combination. Perhaps love is ever changing, ever evolving, making me question the kind of love I thought I always knew.
