A letter to my Mom, Jane Steele, April 12, 1941-Sept. 20, 2003
20 September 2013
Dear Mom:
We just wrapped up another busy week for the BLT brothers. The first month at their new school has gone mostly smoothly, save for a few potty accidents and a mini-tantrum or two (theirs, not ours…). Brandon likes going to the computer lab, Trevor likes doing artwork, and Logan likes his teacher’s aide, Miss Sarah.
I thoroughly enjoy checking their school folders each night to do their homework with them and see the priceless creations they’ve made that day — drawings, crafts, and the like. I wish we had three more refrigerators on which to hang them all.
You wouldn’t believe how big they are getting — the cliché about how fast it goes by is something I utter on a monthly basis. Their vocabulary grows by the day — and the conversations we have sometimes are epic. Logan and Trevor still have a tough time with their “s” and “f” sounds, and we still smile when they say “I lick” or “I lorry.” Brandon seems to pick up new phrases every week; “As a matter of fact” is a current favorite.
We thought of you Labor Day weekend, when we took the crew to Santa’s Village in Dundee. If memory serves, you took me and Kelly there 35-plus years ago. Pretty sure most of the same rides we saw a few weeks ago were around when Gerald Ford was president. Can’t say I remember riding Kringle’s Convoy, but if my grins were as big as the BLT brothers’ were, I’m sure we had a wonderful time.
Work and everything else are going OK, or as well as can be expected. It’s a daily struggle to balance the challenges, the details, the need for more pull-ups on a Tuesday night, the paperwork the financial planner needs signed, the garage door that needs fixed, and all the other responsibilities that need to be attended to just to keep all of this afloat. But as hokey as it sounds, all it takes is a smile from one of these beautiful boys to pull everything back into perspective.
You know, there’s just one thing I wished: That you would have gotten the chance to know that they even exist.
*****
Ten years ago today, I received the most heartbreaking phone call I have ever received. I don’t really remember what I said to dad, through his tears and mine, other than I loved him and that I was so sorry. I think I also told him that somehow we’d get through this. And we have, or at least as much as we’ve been able . But you need to know: There hasn’t been a day since then — not a single one out of the 3,600-plus — that I haven’t thought of you. It’s been a decade. I still miss you.
I miss you the way a son misses a mother who played such an important part of making him who he is, and who showed him love in ways both large and subtle. But by far the most difficult thing to reconcile about your absence is the fact that you never got the chance to meet — and love and hold and cherish — the grandchildren I know you wanted so badly.
It’s not exaggerating to say their lives won’t be the same without you.
*****
Let me tell you a little about them.
*****
We learned that Brandon would be our first son when his birth mother called and said, “I choose you.”
After our wedding (which was beautiful, by the way; there was an empty seat right in front, and a wonderful ceremony on a crisp, sunny October Saturday — and Denise looked stunning), Denise and I set out to start our family. On my way home from work one day, transferring trains at Belmont, I answered my mobile phone to Denise on the other end saying two words: “I’m pregnant.”
It was a crushing day several weeks later when we learned that child would never see the world. As if that pain weren’t enough, we had to endure it again a few months later. Heartbreaking doesn’t come close to describing the feeling.
Denise — who, sadly, you never really got to know well, but I know you would have loved immensely — started us down the path of adoption. I am wholly embarrassed to admit this now, but I was just a teensy bit reluctant at first. Not averse to the concept (having known a few adopted kids growing up, and seeing the love they shared with their families), just uncertain as to what all it entailed — how did it work, how long would it take, what were the possible pitfalls, would it really happen.
I really began to see myself as an adoptive parent after we went to an open house at an adoption agency and saw a family who adopted an infant from Russia…and their joy and love and pride was unmistakable. At a class for soon-to-be-adoptive parents a few months later, we listened to the most sincere and sweet 20-something tell the story of her adoptive parents and the endless love she had for them, and they for her.
Not long thereafter, Denise signed us up with an agency to make our profile (basically, the story of our family, told through words and photos; of course, we talked about you) available nationwide. We made a possible connection with one birthmother after a few months, but something about it (not the least of which was that state’s adoption laws, which wouldn’t have let us become the legal parents right away) just wasn’t right.
Another connection came several weeks later, this time from a young mother in Mississippi.
The birth grandmother called us early in the evening. She graciously described her late-teenage daughter, who had a young son already and just didn’t feel she would be able to provide the kind of life she wanted her unborn baby to have. The daughter had narrowed down her choice to us and another family. The daughter would call us sometime in the coming week to talk to us further.
20 minutes later the phone rang. It was the birth mother. “I choose you.”
That was a happy day.
Later that summer, I joined Denise in Mississippi to meet the birth mother, birth grandmother and some of their family friends. There were some funny moments and some tenuous moments, but also some truly touching moments. I was struck by how mature, and brave, and caring the birthmother was — and how she truly wanted to make sure the baby had the chance to experience the things she didn’t, and more importantly have parents that loved him so. Denise immediately formed a bond with her — and, through her actions as much as her words, proved what a great mother she would be.
That October we flew back to Mississippi for Brandon’s birth. After 27 hours of labor, some family drama, miscellaneous tense moments, and lots of “Animal Planet” on the hospital room TV, Brandon met all of us. The first time I held him, I bawled as much as he was. I had never held anything that beautiful.
The night before we left Mississippi, we treated the birth mother and her family and friends to dinner (Olive Garden!). As we were leaving, one of the birthmother’s friends pulled me aside. Half my age and with the unvarnished earnestness only a 19-year-old can have, he says: “Just promise me one thing — that you will always love Brandon with all your heart.”
Five years later, I have kept that promise. And I’ll keep it until the day I die.
Brandon is one complex, insightful, observant, headstrong, little man. His imagination, his vocabulary, his mannerisms, his opinions, his proclivities — everything about him is wonderful and amazing. His favorite color is pink, he likes to carry around a bunch of keys on a keyring, and he knows more about operating the iPad and TV remotes than I ever will. His favorite Yo Gabba Gabba (that’s a kids’ TV show, BTW) character is Brobee (and DJ Lance). He sometimes says “amor en mi corazon” then points at me when he goes to bed.
I think there will always be a special place in my heart for the Brandonator (one of 8,000 nicknames I have for each of the boys). He gave me my first experience as a father. Those are days I will never, ever forget.
*****
The road to Logan and Trevor had the same very happy ending, but the journey was unfortunately much harder.
Concurrent with our path toward adoption, we began the process of growing our family via the miracle of modern science. After first working with a softer-spoken, more analytic and low-key reproductive specialist, we were referred to another specialist at a big downtown hospital. He was straightforward, matter-of-fact and cordial, but seemed almost a little distant. He even made a comment in our first visit that defied logic, had he only read the info on the medical forms we submitted.
But the first impression of him was not wholly accurate. He was indeed caring, he did believe we could do this, he did do everything he could to help us reach our goal. (There’s a lot more to this story that hopefully we can talk more about later).
After going through a series of steps that at each turn seemed like it would lead to failure, he called us: It worked. The news, however, took on a new wrinkle during a subsequent check-up visit. “Hmmm, looks like two gestational sacs,” he said, matter-of-factly. “How can that be?” Denise responded. “There was only one egg.” A half-second later, my wife remembered that she is an identical twin. “It’s probably just a gas bubble,” she said, but I don’t think she believed it.
It wasn’t a gas bubble. It was Baby A and Baby B.
The six-plus months that followed were extremely hard on Denise. The pregnancy, to say the least, was difficult. She suffered discomfort after discomfort, each one worse than the next. Cholestasis. Consistent and painful heartburn. Ache after ache. She could only sleep on her side, when she could sleep at all. And by the way, she was caring for a five-month boy at home. And working. And putting up with me. None of those things are easy when you’re not pregnant.
The day of our wedding anniversary (our sixth), I got a text from Denise: I’m in the emergency room. After several hours and a few inconclusive tests, she was home. The next day, late in the afternoon, I got another message from Denise: I’m in the hospital and the babies are coming.
The delivery room was much different than the one in which Brandon was born. That’s because it was an operating room. With a green sheet hung up to serve as a barrier between Denise’s head and the rest of her body, I sat close to her, looking at her pale and tired face while monitors beeped and flashed to the side. Denise looked exhausted, but serene. “This will all be OK,” I kept saying both to her and in my head.
At 11:12 p.m., we heard Logan cry for the first time. A minute later, his brother Trevor was even louder — he wanted to speak to a manager. They were so tiny, so frail, so beautiful — in their blue-and-pink striped stocking caps adorned with pieces of masking tape with “A” and “B” written on them. The nurses whisked them away, and I kissed Denise — who was obviously out of it but still smiling after seeing her newborns — and snuggled my cheek against her for several minutes, telling her how beautiful she was.
But then, the doctors had more work to do, and I had to leave.
What happened next, I have to admit I really don’t remember the details, because they were the most surreal and scary moments I’ve ever faced. Here’s what I can recall:
About an hour after the twins’ birth, I was in the recovery room with Denise. The trauma of delivery left her looking as if she had been awake for days with no food or water: sullen eyes, pasty skin. Of course, to me she looked beautiful — the mother of two new baby boys.
Then the doctor came in and checked Denise. The doctor left and brought back another one. They talked, then stepped outside to talk. Then they asked me to step outside.
Something wasn’t right, they said. Denise was bleeding, they said. She needed surgery, they said. Now, they said. I remember the doctor, a dark-haired woman probably a few years my junior, looking me in the eyes and speaking in a low, measured voice. I sensed she was trying to be reassuring. But my heart was in my throat. “Will she be OK?” was all I could muster. I truly don’t remember what she said. Which means the answer was something other than “yes.”
It was after they whisked Denise out of the recovery room, leaving me there alone, that I looked down at the floor. Bloody gauzes everywhere. Discarded paper from ripping open sterile instruments. Small splotches of blood here. And there. And there. And there. It seemed to me like the kind of room one would encounter for the victim of a car crash or similar trauma. Not the room of the mother of two new baby boys.
I started bawling harder than I did two hours earlier when I first saw our new sons. With a racing heart and trembling hands, the thought wouldn’t go away: I might never talk to my wife again. Six years earlier, Dad had called me in tears on the worst day of his life. In the wee hours of this morning, I called him: This was the worst night of my life, and always will be.
******
Nearly four years later, it’s hard to believe that those tiny little babies have turned into the strong and beautiful boys they are. Yes, they look alike. And yes, they are absolutely their own people. Logan is a little more sensitive and a little more independent. Trevor is a little shitkicker, one of the most athletic 3-year-olds I’ve ever seen. Logan precedes many of his conversations with, “Wellllllllll,” to introduce the topic at hand. Trevor will haul off and punch Brandon (kinda funny, I have to admit) then come up to me two seconds later, purse his lips together to make a fish face, and give me a big smooch. Both of their eyes are the same shade of azure as the Caribbean, where Denise and I spent our honeymoon. They could be/might be J Crew models one day. When they smile at me, everything melts away.
I cannot describe how much I love these two and their big brother. I never knew feelings could be so strong.
*****
Mom: Please know that I try every day to be the best father I can. I listen, I teach, I try to be a good example. I taught the guys how to count to 20 in Spanish by age 3; Brandon knows what dealer license plates are. I take them to the park, the zoo, the beach, to street fests, to farmer’s markets, and so many others places. I buy them toys, scooters, backyard pools that invariably develop leaks, a keyboard, even a trampoline (had to get rid of that, though).
But for as many things as I do right (or think I do right), there are far too many areas in which I fall short. I’m impatient. I yell more than I’d like to admit. I say things I shouldn’t. I’m impatient, again. I’ve taught them good things but also regretful things.
There is one thing I’m pretty sure I do right. And I’m pretty sure I learned it from you: I show the guys how much I love them every day. Not just say it, show it. A hug. A kiss. A fist bump. A smile. A wink. Another hug.
In my nearly five years as a parent, there is one thought that has visited me many times. It almost always happens when I’m holding or hugging or kissing one of those amazingly beautiful boys, savoring one of those moments that reminds me that nothing else is more important than the love between us.
In those moments, I think back to the childhood you gave me: Making my Halloween costumes from scratch, serving on the school PTA, carrying me to the car when I badly broke my arm, being so patient when I wet the bed night after night after night (sorry about that, BTW), stuffing me and Kelly in the back of the Travelall while you delivered newspapers, making me return the rock I stole from the neighbors, taking me to swimming lessons/Little League games/friends’ houses, being one of three parents in the stands to watch a soccer game on a rainy 50-degree Tuesday evening (with, of course, a cowbell adorned with your homemade Downers Grove North decorations).
I guess I sort of knew it at the time, but I now truly understand why you did that. How important it was to you. How important it was to love and cherish your child, and savor the moments that come just once.
Please know that when I show my boys that kind of love every day, it’s because you taught me.
*****
Have to wrap up now–busy day tomorrow and big weekend planned (if it’s warm enough, we may have our first backyard camp-out). Just wanted to mention one last thing: Thank you for loving me, and showing me how to love. Thank you for teaching, understanding, encouraging, guiding me. I am so grateful you are my mother.
I still miss you. I love you. I always will.
Until someday,
Your son.
