First of all, I can't believe that this is my first post of 2014. How shameful. But alas, here I am.
So much has happened so far this year, and yet, so little has happened.
As I write, it's Mother's Day and I'm filled with warmth and thanks for all of the moms and mother figures I know and love. And yet also, for the first time perhaps, I also am aware that I am not a mother. And that, quite possibly, I might never be a mother. My emotional reaction to this catches me by surprise in the way that I think it catches many women like me off-guard. It's not a devastation but a slow burn, a sudden not tsunami of tears but just enough to blur your vision and make the guy sitting across from you on the subway take note long enough to decide not to ask. Kind of like an "Oh." Oh right, I forgot to have children. Surely we know that we are, shall we say, getting a little long in the tooth and short on the eggs, but in some ways too it is a surprise, like looking in the mirror and wondering how just yesterday it seemed that there were no lines there and now there are more than a few. My lines have given birth to other lines. How can it be that I am 41 when just yesterday I was 21 and I feel 25?
How indeed.
This year has been an emotional one for me in a lot of ways that I hadn't expected and I find myself having a lot of these moments about lots of different things. Maybe it's that I'm now 41, which is closer to 50 than 30. All of these feelings feel really self-indulgent. I'm not the first person to turn 41, and I certainly far prefer this than the alternative, but I'm increasingly conscious of the march of time and, well, time running out for certain things. Who's to say that even if I decided tomorrow that I wanted to have a
child that I even could. Maybe I never could, even at 25. But as a
control freak, I don't like that time is cobbling away at my ability to
decide. Time is the great equalizer. The playing field is no longer level but a steep climb.
I'll be a stepmother, I think. I'm already an aunt. Maybe I can do IVF. Or adopt. Maybe I'll settle down and be really lucky and be able to have a child of my own. The not knowing is driving me crazy.
I've never been one of those women who looks at friends having kids and feels jealous. I truly only feel happy because I don't see their pregnancy or wedding or new job or apartment as having anything to do with the fact that I don't have those things. Maybe it's because I'm my own toughest critic and the only person I feel in competition with is myself. And I don't really think about the fact that I'm not a mother all that often, but I do certainly today, and certainly more and more.
I think about it especially today when I think about my friend Oliver, who was born 6 months ago today, and today, Mother's Day, is his next to last day on earth. Born with a congenital heart defect, he has spent every day of his short life in the hospital. I remember how thrilled his parents and grandparents were during his mother's pregnancy. This was a very much wanted child. And I remember how equally elated they were when he was born, only to get the news less than 24 hours later that he had the deck stacked against him. And I've been following their journey for the past six months - the highs and lows, the many tests and medical procedures, the prayers, the hopes, the tears, the circle of family, friends, coworkers, fellow patients and strangers who built a circle of support around Oliver and his family.
And I've thought about how much of a leap into the unknown it is to have a child. How much courage it really takes when you think about it. Oliver's parents went from being blissful albeit nervous first time parents to the parents of a very sick child who had to make the decision that no parents should ever have to make - to let their son go. And on this Mother's Day, Oliver's mother is celebrating both her first Mother's Day and her last Mother's Day with her son. My heart breaks each time I think of them and I cry for all of the time they won't have together.
And yet, as much heartbreak and devastation as they have faced, and will continue to face, as Oliver leaves the earth tomorrow, they say they have no regrets. They instead focus on the lessons Oliver has taught them and those who have been fortunate enough to know him. The lessons of unconditional love and faith.
And maybe most of all, the lesson that we really don't have a damned clue. About what this life holds, what tomorrow holds, what this hour holds, what this minute holds. Control is an illusion and nothing is guaranteed, not even the time it takes for me to finish this sentence. It's important to stay in the moment because it's all we have. Oliver's life has been a series of moments strung together over six months - and because his parents have known that the next moment is not guaranteed, they have taken nothing for granted.
As Oliver approaches the end of his moments, I am so fortunate to have been witness to his journey - a journey very different from mine, but exactly the same in the sense that we are here for a finite amount of time. He won't take wobbly first steps or step up to the plate. He won't feel snowflakes on his tongue, race to finish a melting ice cream cone, or dip his toes in the ocean. He won't have a first car or pin a corsage on his prom date. He will never be a husband or a father. Maybe he would not have wanted to do any of those things. Oliver has had a lot of love in his short life and a lot of impact, but he has not had time.
So this is what I'll remember for as long as I have moments - for already I have been very fortunate. I thank him for reminding me to be grateful and to not focus on what I don't have, because I'll miss this moment, and, bad, good, busy, bored, it's not coming around again and there may not be one behind it.
Rest in peace, Oliver Robert Halligan.
