It is weird to see your closest friend after 12 years of not speaking. I see her freckles that have seemed to multiply and that her beautiful red hair had darkened a bit, but her voice has that same sweet melodic sound I always remembered. See Michele and I aren’t ordinary friends. We are summer sisters. We have had our first kisses together (though apart). We fought over who would marry Tom Cruise after seeing Top Gun together. We experimented with fuchsia lipstick and big bangs. We made crank calls together and at the same time shared our life long dreams.
I could start at the beginning, but that would be a book and not a blog. So I will start at the scariest moment. It occurred about one week after my favorite memory. Michele and I had gone to the beach early. Labor Day was still a few days off and the beach was quiet and had that perfect combination of a warm sun mixed with a cool breeze. She wanted to draw (her talent) and I wanted to write (mine). As usual my A.D.D kicked in. So I took out my “Click” camera and snapped a picture of my summer sister. We never took a lot of pictures. I think we fell into a pattern. The next memorial day—we knew we would be together again. I still have that picture. Michele staring pensively at the ocean, sketch book and pencil in hand.
I was fourteen years old and a scared high school freshman when I was pulled out of the first day of classes. My mother sat in the principal’s office; her eyes were swollen from tears. “There has been an accident,” she said. My first thought was my father. He was a Philadelphia Fire Fighter and had not returned from work by the time I left for school. I froze. “It’s Michele and Sandy (Michele’s mom), “she went on. “Sandy is going to be okay, but Michele.. They don’t think…” my mom started to sob. “We have to get back down the shore right away.”
To this day I cannot remember my reaction to this news. I think I went numb from shock. The whole day had been out of sorts. I had walked to school with friends from my grammar school. I was so proud to finally be wearing a high school uniform, but so scared once we had all separated. I drifted along to the strange sounds of clanging lockers and shrilling bells. My biggest worry was if I would survive high school at all. Looking back there was no way I could have known that there would be much bigger things to worry about.
The next thing I remember is sitting in my family car. Somewhere along the way my cousin Maryann and Aunt Bernadette had joined us. Maryann was leaning against the window next to me. I could hear her crying. My aunt and my mom were making nervous chatter in the front seat. All I could do was pray. “Please Dear God, help Michele. Please Dear God, help Michele.”
We pulled into Shore Memorial Hospital and were greeted by Michele’s brother Wayne. Wayne is older and I had always looked up to him. He always seemed so more mature than us, yet was always so kind to his baby sister and her very awkward friend. His voice and hands were shaking. I sensed how bad this was. I tried to prepare myself to see my dearest friend.
Nothing could prepare me. There were tubes everywhere. I looked for some resemblance of Michele, but even her freckles were lost in the severe bruising that seemed to have taken over her face. And her hair, her beautiful red hair had been shaved. I would not find out until later that her hair had been shaved in order to re-attach her ear or that she had died at least two times and was brought back to life. I heard words like “we may have to airlift her to Philly. The guy who hit them was drunk. They were just going to pick dad up from work.” Then the scariest word I have heard in all my 14 years of life “coma”.
“Wake up Michele,” I pleaded inwardly. “Wake up and we can go to the beach or just sit around and talk, but please just wake up.”
The rest of the day and many days that passed were a blur. Michele did wake up, but there were a lot of problems to overcome. The accident had not only hurt her internal organs, but also damaged her back and she was looking at many long months of rehabilitation and therapy. All during the year that was supposed to be her first year of high school as well.
One day right before the hospital transferred her to Hahnemann Hospital in Philadelphia; she even played a little joke on me and my cousin Maryann. She held her breath so the breathing monitor would show she wasn’t breathing. When we stared to fret, she released her breath and managed a little chuckle. “Gotcha,” she said. It was the first glimpse I got of my summer sister. The first time that somehow I knew everything would be okay.
The years after the accident brought many changes. Michele and her family moved to California for a couple of years in order to provide a milder climate for her to recuperate in and when they moved back we didn’t miss a beat. I was honored at nineteen to be in her bridal party and even more honored to sit at her baby shower just a year later.
Then as time tends to do, we drifted apart. I thought about her all the time and even ran into her once at the shore and got a chance to see her second son. Then through the miracle of social networking we are back in touch again. I was there to help ease the pain of her divorce. She was there to celebrate my second marriage with me. Now we speak daily and I had the wonderful chance to hang out with her and my summer family just three days ago.
Oh and the weirdness of our first meeting in all those years? It lasted about five minutes and we were out talking until 1 am! A good friend recently pointed out to me that true friends will always fall back in step with each other no matter how much time has passed (thank you Linda).
See, Michele taught me a lot in our young life. Since I slept at her house so often, I could not walk away when things got tough. We had to work through issues and learn to apologize. She taught me mortality. Most teens of my age did not even think about dying. I knew how fragile life is -- even at 14. Most of all Michele taught me that nothing is impossible. If my petite little friend could fight, against the odds mind you, for her life and turn into a happy and healthy, not to mention beautiful person – well I really do not have an excuse to ever give up. This one is for you Michele. Thank you for being in my life.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Move-In
When I first divorced I often said that being single in the suburbs was like being married without a husband. I still fretted over the state of the local school district, went shopping for groceries on the weekends and took long walks in the evening with my dog. It is not like a city life filled with hot new bars and restaurants. The most exciting thing that could happen was the opening of a new supermarket.
Then one day my boyfriend Greg and I decided to live together. It was during this time I realized just how un-married I had become. For four years before the “move-in” I came and went as I pleased. I kept my closet rigidly neat or threw my clothes on the floor. I could eat cereal and drink wine for dinner. I spent countless Sundays curled up in a ball re-reading my favorite books while reruns of Sex and The City blared in the background. I was responsible for myself, my dog and the bills. That was all about to change.
It was a humid August night when Greg schlepped his belongings from Bucks County PA to my home in South Jersey. Since he had sold all his furniture and did not need my help. I went to a friend’s house to give Greg space. I was driving home at 9pm and my cell phone rang “Hey are you coming home?” Greg said. “Almost there,” I cheerfully replied. As I hung up the phone I could not help feeling, well a knot in my stomach. See only my closest friends really know what a loner I am. Everyone else sees me as outgoing and funny. The one in the group that really loves the company of others.
That is not me. My favorite moments are waking up with nothing to do. I love sitting in solitude, petting the dog and reading the paper while coffee brews. As an only child and an adopted one at that, silence does not put me on edge. Rather silence soothes me and gives me time to deal with my own thoughts.
As I pulled up to my, I mean our, condo I noted his car in the assigned spot that until that moment had always belonged to me. As I stepped inside, I saw immediately that he had worked hard getting his things in order, but the small condo seemed to have shrunk within a few hours. I kissed him and welcomed him home. Yet my inner voice screamed “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Days turned into weeks in our little, wait make that tiny abode. I called to check in. I tried and failed at making room in my closet. I forgot what silence felt like. We cooked together, shopped together and laughed together. My only alone time seemed to be in the earliest hours on a Sunday before Greg awakened. I selfishly complained inwardly about my lack of time. I also lie awake in fear most nights. What if this doesn’t work? What if he leaves? Why did I ever leave myself open for another huge rejection?
I lamented the end of romance. Why would he need to woo me now? Every cohabitating couple I knew joked about the end of romance, but as a writer and a romantic at heart, I knew I would desperately miss the Greg who danced with me in the living room and brought me flowers for no reason.
Then one night I was out and about with my friends and the strangest thing happened. I told a joke and immediately thought how funny Greg would think it was. Then it happened, I missed him. It was a pang that hit me so hard that it nearly knocked me over. I was physically present for the rest of the night, but my heart – my heart was at home curled up in a ball with Greg.
I pulled up to our condo later that evening and noted that he had left the space open for me and the outdoor light on. I walked in to find him sleeping on the couch. I gently touched his face and whispered that I was back. I looked around to see that while I was out having fun. Greg had put together shelving that now contained our CDs and DVDs. He had managed to empty all his remaining “move-in” boxes and suddenly the condo felt less cluttered and looked so beautiful to my eyes that had finally opened.
It was then I saw it. Sitting on the dining room table. He had bought me flowers and carefully arranged them in a vase. He has bought me flowers for no reason except that he had missed me too.
“Hey, you are finally home,” I heard Greg’s sleepy voice call from the couch. Yes honey, I am most definitely home.
Then one day my boyfriend Greg and I decided to live together. It was during this time I realized just how un-married I had become. For four years before the “move-in” I came and went as I pleased. I kept my closet rigidly neat or threw my clothes on the floor. I could eat cereal and drink wine for dinner. I spent countless Sundays curled up in a ball re-reading my favorite books while reruns of Sex and The City blared in the background. I was responsible for myself, my dog and the bills. That was all about to change.
It was a humid August night when Greg schlepped his belongings from Bucks County PA to my home in South Jersey. Since he had sold all his furniture and did not need my help. I went to a friend’s house to give Greg space. I was driving home at 9pm and my cell phone rang “Hey are you coming home?” Greg said. “Almost there,” I cheerfully replied. As I hung up the phone I could not help feeling, well a knot in my stomach. See only my closest friends really know what a loner I am. Everyone else sees me as outgoing and funny. The one in the group that really loves the company of others.
That is not me. My favorite moments are waking up with nothing to do. I love sitting in solitude, petting the dog and reading the paper while coffee brews. As an only child and an adopted one at that, silence does not put me on edge. Rather silence soothes me and gives me time to deal with my own thoughts.
As I pulled up to my, I mean our, condo I noted his car in the assigned spot that until that moment had always belonged to me. As I stepped inside, I saw immediately that he had worked hard getting his things in order, but the small condo seemed to have shrunk within a few hours. I kissed him and welcomed him home. Yet my inner voice screamed “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Days turned into weeks in our little, wait make that tiny abode. I called to check in. I tried and failed at making room in my closet. I forgot what silence felt like. We cooked together, shopped together and laughed together. My only alone time seemed to be in the earliest hours on a Sunday before Greg awakened. I selfishly complained inwardly about my lack of time. I also lie awake in fear most nights. What if this doesn’t work? What if he leaves? Why did I ever leave myself open for another huge rejection?
I lamented the end of romance. Why would he need to woo me now? Every cohabitating couple I knew joked about the end of romance, but as a writer and a romantic at heart, I knew I would desperately miss the Greg who danced with me in the living room and brought me flowers for no reason.
Then one night I was out and about with my friends and the strangest thing happened. I told a joke and immediately thought how funny Greg would think it was. Then it happened, I missed him. It was a pang that hit me so hard that it nearly knocked me over. I was physically present for the rest of the night, but my heart – my heart was at home curled up in a ball with Greg.
I pulled up to our condo later that evening and noted that he had left the space open for me and the outdoor light on. I walked in to find him sleeping on the couch. I gently touched his face and whispered that I was back. I looked around to see that while I was out having fun. Greg had put together shelving that now contained our CDs and DVDs. He had managed to empty all his remaining “move-in” boxes and suddenly the condo felt less cluttered and looked so beautiful to my eyes that had finally opened.
It was then I saw it. Sitting on the dining room table. He had bought me flowers and carefully arranged them in a vase. He has bought me flowers for no reason except that he had missed me too.
“Hey, you are finally home,” I heard Greg’s sleepy voice call from the couch. Yes honey, I am most definitely home.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Snapshots of a reunion
My favorite response to give when someone asks what it is like to be adopted is "You cannot understand unless you have experienced it.”
On a May afternoon on my way to visit my birth mother for the first time, I wonder if I even understand it anymore. My cell phone rings and I hear her voice. Her voice has become familiar to me in the past month. I hear her anxiety and assure her that I haven’t changed my mind. That I am simply a victim of the irregular traffic patterns that lie between my home in Cherry Hill, New Jersey and her sister's home in West Chester, Pennsylvania.
I click off my cell phone and stare at the cars ahead of me. So much of my past flashing in my head that I begin to worry if any of this is real. I see snapshots of my life. I see my father smiling proudly at I hit my first home run. Then years later there is me, smiling through tears, as he retires a hero from the fire department. I see my mother hugging me in bed after my first boyfriend broke my heart. Then I see me embracing my mother, as a first generation college graduate, with my diploma in hand. I see myself as a little girl sitting in my Grand mom Annie's kitchen, smelling the sweet aroma of homemade pasta sauce and then suddenly sitting in shock at her funeral missing her smell of clean linen and powder. I watch me dance with my favorite cousin to the newest Madonna song and then see us dancing in a bookstore when she told me she was pregnant with her first child. Finally I envision my beautiful wedding which leads to more snapshots of arguments and hurtful words that remind me my marriage is failing.
I think of how the lifetime seizes of panic that something is lost have subsided significantly since I first spoke to my birth mother, only to be replaced with pangs of guilt wondering how I can tell my parents I have found her. They were supportive of my search. Comforted me through eight years of dead ends and obstacles and tried so hard to hide their relief when I announced that I stopped trying. Then one night my birth mother and I found each other. I had logged onto an old internet site when I realized that I could not let go of this search so easily.
I make my way through the beautiful farms and trees that line West Chester and pull up to a charming old home surrounded by a colorful array of foliage that deeply contrasts the brick row homes that lined my childhood home in South Philadelphia. I see this beautiful woman run from the house. My breath catches in my chest. I have seen pictures but nothing prepares me to look at a mirror image of myself 16 years from now. She hugs me and I involuntarily step back trying to take it all in. "Hi," I say. I choose this weak word so not to let loose the flurry of emotions inside of me. I hand her the wine I have picked up for our lunch and follow her into the house. I note the similarity in our shape and in our walk.
We sit on the couch and our conversation begins slowly. She touches my face a lot and slips and calls me Katie-- the name she wanted me to have. She looks through the pictures I have brought to share and I do the same. I tell her about my crazy Italian family as she jokes about her six Irish siblings. I let loose the tears I have held back as I see pictures of my sister and hear stories of her childhood. We share the struggles of searching with non identifying information, but keep the emotions that surround every adoption quietly locked away. We eat and we laugh. We discuss failed and failing marriages only to realize that we have the same problems with intimacy. We talk about our mutual passions including dogs that we have rescued. She cries when I tell her that my middle name is coincidentally the same as her first name and that my favorite city to visit is Chicago which is now her home town. "I never wanted to give you up," she says. Those simple words leave me feeling validated and secure.
I realize that it is getting late and stand to leave. "My mother calls every night at nine," I explain. "I am not ready to tell her yet". I am filled with so much happiness tinged with guilt. I feel guilt over saying the word mother to her and then more guilt knowing the daunting task of telling mom and dad lies ahead.
We walk to my car holding hands. We have the same hands. She embraces me and I feel a wave of love. It is the love she instilled in me by giving me life. It is the same love that my parents have cherished and encouraged to grow. I know I can tell them. I know they will be ok. My bond with my family is strong and love filled. Extending it to fit another will only strengthen that bond. We promise to stay in touch and I cry as I drive away. I have just realized what a gift love is. That at 31 years of age I have finally become a woman.
On a May afternoon on my way to visit my birth mother for the first time, I wonder if I even understand it anymore. My cell phone rings and I hear her voice. Her voice has become familiar to me in the past month. I hear her anxiety and assure her that I haven’t changed my mind. That I am simply a victim of the irregular traffic patterns that lie between my home in Cherry Hill, New Jersey and her sister's home in West Chester, Pennsylvania.
I click off my cell phone and stare at the cars ahead of me. So much of my past flashing in my head that I begin to worry if any of this is real. I see snapshots of my life. I see my father smiling proudly at I hit my first home run. Then years later there is me, smiling through tears, as he retires a hero from the fire department. I see my mother hugging me in bed after my first boyfriend broke my heart. Then I see me embracing my mother, as a first generation college graduate, with my diploma in hand. I see myself as a little girl sitting in my Grand mom Annie's kitchen, smelling the sweet aroma of homemade pasta sauce and then suddenly sitting in shock at her funeral missing her smell of clean linen and powder. I watch me dance with my favorite cousin to the newest Madonna song and then see us dancing in a bookstore when she told me she was pregnant with her first child. Finally I envision my beautiful wedding which leads to more snapshots of arguments and hurtful words that remind me my marriage is failing.
I think of how the lifetime seizes of panic that something is lost have subsided significantly since I first spoke to my birth mother, only to be replaced with pangs of guilt wondering how I can tell my parents I have found her. They were supportive of my search. Comforted me through eight years of dead ends and obstacles and tried so hard to hide their relief when I announced that I stopped trying. Then one night my birth mother and I found each other. I had logged onto an old internet site when I realized that I could not let go of this search so easily.
I make my way through the beautiful farms and trees that line West Chester and pull up to a charming old home surrounded by a colorful array of foliage that deeply contrasts the brick row homes that lined my childhood home in South Philadelphia. I see this beautiful woman run from the house. My breath catches in my chest. I have seen pictures but nothing prepares me to look at a mirror image of myself 16 years from now. She hugs me and I involuntarily step back trying to take it all in. "Hi," I say. I choose this weak word so not to let loose the flurry of emotions inside of me. I hand her the wine I have picked up for our lunch and follow her into the house. I note the similarity in our shape and in our walk.
We sit on the couch and our conversation begins slowly. She touches my face a lot and slips and calls me Katie-- the name she wanted me to have. She looks through the pictures I have brought to share and I do the same. I tell her about my crazy Italian family as she jokes about her six Irish siblings. I let loose the tears I have held back as I see pictures of my sister and hear stories of her childhood. We share the struggles of searching with non identifying information, but keep the emotions that surround every adoption quietly locked away. We eat and we laugh. We discuss failed and failing marriages only to realize that we have the same problems with intimacy. We talk about our mutual passions including dogs that we have rescued. She cries when I tell her that my middle name is coincidentally the same as her first name and that my favorite city to visit is Chicago which is now her home town. "I never wanted to give you up," she says. Those simple words leave me feeling validated and secure.
I realize that it is getting late and stand to leave. "My mother calls every night at nine," I explain. "I am not ready to tell her yet". I am filled with so much happiness tinged with guilt. I feel guilt over saying the word mother to her and then more guilt knowing the daunting task of telling mom and dad lies ahead.
We walk to my car holding hands. We have the same hands. She embraces me and I feel a wave of love. It is the love she instilled in me by giving me life. It is the same love that my parents have cherished and encouraged to grow. I know I can tell them. I know they will be ok. My bond with my family is strong and love filled. Extending it to fit another will only strengthen that bond. We promise to stay in touch and I cry as I drive away. I have just realized what a gift love is. That at 31 years of age I have finally become a woman.
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