Someone else's shoes.

An acquaintance of mine, with two children, just lost her husband to a long illness. When we first met there was so much that I recognized in her eyes - the concern, the exhaustion, the strength and the sadness. I remember seeing her one day, and she had told me her husband was in the hospital, again, and with resignation she shook her head and said "It's always something." I knew that sentiment all too well - feeling as though we were caught in the constant swell of a wave - nudged toward the shore but just as we could feel the sand beneath our feet we were dragged back out again, barely catching our breaths, treading water. Tragically, they too lost the battle. Though I have suffered similar circumstance, I am at a loss for words - and the frustration of not having anything of comfort to say saddens me to no end. But I know there is no way that I can console her. Her loss is profound and there is no "up" side.

What I want to say has much more to do with survival. I've suggested she just focus on getting herself to the next hour. To the next evening, then the next morning and so on and so on. I want to warn her that the world will look even more harsh, even more cruel. It will be even more painful to be in public, seeing the world go through its motions unaware of her loss. Sounds become a drone, people will seem out of touch and blatantly insensitive. Days will pass like dreams, waking moments will be nightmares. Most likely she will resent having to work, because nothing seems important when a life has slipped through your fingers, escaped hold of your heart. Almost everything will seem meaningless.

I am happy for her that she has two children for whom she must live. For no other reason she must hold on. And I would tell her to let those two blessings be her guiding light. I would warn her to leave herself alone. To let herself weep when she needs to weep whether it's at the bank or in bed. To let herself indulge in whatever soothes the aches - be it lying in bed, avoiding people or ignoring the mail. I would tell her to cling to her children, love them even more fiercely, eat, try to sleep and do it all over the next day. I would say don't make lists unless it helps you, don't say "I should...", just let yourself be. Let your body be. Let your heart be. Let your mind drift. I would suggest she allow her engine to slow down. When you take care of someone with a severe illness you are in constant motion, you do and you do and you do. And it feels as though that's barely enough so you push and you push and you push. And when you lose that person your mind and body will need months to unwind, and you will unravel in a way that leaves you feeling unsure, unsteady and doubtful of your abilities. I would tell her she's beginning a new uphill battle.

I would also say that although the journey is torturous, it is worth it.

I hated telling myself "you are fortunate to be alive" - because in the early days you are numb to that blessing. In my case, I loved Alan almost more than myself. When someone so dear to you is gone, life seems unimaginable without them. Though I knew I owed it to Alan to embrace what I was so lucky (and I think it is sheer luck) to have, for some time it seemed like a sentence, not a gift. Deep down I am sure that this woman knows life is a gift but for now it probably just feels cruel. I continue to have moments every day where I grapple with the unfairness of it all.

Being sixteen months "out" at times doesn't feel any better than one month out. In fact at times it is worse. I am still plagued with flashbacks and I am tormented by the "what ifs". I replay moments over and over in my mind and they continue to choke me mid breath and fill my eyes with tears. But I recognize that I have a purpose so I try not to linger too long on thoughts as they drift in the dark, and I try to focus on what I have, what Alan gave me, what Lily gives me. I recognize that I am needed and that I am so very fortunate. That is what I'd urge this woman to focus on - she is the center of her children's universe, and they, hers. So if she can just grab hold of that love, no matter how painful, perhaps in a year she'll be closer to where I am now. I know my life is richer having known Alan and I hope, at some point, that this woman allows herself to dwell on the beautiful memories she has of her husband - she will need those to pull her through the days. And when she shares them with her children, they will be lifted up as well and together, they won't move on, but they will move forward, slowly, but surely.

The Great Communicator

It appears, within the last two weeks, that my daughter has acquired opinions. Her manners, in fact, have become outspoken, she pushes bottles away when she is done with them in quite a dramatic fashion - sometimes throwing them down or violently windshield-wiping it away frenetically with her hands. She has developed strong dislike for bananas (unless pureed) and avocado, a long time favorite is now officially "out". When she is offered either one, she whips her head into profile to express her distaste, the mere idea that they were even considered part of her diet a shocker to her, and ignores them until they are removed. If they are not removed, Lily is adept at doing so herself - she is a professional dropper and enjoys looking me dead in the eye as her hands do the silent work as though they are detached from her body. She has begun pointing to things which I am expected to get in a timely fashion and she now loves to hide items behind pillows, or in her lap and then make them appear again for me. We can do the hiding game over and over again - and she gets a thrill out of showing me her magic. Since the hiding game has begun I have found all sorts of things in hard to reach places, hours and days later. Only last week I found a rice cracker and orange stacking circle behind the couch, and a plastic cap in bed. I am reminded of a visit to my brother's when his son was a similar age and I noticed a jar of mustard in the toilet. We must be entering the "mustard age".

It is a whole new world now that she is connecting the dots, it is as though we are conversing. She is at no loss for words, and though they may need translation she loves to talk. Most items are now called "dah" but what's interesting is that with every "dah" there is meaning behind it. I can see it in her eyes, the wheels are turning, my curious girl is absorbing everything and any day now I expect I'll hear a word. Though Lily has her pensive moments she is proving to be more garrulous than her dad, I used to jokingly refer to him as "the silent partner" as Alan's words were economically used. He had his chatty moments but he was much more the silent observer. My favorite phone messages were from Alan perched in airport bars, they were always animated and even more humorously, long-winded. Perhaps Lily is channeling those moments. Or maybe she's a talker, just like her mama.

Passing on.

What finally came to light as I procrastinated about the baby-proofing "project", paralyzed with the angst associated with organizing and clearing out our home - was that I needed to make space. And what festered underneath that simple concept were two, more emotionally loaded, thoughts: I needed to put more stuff in storage and more importantly, that some items needed a new home. The discomfort that had been overshadowing it all started to make sense. It was time for some of Alan's clothes to be passed on to others. Things which I had grown used to seeing in our closet, that comforted me whenever I opened the doors but which also nagged at me in the back of my mind for some time.

So finally the moment came.
I found the courage to donate Alan's suits.

His beautiful, tailored suits that I loved seeing him wear.
The horrendous truth rearing it's head yet again - he doesn't need them anymore. Some of his favorite clothes have been passed over to family members and it gives me joy and satisfaction to see their bodies warm with his touch, and donning his inimitable style. That's ok too, it feels good to have him close by. I will forever hold onto many of his sweaters and tees,it feels good to wear them. I held on to the ties, couldn't get "there" yet, but I knew he'd be annoyed to hear that I had even kept his suits for this long. He would have wanted me to donate them, to have someone else use them, to benefit from them, and so that is what I did.
Pieces of Alan, moving on.
Not an easy task. But it was the right thing to do. Having his suits won't bring him back and I hope, I dream, that he can see some of the doll size frocks and pants and sweaters and coats that dangle from tiny hangers, lovingly, in their place. If Alan could speak he'd comment humorously with his unmistakable, dry wit "Oh... Hmm.. Look at Sus, movin' on in with your clothes - the 'merry widower'" he'd tease me. And I'd say "Noooooo Alannnnn.... It's the baby's clothes... But if you think I should get some for myself....". He still makes me laugh. And cry. I have heard the second year can be harder than the first and all I can say is it remains fresh and tragic and scarring. But his spirit continues to move me with laughing tears and for that I am forever grateful.

Lily currently averages a few shirts each day, as she is regularly drenched with drool, and many of the clothes "on-deck" are hand-me-downs. It is heartwarming to see her wearing items that once clothed other babes we love - they are not only practical but carry with them their own history. I think, I hope, that as others enjoy Alan's clothes they'll sense that another special soul once wore them too.

Walking Flower

It seems that Lily is grown up at only nine and a half months. She is weaning herself, she is walking, she dislikes having her face washed and she has little time for stillness. This morning I awoke to her happy chatter, the past few weeks sponsored predominantly by the letter D and once she's up she's ready to go. I, on the other hand, woke up feeling lousy - tired and nauseous and our quiet in bed nursing snuggle gave way to, what she considers, playful bites and frustration that I'm not more pliable. And that is how our conversation goes. "No biting Lily, that hurts Mama", "Ouch Lily! No. No biting." And then we get a bottle. And later, "Where's Mama?! Here's Mama", "See Mama wash wash wash?" "Brush brush brush?" "See Mama's here! See Mama in the shower?" "Mama's putting socks on" "Socks go on feet" "Give to Mama, Lily" and on and on. Mama talk. Lots of it.

And now, Lily is walking. Quite early I might add. I am proud of her development but we/I could have waited.. a bit. She still prefers crawling but she moves with lightening speed and yesterday morning I went into the kitchen and after two minutes noticed "the quiet". I ran in to check on her and my nomadic roamer had pushed open what I thought was a closed bedroom door and was sitting in the bathroom hanging out with a sock. Thank god the cleaning products were recently relocated. Do racing hearts burn calories? Might be an advantage of sorts... But in the past month Lily went from crawling to walking with only a few breaths in between. Her steps are staccato, Frankenstein steps - a bit stiff and they come in clusters of three or four (or more whenever I am not present to witness) and she is quite pleased with herself. She is easily amused and often merely a good dose of standing will do - rocking forward and back on her toes a few times provides plenty of entertainment. When she crawls she enjoys taking a break to clap and look behind to contemplate the distance she's covered,and this morning I had to hide her alligator walker as it was just too early to rouse the neighbors with it's thunderous clap, caused by jaws that open and close to the rhythm of Lily's quickstep. My headache didn't need it either. Feeling sick on top of all of this is a test. Thankfully I had my mother-in-law for the early shift so I chose lying in bed over a shower and headed for work wearily, closing the door on a screaming, tired-sweet-baby-face and wondering if my strength would ever return. Gradually it does, mere thoughts of Lily help to curb the way I feel and if I can ever catch up on some sleep perhaps I'll nip this bug before it fully blooms. But when I feel like this my mind spins, how will I take care of her?, what if she catches it - we don't even have separate bedrooms and share very close quarters and I'm not ready to part from her for even a night other than sleeping on the couch in the other room. It's a desperate feeling because someone more important needs to be taken care of. I can and will do it, but emotionally and physically it can take it's toll. But Lily is resilient, I can even go so far as to say that she's tough. She has her delicate, sweet, soft moments but she is a girl on the go - all smiles, new teeth poking through, drool floodgates open as she glides across the floors and climbs among the furniture. Wipe outs are fairly frequent but she remains relatively unscathed.

Alan loved what I thought to be one of my sadder childhood memories - the day we made Native American drums in pre-k and all of the girls had already appropriated the "feminine" Indian names on the walls for their decor before I had gotten to pick one out for myself. They got the good ones: "Little Fawn", "White Deer" "Soft Cloud" - I don't know what - but I ended up with "Red Feather". My mom loved it, Alan did too - but I was disappointed. Still played my drum but never forgot the prettier names I could have had. Luckily, or unluckily, more serious issues dominate my trying moments. And I had a laugh yesterday as Lily stepped forward into my arms - her own drum name came to mind. "Walking Flower". I think Lily (and her dad) would be just fine with that, assertive yet delicate, just as she is.

How it goes.

To say that parenting is hard is an understatement of epic proportions. Being a single parent puts it over the top. The last few weeks I have been struggling to juggle my return to work with being a mother and my time, our time, is now beyond limited. I rush everywhere. Race to work, race home from work. Weekends are more of the same -and all that I can no longer do during the week now fills the list of things that ideally would be accomplished during what once were "days of rest". But the weekend rolls around and the work week continues - 6:15 wake up, 7am Lily breakfast, dress, play, 9am Lily nap #1. I crash on couch for as many winks possible while Lily sleeps. 10:15/10:30, Lily's up, snack, play, lunch at noon, play, nap #2 at 1pm. Again I try to nap or scramble to do things in the apartment while she recharges. 2:30/3pm Lily's up, play, play, fresh air until dark, 4pm snack, play until 5:30, prepare dinner, 5:45/6pm dinner. 6:45 bath, 7pm read, boob, bed by 7:30.
And then "my time" begins.
Or doesn't.
I'm exhausted, and despite the fact that Lily brings me immeasurable happiness and love, I am lonely, depressed and dead tired. I have limited energy for phone calls, bills, it's a miracle if I cook myself something. I know my story mirrors that of other single parents but knowing that has no effect on me. Because all I really want is Alan back. I want him here to see how Lily crawls with such enthusiasm that when she kicks up her back legs they sometimes throw her balance and she tumbles over her arms. I want him to hear her early morning excitement in the dark as she sidesteps along the crib rail to get as close as she can to the bed to wake me. I want him to witness how she shoves broccoli into her mouth catching it as it goes down her wrist with a similar style as the way he ate popcorn. I want him to see how she now gets her own instruments from the bin in music class and holds onto them with vigor should anyone attempt a grab. I want him to see how she stands front and center of class and rolls onto her tiptoes as she listens to the guitar. I want him to hear the clappity clap of her walker as she pushes it more and more quickly down the halls. How I wish her first steps had been into his arms.
I'd love him here to help raise her.
I do have help, and am grateful for it. I do use it so that I can attempt to accomplish the things that must get done. And thankfully they are people who love her with all their heart and she loves her time with them. But when I leave Lily, the guilt and longing remain. And I know it'd be easier if I was doing errands knowing that her other parent was with her. Alan and I were extensions of each other and how I wish that if I cannot be with Lily, that she could be passing the hours of food and naps and play with her dad. It makes my separation from her much more difficult.
And what makes it all most daunting is that the love I feel for her is almost unbearable. Now I understand why my mother always offers me her food if my dish isn't good, why she'd give me her last bite and say she isn't hungry, little sacrifices that run much deeper. Because now nothing else matters more than my daughter. It is an awesome, and frighteningly overwhelming, feeling and how I wish I had Alan with whom to share the love and fear.
Lily in all her zeal seems to miss nothing and for now, that's all that matters.

Save the baby.

I remember years ago a friend humorously being quoted as having said that her day, everyday, consists of making sure that "her boys don't die". I thought it so funny, I understood and respected the concept but only on a superficial level. Now I fully g r a s p the gravity, the deep dark truth of those words. Three days ago, I awoke and was amusingly surprised to see Lily happily sitting up in her crib, refreshed and bright-eyed after a good night's sleep, air conditioner remote control in hand. This morning I awoke to her happy babble and smiling face grinning at me in the dark, standing up excitedly, hands on the railing, eyes gleefully peering over. Jump, jump, jumping in place.
My daughter is mobile.
Months ago she was a skilled roller and even then I recognized that boundaries were in order; today, pillows against the console no longer do the trick. The days of her perched in full view on the bed - barricaded by pillows, entertained by animals and a shape sorter - are over. She established a game where she'd gradually climb the barrier every time I turned my back and giggled delightedly when I turned around and caught her in the act. It was our own version of Red Light Green Light. I know that when she's playing on the floor, while I prepare something in the kitchen, that three minutes of silence mean she's ventured into questionable territory. She can pull herself up, walk along side furniture, inch worm her way to toys and extension cords and enjoy a meal of postcard or board book. Often times Lily won't fold, she's on the go and is thoroughly enjoying her new found dexterity. She spent much of her afternoon nap today standing in her crib. I tried to minimize that fact by reminding myself that cows and horses sleep standing up. But the most daunting thing about all of this evolution before my very eyes is that it is time to empty the apartment. Move out the furniture, eliminate picture frames on shelves, barricade books, strap TVs to walls, pad the floors, latch the cabinets, lock the toilet, safeguard the oven, encapsulate power strips, fence the windows and on and on and on. The mission is well worth it but the endeavor is overwhelming. We have limited space as it is with a storage unit almost at capacity - what I would do for a walk in closet. One of my parenting books says that a cluttered apartment is good for a baby. It colors their world and is fodder for a curious mind - much more so than a minimalist environment.
I love that book.
But I love Lily more, and need to find that safe-happy-medium where she gets an eyeful without danger lurking. Apparently Alan said that the amount of money spent on storage could easily buy back any items you give away instead of storing. I love that man. But then how did he and I end up with an overflowing attic on 26th street? Perhaps it's time for it all to go to the curb. But that's no easy task for me, I am a sentimentalist and we both were nostalgic. So storage remains... But it's down to the details now. If he ever saw me wrapping presents on the floor he'd say "you can't leave the scissors there Sus when there's a baby" and when I'd forget something in the apartment as we were on our way out he'd dryly say "don't forget the baby Suuuus.." . Lily is impossible to forget. She is making her mark by the minute and she is precious. The innocence of babes is breathtaking and terrifying, they rely on you for everything and are far from grasping caution. That is what makes them so beautiful to watch, they embrace life without a care beyond the need of arms wrapped around them or carefully shadowing them as they explore the world. It is a unique phase, they are truly carefree. So while I worry and follow her every move, envisioning every disaster and tragedy imaginable, it is nice to know that in her eyes, everything around her represents nothing more than adventure and discovery,

Strength in numbers.

This morning Lily and I had brunch with my support group friends from Gilda's Club. There were two other babes there and I hope Lily will know them for years, as they will understand what it feels like to know a parent through love that is present in a different way. I don't want her to ever feel alone, or self conscious of growing up under unusual circumstance - undoubtedly she will at times but if she has a bond with other kids such as these, as I do with my support group, she'll know that she is understood, that there is a place for her among others who are similarly so very special. It is oddly amusing to imagine how we all look, gathered around a long table in a diner - to the passersby, the other diners, we look like a happy, colorful group of people - perhaps connected through work - at one dinner we had, the waiter asked what the occasion was. When one in our group laughingly said something to the effect of "the death of our spouses" luckily he was able to roll with it. But it is surreal to step back from the table and to take it all in. We joke, we laugh, we cry, we confide. It is the only group with whom I can truly feel comfortable socializing - and little do the people around us know, that we are all connected by the deepest sadness - immeasurable loss, longing, despair, and the daily struggles of trying to live as productive, hopeful people again. I can joke freely with them, our sense of humor is dark - and it feels OK to laugh with them. Because I know they know how I feel underneath the surface, I know they understand the ache, I know their minds are haunted with similar memories, I know their daily hurdles mirror mine. We have dreams, we don't have dreams, we get the continuous comments. Recently someone told me, again, I needed to "move on". Ugh. A friend trivialized a routine I share with my daughter as though it were as base as taking the trash out. Recently someone complimented one of my group friends on her idea to wear her and her husband's wedding rings around her neck on a chain. The woman commented, "I can never get my husband to wear his ring - that's such a great idea". You have to laugh. It's too awful to contemplate if you don't. This world is full of people who cannot think further than "what's for dinner tonight" so introspection or heightened sensitivity of any sort is hard to come by. But we all ride the waves, and see the world with a different pair of glasses these days.

It is interesting to watch Lily develop as she doesn't need the glasses. Her thoughts are pure, she is open and loving to all that is around her. She takes it all in with no judgement, just delighted curiosity. Yesterday she gave me a round wooden circle. And later she gave me her spoon. She is beginning to grasp the idea of sharing. She has found another way to communicate. Lily is rarely still, the changing pad might as well be a hot plate, I am now struggling to change diapers as she attempts to crawl across the dresser. She was thrilled to be in a highchair next to another baby this morning, they held hands, Lily grabbed at her as they spoke with squeals. Gentle isn't part of her vocabulary yet, but it is refreshing and beautiful to see unfettered emotion, rooted only in the feeling that something, or someone, makes you happy.

My Lighthouse.

Lily is eight months today. She changes hourly so my arrival home from work cannot come soon enough. Thankfully she called me yesterday afternoon, to pull me through the rest of the day. She panted, screeched and giggled - I could just see her happy drool, squinted eyes and crinkled nose. I could picture her attempt to chew on the phone. She is amusingly animated and though she has no vocabulary, yet, she is an exuberant, loud, communicator. As difficult as it has been to miss her during the days, she is the most wonderful little person, truly my guiding light - and it is she that makes time away that much more rewarding when I'm home. Nearly crawling, she takes pleasure in banging objects together, enjoys dropping things from elevated levels, is charmingly vain in front of a mirror and possesses an overall happy spirit. She was sick for the first time last week with a fever that has since grown into a cold and despite her congestion she is energetic and excited by all that surrounds her. I suspect that she caught her bug from Barnes & Noble - a wonderful indoor playground but a petri dish as well. We went there on a rainy weekend and stalked other children. Lily does love a good board book but she is drawn to other kids and cannot contain herself at the sight of another child. She is an extrovert around children under seven, curious, chatty and engaging. So instead of reading "Go Dog Go" she chose to hit on a Cheerio eating boy named Max near the SAT prep books. She also shook hands with two young boys and had a staring contest with a girl who said she was two, three, four years old. It was a grand social hour, and I guess we brought some of it home with us. Hopefully her congestion will dissipate, enough so that she need not come up gasping for air after every four gulps while nursing. Poor thing needs a snorkle. Maybe tomorrow will be a dryer day. Regardless, her disposition remains sunny.

Alan said to me at our wedding that I carried him, through the days, and as I struggle to adjust to this step back into the working world it is Lily that carries me. Holding her in my arms has almost curative powers. When she gently contemplates the rings that dangle from a necklace that Alan gave to me, I sense that she is aware of him - there is a peacefulness that comes over her as she examines them and with that, what feels like his awareness of us, washes over me.

Search for a cure.

I actually read the front page of the paper today, drawn to it because of an article on MD Anderson - a mecca of sorts for cancer patients. Part of me was excited to read it, to learn of it's hopeful research and treatment, and part of me was fearful I'd learn of something experimental for hemangiopericytoma's that we had missed out on. In our research we heard mention of MD Anderson when we pressed for places that might have something experimental that was promising and while we wanted no one else to be plagued with the same disease, when it comes to a rare cancer, misery loves company - only for the simple reason that with disease, numbers mean funding and research. We knew MD Anderson had multiple cases of hemangiopericytoma (He - man - geo - peri - cy - toma) and that alone made it an alluring destination for a fresh set of eyes and ideas. But it wasn't an option. We had phoned them, I had a list of all of the reports and scans needed, but you cannot go unless you're a certain number of months between treatments and you cannot go while on any sort of regimen. The most excruciating aspect of the actual fight against cancer is the obvious: Time. And when you're fighting for your life, the thought of refusing treatment in order to attempt something else further down the line is a gamble with death. Pure and simple. I had spoken to the NIH, had information on trials, we went to Dana Farber in Boston for an opinion and MD Anderson was on my wish-list. Forget about the question of what you'll do about work, where you'll live or how you'll go back and forth to Houston, the concept of what might be there was worth it. The article was inspiring because it's entirely devoted to all things cancer, and they are at the forefront of critical research. It was also devastating because it acknowledges that there is yet no cure and positive results often mean extending one's life by months.

I was desperate to find a cure for Alan's illness. I would have gone to the ends of the earth to stop it's progression. And that is another struggle - you become obsessed with research and the quest for an answer and it occupies every sleeping and waking moment. Just the other day I used a purse I hadn't used in over a year and on a piece of scrap paper inside, was the name of a drug. Obviously I had read about it somewhere and written it down - the kind of note taking that becomes second nature when you're searching for any port in storm. When I came across it for a moment I worried I had neglected to look it up, to find out about it's potential for Alan - but I let it go, trusting that had it been an option, it would have been explored. Whether Alan would have benefited in Texas or not, I'll never know. Thankfully, what I do know, is that doctors talk. They exchange notes, share findings, and gather at conferences - Alan had excellent doctors thinking out of the box so I have to rest assured that no stone went unturned. We ended up at MSK because we were told that there was technology there that he needed that Columbia Presbyterian did not yet have. It took a selfless doctor to admit that, but thankfully, he did. Sadly bureaucracy and funding can limit even the finest hospitals.

I remember Alan cracking a joke during a visit to the radiation oncologist, having to do with Ted Kennedy being able to sail and live largely while top doctors scrambled to provide him with ground-breaking therapies. As it happened, they both ended up on the same chemo, and the Senator's prognosis (though a different tumor) wasn't any gentler. But it is exhausting navigating an uneven and poorly run health care system, insulting to consider that money or lack thereof could influence the length of one's life, and bottom-line, unfair. Health care is discriminating and Alan had strong opinions about it. He was furious at one point when we decided to move him to a private room because the nursing care was so poor on his floor - he felt it was unfair that he had that option. And yet he also felt it was fair for doctors and hospitals to charge what they did - the system had to pay for itself. But even with excellent insurance, Alan was cheated many times. He was repeatedly denied scans when he desperately needed them, hospital stays had to be fought for and when he did get scans the angst that went into getting them approved added insult to injury. Most of the time I was the one showing desperation, not Alan. He was the one with the sentence but it was I who openly and frantically sought the answers. He showed up to every treatment, surgery, scan and follow-up, he went to work and came home and loved and lived and did it all over the next day. That's the most admirable fight I can think of. So when I read of the patient who has shown up for sixteen, week-long stays within a nine month period, on the front page, my heart is glad she's getting some recognition from others beside her family and friends. And I hope she has years ahead of her.

Moving Forward.

I am going back to work. For the first time in over a year, I'll be rejoining the masses heading to a daily destination, and leaving Lily at home in the hands of a doting grandmother and a nanny who loves her. Despite the watchful eyes on Lily I miss her already and have my own set of anxieties surrounding my return to the position I held for many years until Alan passed away. It will be the same room, same desk, and I will be facing the same photo from our wedding of Alan and me together with my employers, arm in arm, on the happiest day of my life. I know from the occasional part-time days I worked during my pregnancy that the phone will ring and I'll jump inside, thinking for a split second that it's Alan on the other end. My Alan. That was the routine - my employers are also Susan and Alan - so when my Alan called and I couldn't get to the phone in time, my employer would. And I can just hear her calling me from the other room, "It's Alan! Your Alan...". I can hear his deep, rich, soft voice in my mind, "Hi Sus" he'd say, and then he'd maybe suggest getting theater tickets for a show we'd read about, or fill me in on his office's politics or have an idea about where we could meet for drinks or dinner after work. Or perhaps he was planning on cooking that night or he'd fill me in on a doctors appointment. Sometimes it was just to check in. How I miss his reassuring voice and his level headed perspective, his calm balance to my dramatic inclinations. His warmth always brought a smile to my face and my employer never missed telling me that he had called if I had been out. She knew how important he was to me, and there were also many hours spent, waiting to hear back from him if he'd gone to treatment without me. I was, and still am, a worrier, so if too much time lapsed between appointments or calls my heart would race until I heard from him. And there were plenty of calls when I could hear in his voice that something wasn't right - a headache too strong, a dizziness, or a sharp pain - and though he'd play it down, I'd rush home, knowing that in a few hours most likely we'd be in the ER. It wasn't a regular occurrence, but each and every visit was one too many.

I'm getting better at catching myself in those brief moments - whether it's a phone ringing or a silhouette in a window. But the fantasy still remains. Just yesterday I had a daydream where I envisioned telling my Super that Alan was back. Explaining to him that there had been some mistake and that Alan was still here, and he had returned, and he too agreed that there was something wrong with the radiator. It was a fleeting thought, but a wish that resonates. The heat is now back on, with the usual photos of Alan and us arranged lovingly on top.

A woman I spoke to one early morning at the swings said she thought it was harder for the mom who's been with her child for seven or eight months to return to work, than for the mom who's time is up at the typical three months - the thought being that at the seven month mark you've been watching your baby develop and discover and grow in tangible ways. They're well beyond the baby "lump stage" and are evolving before your eyes - so the child you must now leave seems more human, and the connection deeper. And I understand that thought - because every day Lily is closer to crawling, her balance is less off kilter, her mannerisms more calculating. She is waving, feeding herself little Os, chugging from a sippy cup, and connecting mental dots. She knows that cups hold water, Spot isn't in the closet or under the bed - he's in the basket, that people come through the door, that music is fun to move to. She talks to her animals and knows that when she makes noise, she is heard. I find that when I'm not with her and I hear a baby cry, for a second it sounds like Lily. Once again someone is on my mind 24/7, and I'll have to go for hours without seeing her. Most moms do it, and I'm sure - I know - it's no easier for them. Makes me long for Italian hours - long lunches at home and siesta. How nice that would be. But I know I'll handle it, Lily makes everything worthwhile - and when I sit down at my desk next week I'll place her photo right next to the others and look forward to our twilight hour together, before she goes down to bed.

Fall.

The new year has come and gone and I did nothing for it besides consume an entire cinnamon babka (over the course of a few days). I am not a religious person, nor was Alan - I think we both considered ourselves spiritual but not observant. Respectful of history and culture but that was the extent of our feelings. In fact I remember Alan saying one year that he had nothing to be forgiven for - and he didn't. He was the consummate good person. Flawless, no, but a genuinely fine human being - so as he gracefully handled the constant challenges to his body and spirit, I understood his attitude. As a friend said to me at one point, "it's someone else's turn". And it was. Disease does not discriminate, and when you face such unrelenting onslaught - faith feels pointless and it's promise, dishonest. Alan would say at times that he felt like he was walking into the wind and this month, for me, felt like that as well. A month that at one time celebrated the moment when we first met, and later our wedding, now marks anniversaries we cannot commemorate - so I am happy when certain dates come and go. Every day I reflect on what we had, and thank Alan for Lily, our most beautiful memento. But the grief continues and September felt particularly cruel. The seasons are changing and that means time passing. Time passing without him.

But I know Alan has been looking after us. Over the past few months he has graced us with whispers and music and signs. One day Lily and I watched as a young tattooed dad sat on our bench and played the guitar to his baby girl. Some mornings Lily and I, from our bench, have seen a woman jog by with a T-shirt saying "I (sign) A.R.". In California when I told someone my baby's name was Lily she smiled and said "Oh, that's my name". I said "Oh you're Lily?", she replied, "No, Susan. Its Hebrew translation is Lily." I looked it up and sure enough, it is. Alan chose her name and perhaps he wasn't aware of the connection - but to me it is fatefully serendipitous. And the other day when I was on hold, having a particularly low moment, on came "Midnight Train to Georgia". Many, many afternoons I sat alongside Alan on the bed as he played it on the guitar and cued me in on back-up vocals. It was his one request at our wedding - and oh how he smiled as he sang it with our friends, all crowded behind mics shared with the band. When he was happy I was over the moon, because Alan deserved to let go and relish in unfettered joy. Seeing that was beautiful. Tonight I playfully argued with him over Mardi-Gras beads Lily was chewing on. They typically hang over a portrait he made of his beloved Bulldog, Duncan, and Lily has taken to patting Duncan's photo and going for the beads. I cherish the moment while I worry about plastic, peeling, paint-coated beads made in toxic places. Alan whispered, "Oh Snooze, let her have 'em." We compromised. She gets a few chews and hums, and then they are gently pried from her grip and lovingly returned to Duncan's shrine. And then we tell Duncan to lick Alan for us and tell him we love him and think of him all the time. All the time.

Shhhhhhh...

I have never written this early in the day but as it happens, my DAUGHTER IS NAPPING IN HER CRIB. So I have some "extra" time. It is miraculous, and comes on the heel of yesterday's nap of epic proportions lasting 2 and a half hours. I was concerned that Lily might feel after yesterday's feat that she had rollover minutes to apply for the next couple of months. Miraculously, she is commanding a repeat performance. I am currently celebrating by eating breakfast. Not only that, I am eating my breakfast in s l o w m o t i o n. One skill that comes quickly to new moms is the ability to "shove it in" - eating at lightening speed. Yes, unglamorous sounding, but when you are constantly preventing your child from grabbing spoons, shredding menus, chewing table edges, sucking napkins and consoling back-arching restless babes there is no rest, nor time for leisurely meals. Eggs and toast. And tea. I even browsed a couple of catalogs. I feel rested just knowing Lily is asleep. Must now pay bills, find work (out of the home, that is), do filing, laundry, and write thank-you notes. But can't do laundry, can't go through room to get it. Baby sleeping. Can't file, drawers in same room. Baby sleeping. Can't shower, bathroom connected to bedroom. Baby sleeping. Will do when she awakens, bright-eyed and smiling. Mom's are experts at the two-minute shower and getting out the door quickly. Mama minutes are equivalent to dog-years - a quarter of an hour equals at least two hours in real time. Amazing what one can do in an hour... when there is hands-free peace and quiet.

Squa, squa, squa, SQUARE!

Currently Lily is often drunk with sleep deprivation but she wears it well. She continues to giggle, stagger as she stands, sit up with impressive posture, bang on the piano with her foot, lounge comfortably in the stroller, legs lazily draped over the bar and eat mashed food artfully. I on the other hand teeter between anxiety and amusement, exhaustion and loneliness, and fantasize about naps, showers and going to a movie. I ran into an acquaintance the other day, in a moment when I could hardly keep the tears at bay. It had been a difficult week and that morning I was particularly tapped - I was caught off-guard, twice, by two different songs, one at home and one in a restaurant. They played out of nowhere and left me raw and exposed. One minute I'm eating lunch, the next, subtly and self-consciously brushing tears from my face, feeling more and more isolated by the journey I've been on. The world rushes by, the tears go unnoticed. At times I cannot bear to let the emotion take me any further, the pain is almost paralyzing. Thankfully if I focus on Lily, waiting for me at home, I can pull myself out of the despair. "Yummy, yummy, yummy, I've got apples in my tummy!" Within seconds I'm back in the land of the living, singing over and over and O V E R again a line from one of her robotically cheery toys - that she activates unwittingly every few seconds to the extent that it stutters. Yummy, yummy - Yum - Yummy yu - Yummy yummy I've got... frequently we never get through the whole line, and it doesn't phase her in the least. I on the other hand am on the verge of mama-insanity and then all of a sudden "Sq, sq, SQUARE! I'm a blue, I'm a blue square!".
My day continues.
Ahhh... Motherhood.
I recently realized I neglected to rinse the conditioner out of my hair, a friend told me she discovered her shirt was on inside out after picking up her child who's shirt was on backwards, and another is struggling with memory lapses and frequently repeats parenting anecdotes. The other night I was pumping (breast milk that is) only to discover that the delayed feeling of warmth on my leg was the bottle overflowing. I cleaned it up only to find myself, minutes later sitting on the wet cloth I had used to clean the milk off the sofa. At times I find myself laughing so hard the tears start flowing. Those are good tears. Delirious, belly shaking laughter and tears that I know Alan would find amusing. We often laughed together and he loved my sometimes silent, bowled over hysterics which in turn, had him panting with glee. Lily has her own laughing pant and it too can be silent - Like mother like father like daughter. Luckily for me the dark moments are balanced with levity that is whimsical and mind numbing, heart warming and life-affirming.

Sleep Baby Sleep.

There is nothing better, as an exhausted parent, than feeling a baby slumped on your shoulder, heavy with sleep. There is certainly beauty and joy that comes with holding a baby in your arms, hearing their babble, and feeling them kiss your cheek which, as of now, consists of a large open mouth that drools and energetically clenches your cheekbone with glee - but when you're feeling especially sleep deprived and desperate for some sense of reliable schedule, nothing beats the peacefulness that accompanies their rest. Since our voyage out West, Lily has fallen into a mercurial sleep pattern, which succinctly can be described as having no pattern at all. Or regularity. I texted a friend the other day who was also trying to get his babe to sleep and asked if nine minutes counted as a nap. "Yes" he replied, "if you're a hummingbird". Sadly, and happily, Lily is not. Days later, just when I think we're back in stride she's willful in her determination not to sleep or fitful as she does. As a parent, it is a test. Of sanity, and will. It feels like quicksand, laden with fears that out of desperation your "dynamic, soon-to-be self-sufficient" infant will become your bed partner for life, eternally parked at the milk truck, or spread out comfortably next to you, hand grazing some part of your body that you now cannot move. Last night I armed myself with a bottle of wine and a pound cake, prepared to indulge as I let the newest love of my life cry it out in the other room with my set limit of 20 - 40 minutes depending on my inner strength of the moment. It is torture hearing your baby scream, during which feelings of guilt, and fears of forever scarring your child take hold. You try to rationalize soothing them in order to help them form healthy relationships further down the line, or take comfort in the idea that leaving them distraught helps shape them into self-sufficient beings. Both options seem unacceptable, and sometimes coming in briefly to quietly calm them results in a burp worthy of a bar stool or calms them enough to help them get back to sleep on their own. If you do not go in, you envision them stuck in a position they cannot get out of, hyperventilating with sobs, or terrified, waking from a nightmare. Last night I ended up with a five minute interruption and the rest of the evening was golden.
I still had the wine and pound cake.
Earlier this evening armed with yet another backup plan I found myself walking around the apartment during twilight hours with a small bunny between my breasts, yes, a bunny - in my bra, hoping that my scent would rub off on Lily's friend to help ease her into sleep. As it happens, so far this evening the bunny, Bunny, has not been called to duty but he is in the crib with her, on deck if need be.

I need to work on my lullabies but I do remember a Simpsons episode where "Rock-a-bye Baby" was illustrated and the lyrics paint images that are anything but soothing - a bough breaks, the cradle falls, down comes baby.
Maybe not.
While Lily has her pre-bed aperitif I often find myself - beyond tired - nodding off, and in between nods I tell her how her dad was an enthusiastic nap taker. She needs convincing. But today was a long one for her that began with music class and ended with some dreamy Aretha in our room now evocatively lit like a bordello. So I am hoping, praying, that all of the activity will keep her deeply asleep throughout the night. Deeply asleep, deeply asleep.

Under Water.

It is surreal to be preparing baby food for breakfast in the kitchen, hearing Lily's playful noises in the background, while simultaneously contemplating Alan's final days in hospice. I often find myself in absolute disbelief over what has happened. One moment I'm marveling at a photo from our honeymoon, wondering if it all had just been a dream - a distant memory that maybe never happened, and the next moment I'm replaying detailed medical procedures and conversations while stark images crowd my mind. I am lonely in a way that I suspect I will always be, and I often find myself floating through days viewing the world through Lily's eyes only. Much of the world I don't care to see. A widowed friend asked me the other day if I had seen an article about cancer drugs and the inability of pharmaceutical companies to do anything but prolong a life by mere days and I could only reply that yes, I had seen the headline, but had had no interest in reading the article. And that is how I have been for months, detached from most things that reflect sadness, inefficiency, faltering policies. I have no room for it in my heart, nor my mind, and when I must engage in conversation that encompasses subjects such as those, I do, but I check out. I switch to autopilot, I can't even say I'm conscious of what comes out - and I'm not sure where what I do say, comes from. And being unemployed as a single parent has left me with little outside stimulation. Traveling was good, it put me in social situations, I even got to an aquarium, but I still feel as though I'm in a haze and I wonder if the fog will ever lift.

My routine is built around Lily and I now find joy, as she does, in the simplest pleasures whether it's making funny noises, dancing or reading a board book. Sometimes I wonder halfheartedly if my brain is shrinking - but my other mom friends assure me that their worlds too, are currently "limited in scope". Much of it is a welcome distraction, and while it is daunting to have the responsibility of raising a child, for the time being (knock wood) three minute showers, five minute meals, and meditating on a blade of grass suit me just fine. I find humor in the mundane - the way Lily looks when she takes a sip of water is a mix of confusion, suspicion and near disgust. When I pick her up at night to comfort her, it is she that is now patting my back. I delight in her spontaneous screeches and bouts of surprise panting excitement, and she bowls me over with X-ray stares that hold my undivided attention. I love to watch her lean out of the stroller, watching shadows and the wheels as they cover ground, and I envy the ease with which she relaxes - legs kicked up on the stroller bar, one flopped over the side. Thankfully when she's nursing just as my thoughts begin traveling to the darker corners of my mind, I spot potato behind her ears and then flecks of it in her eyebrows. Lily brings me back to a safer place, and though she is the one in my arms, I feel as though I am in hers.