August 7, 2017
My brother-in-law’s mother is in town for a weeklong stay. My nieces and nephew vie for her attention around our dinner table and I am reminded that our boy will never know the love of a grandma.
His grandmas are long gone.
Emily’s mom Carol died over a decade ago from a cancer that was brought on by a long battle with multiple sclerosis.
My mother Susie, or Suah as her grandchildren called her, died from ovarian cancer when I was thirty or thirty-one. I don’t remember exactly when, neither the month nor the year, and I don’t care to do the math.
Driving home from an impromptu ice cream trip the other day, I asked my young nephew if he remembered Suah. He was only a few years old when she died.
“Nope,” he said with little emotion, his attention focused heavily on his fast-melting ice cream.
For an instant I feel a pang of rage. At least he knew my mother, I think. At least he had the chance to hold her and to lie in her lap and to know how magical she was. At least he had her for a few moments. At least she had him. These are things my son will never know.
The anger is fleeting and gone in a flash. After all, he’s only seven. Of course he doesn’t remember my mother. It’s hardly his fault.
August 8, 2017
We heard your heartbeat today, kid. It was thumping along at a healthy rate and the doctor smiled as it echoed out of his tiny speaker.
Again, I began to sob. My chest pumped, falling and rising with the rhythm of your little organ. It bounced in perfect rhythm, an organic metronome that let us know just how good you were doing in there.
After our appointment, your mom decided to lie down. I crawled in bed beside her, placed my ear over her belly and tried, knowing there was no way possible, to hear again that tiny thump. I buried my cheek and ear deeper as your mom dozed, wondering if you could feel my intrusion on your little world.
I heard a heartbeat that wasn’t yours, kid. The loud pounding of your mom’s strong and athletic heart reverberated through her belly and onto my cheek. I knew you could hear it, too. I knew you could feel that heartbeat in your little body and for a moment there I sat with you, both of us listening to the exact same thing. And in that moment we were father and son, huddled together around the thing that keeps us both alive.
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