Not Ready

His voice is changing. At first we thought he had a cold or his allergies were acting up- that’s why his voice sounded gruffer and lower- different. But the days have passed and his voice keeps getting lower and lower. He’s grown five inches in the last year. There is a sprinkling of acne across his forehead. There’s no denying it- our days are numbered. We will turn around someday too soon and he will be a full-grown man leaving our house. And I am not ready.

I was not ready when I received the phone call from our pediatrician of 14 years about one week ago, as I was helping my friend Keisha who is expecting pick out her registry at “Babies R Us.” There I was- standing in the baby breastfeeding aisle of all aisles and the phone rang. “Hello?” Sandy, her assistant on the other line replied, “yes, well I am afraid I have some bad news.” My heart dropped- had something happened to Dr.? Sandy says “well, it’s just that she is retiring and closing her practice as of June 1st.” What? I was not prepared to hear those words come out of Sandy’s mouth. I knew that Dr. had briefly mentioned the possibility last year at one of their wellness appointments but I had put it out of my mind- not daring to go there.

Now, you might be wondering but they moved to St. Louis, Missouri- how can they still have their pediatrician in Los Angeles? And that, my friends is part of this sad truth- that I cannot let go. I have not been able to emotionally detach myself. The rational mind says but you must! My heart says NO! So, call me crazy but whenever I fill out a medical form for these kids- I list Dr. as their pediatrician- down to her Los Angeles office phone number.  A month ago in fact, I made their summer appointments for both Big Boy and Baby Girl and built our California vacation around those appointments. That’s how much I am holding on. Which is why when I got off the phone with Sandy, I burst into tears, in that baby breastfeeding aisle of “Babies R Us” while Keisha stared at me with a wild confused look in her eyes. Without words, bursting with all types of emotion,  I could no longer hold back and just let it flow.

I grieved for the loss of the only pediatrician that we had ever known, for my children who had been welcomed into this world by her, she who had guided me and talked me off the ledge so many times, through so many cloudy and murky nights and days. For 14 years, she, oh wise one- had seen us through baby jaundice with a newborn hospital stay, ear infections, hand, foot mouth disease, norovirus, a horrible hit to the head with a baseball bat, terrible falls from cribs, playground equipment, tops of stairs onto marble floors, busted lips, heads, arms, knees and on and on. She had documented the lives of my three children with her records and growth charts and percentages. She had reassured us that it was going to be alright.

Didn’t she realize that right now- thousands of miles away from everyone I know and love and with my oldest, on the edge of becoming a man- that I had needed her now- more than ever?

Our Little Birdie

Our dearest Amelia-

Exactly one year ago today we said goodbye to you Birdie. But you are here- we know that you are. In our dreams. You are the sky. You are the birds that fly in the sky- ever so gently and cautiously flittering from branch to branch. You were of this earth for 2 short years and yet you left a significant impact on every single person that came across your path. Did you know you left behind a legacy of strength and grace and pure love?

You were the 9th person in the world diagnosed with a rare metabolic disorder called Acyl-dehydrogenase 9 deficiency. No one could figure out what was wrong for so long. No doctor, no specialist, no surgeon, no one in the whole world. Your parents and family were puzzled. You had been born a perfectly healthy baby girl, yet within hours they realized something was not right.

Finally the diagnosis they had been waiting for came. It was the worst possible news that a parent could get- their worst nightmare- come to life.

But your parents, dear Amelia- well- you already know. They are two of the bravest, most courageous people I have ever known. It didn’t matter that the doctors couldn’t say exactly how long they could expect you to live. They didn’t focus on how much time you had left, never felt sorry for themselves, that they had been dealt a cruel hand. Instead, they praised and thanked God for you and focused on loving and inhaling you and living each precious moment that they were given with you.

They loved you in a way that was beautiful to witness. Everyone did. For a brief moment in time you were always there. At the beach on a summer’s night- bundled up in your stroller- sitting on the sand next to us- around the bonfire. At birthday parties like the Frozen party- where you stole the limelight from the birthday girl. At every family gathering and holiday- always smiling- filled with an inner radiance and light.

You never knew a life without shots, frequent hospital stays in and out of the emergency room, doctor’s visits, hooked up to your port- yet your soul seemed unencumbered. You emanated love and grace – not sorrow- not pain- not despair- not sadness. Instead, you knew love every single minute of your life- each one of us made sure of that and love you dearly we did- showering you with gifts, directing all of our attention to you, we’d pass you around from arm to arm and talk to you- “hello Mamas!” You learned to clap and wave and throw “besitos.”

Blessings and Besos

I’m writing on my iPhone on an old soiled couch cushion. There’s nothing left in the house. Some plastic utensils. A pan borrowed from a neighbor. Air mattresses borrowed from a friend. Even the dog and cars are gone.

Yesterday, I woke up with a horrible tummy ache. I had to drop off the cars with Harold- my new best friend who will drive them to Missouri. A complete stranger taking some of my most important possessions.  That’s what’s been most stressful to me I think in these past few days. Trusting complete strangers with all of my possessions. But I need to remind myself that is what they are. That’s all they are. Stuff.

I have been stripped bare. And it’s raw. It hurts. It’s humbling.

Running

In October of 2013, just one week after I turned the big 4-0 – I ran and completed my first full marathon. Yes. 26.2 miles.

Growing up, physical fitness had never been my thing and I had huge hang-ups about it. It wasn’t until my mid 20’s that I decided enough was enough. I trained for and completed a Sprint Triathlon. Running, swimming, biking- sometimes two workouts in one day. The training was grueling- BRICK workouts because your legs literally feel like bricks. But I loved the challenge and I was strong and healthy- more than I had ever been in my whole life.

Fast forward a few years. After giving birth to son number 2, I desperately needed to get back into shape. So, together with my friend Chrissy-  I trained for and completed the LA Sprint Triathlon. Chrissy and I would take turns swimming in the ocean while the other watched the kids play on the beach. We’d go bike riding up the hills of Altadena- our bikes pulling hitches that held our toddler boys. My runs were in the evening but compared to swimming and biking- so darn easy- just one foot in front of the other.

And that is how I found running. For a few years I casually ran. Then I thought well why not train for a 5K? I think I could run 3 miles. And so I did. From there I ran a 10K and then I thought well why not shoot for a half marathon?

Three things helped me run faster and further than I ever thought possible. The Pasadena Pacers, and my running gals- Jen and Eileen. I ran the Hollywood half-marathon with them and we were laughing and smiling up until the final 2 miles. Eileen sums it up best- “Crossing a finish line is what I imagine heaven will be like. Everyone I love will be there, happy and cheering.” And I couldn’t have said it any better. When you finish a race, you are on top of the world. Everything you have trained for comes down to that final finish line, just like in life.