A Different Kind of Love Story

When I found out I was pregnant a few days before my forty-third birthday, I was shocked and thrilled.  My daughters were 16 and 11, and I had been longing for another pregnancy since the girls were little.  It took a year and a half to conceive my second child, and although there was no medical explanation, it just didn’t look like it would ever happen again.  When the girls were both in elementary school, we decided to open our hearts to a 3 year old Russian orphan boy whom we adopted.  The adjustment to life with that little blond tornado was tough, and it took some time for everyone to settle in.  Around five years, actually.

It was shortly after Viktor’s eighth birthday that the surprisingly wonderful news of my last pregnancy came.   All of us were beside ourselves with excitement and awe…all of us except my son.  While some of us had tears of joy, he had tears of sadness and fear.  My husband and I assured him of our love and his importance in our family, especially for the baby-to-be who would look up to him.  But even after five years with us, my son felt his place in the family was so tenuous that this little intruder would surely threaten it. 

After a while, Viktor began to accept the idea of a little brother—someone he could mold into a little version of himself and someone to even the numbers in the family.  That was until he found out I was pregnant with another little girl.  The reaction to that news was even stronger than to the pregnancy itself.  He isolated himself outside and sobbed angrily.  All I could do was remind him about his best friend at the time, a girl, who liked all the same things he did—army, cars, physical play.  I’m not sure he bought my attempt at consolation.  While the rest of the family enjoyed every aspect of planning and waiting for our new miracle,  my son seemed in denial.

Then Claire was born.  She was so tiny and helpless, and Viktor immediately fell hard.  He held her so gently, studied her features, and mimicked how my husband let her sleep on his chest.  He showed her off and talked about her to his teacher and classmates.  During one of the first days home, while I was changing the crying infant,  Viktor gently said to her, “You know what is really sad?  When I was a baby like you, nobody took care of me like this”.  He said it tenderly, as though he was just realizing for himself what he missed.  It was like he made a vow at that time to never let her feel the neglect he did.

He began to see me differently, too.  He got to see me parent from the beginning of life, there for all of Claire’s basic needs 24/7.  During one of my first nights home from the hospital, he wanted to sleep near the baby and me to hear my “sweet voice” and see Claire’s “cute little face”.  He was truly drinking in what I wasn’t there for when he was a baby. 

Until the baby’s birth, I think Viktor always sort of felt like a latecomer to our family.  He knew he missed out on our first family home and many of our combined experiences as well as his own first three years of being a baby in our midst.  But as relates to Claire, he was there from the start—from finding out about her to every day of her life since then.  She doesn’t know life without him, and she doesn’t know that he is anyone other than her brother. 

As Claire entered toddlerhood, the brother-sister relationship developed into something more typical.  She annoys him, he teases her, and they get mad at each other.  She still looks up to him and wants him to play with her, and of course he still loves her, but they definitely get on each other’s nerves.  The gifts of this relationship, however, are still being realized.  Viktor had hyperactivity and sensory issues as a little boy that felt so different to me.  He never seemed to sleep. And although she is not biologically related to him, Claire also has these issues, in some ways even more significantly.  Her brother prepared me to deal with OT services, extreme fatigue, and acceptance of traits I don’t relate to.  And now that a child I gave birth to has some of the same difficulties, Viktor’s characteristics don’t feel so foreign to me; *he* doesn’t feel foreign to me.  I see that I absolutely could have given birth to a child like him because I did. 

It is interesting how things work out sometimes.  A little boy came into our family’s life and there were lessons on both sides, and then a little girl came along and somehow made those lessons easier for all of us.  It’s one love story among many in the chapters of our life as a family.

Breathe Easy

Breathe Easy

September 21, 2013.  Today is National Gratitude Day.  When I realized this, I dug out my old gratitude journals and fondly relived what I sometimes refer to as the happiest times of my life.  It was the late 1990's and early 2000's.  I had quit my full-time job outside the home to be a full-time mom to my two young girls.  Elizabeth and Abigail were funny and precocious, creative and enthusiastic.  I was relishing the freedom and fun of being their mom.  I breathed sighs of relief every day that I didn't have to go to the workplace and I didn't have to answer to anyone but these two.  It was a simple time of playgrounds, parks, and beaches, picnics in the backyard, playing dress-up and pretend, making crafts, and reading lots and lots of books together.  My older one had school, but it was still so exciting, with no real homework and no real problems.  Extracurriculars were easy and thoughtfully chosen.  My little one was really still a baby, but she looked up to her big sister and did a great job keeping up.  They adored each other.

When Abigail, my younger one, was around 2 1/2 years old, she was diagnosed with asthma.  It's a common issue in children, but it briefly shook up our happy little world.  From around the time she weaned at 13 months, she would get occasional colds just like most kids, but she just didn't seem to shake them quickly or easily.  Her coughs would hang on too long and I would hear that rattling in her lungs too often.  I do remember a family visit we made before she turned 2 and my brother said something about it sounding like she had asthma. I brushed it off then.  That winter, she had a very lingering cough after a cold and then it suddenly took a turn for the worse.  She was sleeping but breathing very rapidly and shallowly, her cheeks were flushed, and she was warm.  I panicked.  So far as a mom, I had been lucky enough to have dealt with nothing more a few ear infections.

Six year old Elizabeth picked up on my fear.  She had recently attended a service in her religious education class in which each child received a small bottle of holy water.  Her first reaction was to run right to it and sprinkle it all over her sister.  She was so protective and so worried; that act of love is always remembered with a bit of a chuckle, but the desperation at the moment was very real.

I called the doctor and was afraid of what I was sure the advice would be.  It was a Sunday morning during a snowstorm.  I was certain I would be told to take my little one, who had a deathly fear of doctors and all things medical, to the emergency room.  I knew that bringing her there would only make her breathing more labored as she would surely be full of anxiety.  But the doctor told me he would meet us at the office nearby.  I was so relieved to see him in the parking lot on that snowy day that when I remember the image, I still let out a big breath.

It was a tough visit of testing and fear and learning to use a nebulizer on a strong-willed,  terrified little one.  But I rocked her and sang and listened to instructions and was just so grateful to have someone helping us.  The doctor shared kind words about my patience.  These made me feel stronger and more empowered as a mom, and I still treasure them to this day.

Abigail is 16 now and still deals with her asthma.  She has had episodes throughout her childhood, but nothing as scary as the time of her diagnosis.  We are actually looking into a seeing a pulmonologist soon because her medicines are no longer providing complete relief, but she controls her condition well and we keep up with it.

When I remember that first real health crisis I experienced as a mom, at the forefront of the story is the love of an older sister and the helpfulness of a professional.  I would experience that combination of family and friend support, along with the assistance of caring experts, many more times as a mother.  After those halcyon days when my first two were young, we adopted a son.  So many friends and family members rallied around and supported that adjustment, and so many officials helped to smooth our way as well.  And then when I had my later-in-life surprise pregnancy, again I experienced not only affection from those near and dear to us, but also medical personnel who went above and beyond to make sure we were okay.  Knowing this beautiful combination of love and help is available when I need it truly helps me breathe easy.