I Feel Like a Real Mom

I have a post drafted from May 28. It was a post to announce my pregnancy. I am no longer pregnant.

It was a post to tell you that Ryan and I would be parents come September. We are now parents, but not in the way anyone dreams about. We are parents in the way our son needed us to be. Still, we are his parents.

—

I was always cautious to post online about our baby news. I was as excited as could be, but something in me was holding back. Call it first-time-mom superstition. Call it caution. Call it a claim to privacy while much of our lives no longer seems private at all. Just to be safe, I saved the draft. I had an ultrasound later that afternoon anyway, I told myself. I would simply post after then. After I heard the heartbeat again and knew everything was still okay. Nothing so reassured me about life and its inherent force as those heartbeats traveling across the bottom of the monitor, as their echo within the small, darkened room where my husband and I looked in awe at our growing baby.

We had two ultrasounds like that. I framed the pictures. I saw a knee and a hand, the swish of a moving arm, and the crown of his head.

Then we had our third on May 28. The one that told us the heart was “not normal.” Or did our doctor say the heart was “abnormal”? Two words or one? It doesn’t matter because that is when our lives started to change forever.

—

When Ryan and I first learned I was pregnant, we realized that we aren’t really in control in this life. It’s a scary, liberating thought. Sure, you decide when it is you think you’re ready for a baby. You go through the motions, but then it’s out of your hands. Fertilization and gestation are in their own ways involuntary.

It is only now, that I truly understand what it means not to be in control. To have no way to truly repair a fatal heart defect. For there to be no way to take your own heart and make it beat for somebody else.

—

I have wanted to be a mother as long as I can remember. I never really played with stuffed animals. It was always baby dolls. I made my mom take me to get real baby bottles and a real baby stroller and real baby diapers, I suppose, so I could feel like a real mom. While I wasn’t consciously ready for a child until last year, I have always known it was my destiny.

As I’ve always known it would be my worst fear to lose a child.

We were together from January to June. He kicked. He had a life force, a life force dependent on mine. We were one together and apart, apart, we are still one. He has changed me. He is teaching me. He is my first child. A son. A beautiful son with half a heart.

—

There is an alternate reality, one where we have a healthy ultrasound on May 28 and I come home and I post our good news here. In that reality, my biggest concerns are how to keep blogging about our expat adventures without turning this into a full-time mommy blog. How to manage an international trip with an infant. How to lose sleep and breast feed and grocery shop and cook dinner and meet the needs of our new family of three.

Now, those are not concerns. Those are my dreams.

I would give anything for this to become a mommy blog because it would mean he was still growing inside of me.

I would give anything to be up all night, to be sleep-deprived, to have a different kind of postpartum depression than I do now, to be worrying about how to get my post-baby body back. I have my body back and I wish I didn’t. It is empty. It is pre-maturely vacated. Its milk gone dry. Phantom kicks left in its abdomen.

—

May 28 was a Monday in Santiago, Chile. Our son lived his short, powerful, time-stopping life until June 2, a Saturday in California. Through everything in between, I am changed. I feel like a real mom. I am a mom who loves and misses her son. I am a mom whose worst fear has been realized. I am a mom who has lost a child. Still, I am a mom.

—

I am back in Chile. I stare at the walls and time feels like something that happens to other people. At some point in the day, I make dinner because it’s important I feed my family and stay healthy so that I will be ready to be a mom again one day. 

I walk Ruby, our new puppy we adopted because our hearts are so full of love to give. She is pure love, especially when the tears arrive, and they arrive every day, ebbing and flowing like the current our bodies, too, are made of. Like the beat of a heart, which I hear and see and feel everywhere now… in sneakers moving briskly over gravel, in the rotating orange lights at the airport luggage carousel at an early morning hour, in the motor of big equipment starting up at the construction site across the street when I consider not getting out of bed. 

But Ruby needs me, so I get up. We go out together, at another early morning hour. I will tell you more about her because she is making us smile during a time when smiles are hard to taste. I will tell you more about our son, caution withstanding, because he is never far from my mind and he is nestled forever in my heart, a four-chambered heart that beats involuntarily. Otherwise, I’m not sure I could make it do what it was designed, perfectly in my case, to do. 

For the first time in my adult life, I am not concerned with what to do. As my husband’s aunt told us because she was told at a time she needed to hear it: “We are human beings, not human doings.” It is okay just to be. That was one of the more comforting things we have been told during the past few weeks. “Everything happens for a reason” is not comforting right now, but I understand if it brings you comfort or makes sense in another alternate reality.

This is the first time I’ve been able to write in a coherent fashion. Is this coherent? You tell me because I may not be able to judge anymore. All I know is I couldn’t come back here and continue to write about my mishaps at the market, for example. Those are not problems anymore. None of it is a problem anymore. In order to come back here, I have to acknowledge and honor our son, his life and his death.

—

It has been 27 days since I held my son, Lorenzo. It takes 21 days for the human heart to form. It takes at least four and a half months to be able to see it clearly.

Now, like I said, I see it everywhere.

Lessons from Home

Hey, you!

The mystique of this sign (even on a cafe menu)
never ceases to amaze me.

So, as you may or may not have noticed, I’ve taken a wee blog hiatus. In the meantime, I returned home to California. On the journey between home and home, I reflected on how this trip felt in comparison to the last one.

A field of California poppies… and a wish.

Then, I asked myself far more questions than I did this time around. Then, I was concerned with how it would feel to be back in San Francisco, my city for seven years. Would she remember me? Would I recognize all of her quirky details and sandy stretches and neighborhood haunts where you and I used to gather? You still gather there, of course.

Ocean Beach, the old hood.

Now, I’m the friend from out of town, the one to meet up with after work as you go about your California life and commitments. Now, I love the suburbs, sitting on my mom’s deck, the old trails I used to run and am now content to stroll, and thinking about how it all used to be yet remains the same. San Francisco is now a place to travel to, even when I’m home. When we do meet, you and I both have stories to tell and months to catch up on and new challenges and rewards to paint the scenery of so we each understand what all the interceding time has really added up to for the other.

Sky and sun and water and the beginning of a journey.

Perhaps I didn’t have so many concerns this time around as I readied for California because I no longer feel like I’m straddling two homes, two hemispheres, two seasons… I am more at peace with the fact that they simply co-exist. I’m not torn between the two as much as I feel the influence of both. It’s a nice feeling and it begs fewer questions.

But there are always things to learn, of course, on the journey to and fro. For instance:

1. Home is still home.

Not our home, but one
I always pass when I hike around the neighborhood.

2. Friends are still friends.

With Em and Linds for the solar eclipse. We think we saw it 🙂

3. There’s still never quite enough time. This trip was long and luxurious because of it. I had time to visit with almost everyone, and a few folks more than once, which was lovely and momentarily tricked me into thinking I was home for good. But because Ryan wasn’t with me this trip, I still felt the subtle tug of distance and that co-existence of simultaneous goings-on down in Chile.

What Ryan, a.k.a. “Raul,”
might have been doing back in Santiago.

4. We change. We move, we get a new job, we train for a race, we start a family. These changes are beautiful. And for many of my friends right now, these kinds of changes are in full force. We’re in our early 30s. We might share a history that takes us all the way back to high school, but now we’re talking about stroller brands and service opportunities and how we take care of houses and toddlers and promotions. We’re grown up, I suppose is what I’m trying to say, and we’re still in each other’s hearts.

SF love.

5. We change. In ways that are harder to weather when the distance between us is so far. We are still there in each other’s hearts, but the infrequency is challenging. Lives get busy and while we have the best of intentions, we might not have had the chance to connect this time around. I wish that weren’t the case! I wish I could be home in a flash whenever you needed me, and I wish you could see my life in Chile and what it really looks like.

Solar eclipse playground.

All of this is to say hello and goodbye, as is often the case now when I come home. The trip is what’s over in a flash. Nowadays, I have even more of you to say hello to when I land back in Chile, too, which is a nice feeling and makes it easier to co-exist in these two places. Just know I think about all of you, even when I’m far, far away. I wish you well and embrace where life is taking you. Thanks for being there as life takes me a little beyond reach. Please know I’m always still there/here.

The Twists and Turns

Three years ago, I met my husband in San Francisco. Tonight, we’ll celebrate in Santiago. Gotta love the twists and turns in the road. Because you really never know…

On the One in California.

When you’ll meet someone important to the rest of your life.

Who will be in the room or the bookstore or the party when you walk in.

The path to Año Nuevo State Preserve.

When you’ll pack it all up and set out for the next adventure.

Who will change you.

This and the rest from a memorable day in June, 2009.

Whose life you will have the opportunity to affect.

What is up around the bend.

 

Where your next favorite song, city, meal, book, or memory will come from.

Who might help you or need your help.

 

 

What might break your heart, or melt it.

When things just won’t work, no matter how hard you try. And that you’ll still be okay afterwards.

 

 

What will knock the sense and the gratitude back into you when you’ve let them slip.

When you’ll decide the BS really is over.

 

 

When you’ll have to start again.

Where you’ll pull over on the side of the road just to explore.

 

 

What you’ll look back on when you leave a place.

When you’ll be ready.

 

 

Whose love or friendship will last.

Where the next taco stand is.

 

 

When you’ll see everyone in your family in the same room again.

Where the next detour will actually take you.

 

 

And who you’ll get to share it all with along the way. Thanks for an incredible three years, Hubs. I’m ever so grateful you were sitting at that bar when I walked in.

 

That’s Random

A lot here is just like it is at home. We work. We take public transportation. We grocery shop and make dinner. We see the doctor when we need to and hail a cab when it’s getting late. The water apparently flushes the other way, but I’ve really never paid attention. Still, there are many things that prove to be “random” when you move somewhere brand new. Here’s a Top 5 List for your amusement.

Random: Seeing a reminder of home in and amongst it all.

Of course, the longer I’m here, the less random they seem:

1. I could walk right by a famous Chilean athlete, television star, musician, newscaster, etc. and have no idea I’m in such close proximity to celebrity. It’s not that I’m gaga for fame, but having lived in New York City, it isn’t so strange to share a street corner with Jack Black, say, or an elevator with Kevin Bacon (I swear to you this happened, people, so you are now only separated by one degree!) or even to see Mike Meyers twice in one day. Similarly, if anything fame-oriented is going on in Chile, it’s most likely going on in Santiago, but with limited Chilean TV watching and getting all my news in English online, I haven’t quite tapped into Chilean pop culture. Sometimes, I think about that as I’m bustling down the street with so many others: Which one of you might I recognize otherwise?

2. Along a similar vein, I never expect to run into anybody I know, but it has happened. I couldn’t tell you the exact number of people I know here in Santiago, but considering expat groups, my students, and coworkers of mine and Ryan, we have run into a few of them out amongst the throng of six million. So far, it’s happened in the wee hours of the morning at the airport, on a street near home after dinner, and on a metro car (twice). When it happens, it makes everything else going on feel, well, a little less random.

Finding a decorated lama tied up to a door could be
construed as just a little random.

3. Sometimes I can place a Starbucks order and sometimes I can’t. Sometimes they understand “Quiero un té verde. Grande.” Annnd sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they think I’ve asked for a Chai latte and ask me what size I would like, for instance. If only everything on the menu at Starbucks was in Italian instead of just the serving sizes–then ordering would be just as streamlined around the globe as are the green mermaid logos, purple chairs, and glass shelves of cinnamon buns, muffins, and yogurt parfaits.

4. Finding a boiled egg in and amongst the contents of a traditional Chilean entree, be it an empanada or pastel de choclo (some variation of a meat and corn pie). I’ve also seen really “artistic” things done with canned tuna and stumbled upon a Kraft-like cheese slice in my burrito.

5. I no longer expect things to work on the first attempt. In fact, now it strikes me as a little random when it does.

For instance, things that have not worked on the first attempt: getting my visa; joining a pool; paying the water/gas/electric bills (they require a third party), paying for groceries; buying a cell phone (that took four attempts and then it was promptly stolen); taking a best guess at arrival time etiquete and arriving to a birthday party on time (should have arrived two hours late) vs. arriving at a work pool party late (should have arrived on time); locating the medical office that was apparently just across the street; and using the oven (I’m still not 100% convinced as to what each symbol represents, so I just turn it to the same one every time, no matter what I’m cooking).

Need I describe?

Meanwhile, things that have worked on the first attempt that I never expected would: mailing a letter, getting furniture delivered; being seen by the doctor at precisely the appointed time; communicating in Spanish with Chileans for an entire night (the Pisco helped); and finding my way on the metro and then a bus out past the old airport to my first class with my first student.

As I can now deduce from these two sub-lists, I tend to blog about the things that did not meet with success on first pass. I suppose that’s when I need to vent a bit to you all in order to make sure my intentions or interpretations were at least sound. Plus, conflict always makes for a more interesting story–that’s one of the first rules of fiction. Who wants to read about the always-serene characters who never struggle or rise to the challenge? That’s not to say I haven’t spoken of the surprise and delight that is this adventure. We’ve had our first Dieciocho to celebrate, friends to gather with, a spring to revel in when it arrives when fall used to, and fellow gringas to thank for their kind welcome and continued help as I navigate all the randomness.

Any guesses on what the building on the far left is modeled after?
If you guessed one of the first cell phones, you’d be correct.
(I don’t think the cellular company still occupies the building.)

Looking back over these posts, a lot more is making sense because all the struggle and surprise add up to nearly a year where Chile (and all its contents and discontents) really is my new normal.

Terremoto Season

In less than a month, we’ve felt three strong earthquakes down here in Chile (a 5.3, 7.2, and 6.5, respectively). We’ve felt them ever since we arrived. I realize these temblors/aftershocks pale in comparison to the tragic 8.8 terremoto that struck Chile on February 27, 2010 as well as the devastating Loma Prieta earthquake I felt in California in 1989.

 

I was nine years old and finishing up a tennis lesson when one hundred or so stray tennis balls started dancing around the court like popcorn. When you’re nine and you’re around a lot of other nine-year-olds, something like an earthquake (and popcorning tennis balls) is exciting. I remember making “Richter Scale” guesses with the boys, although I honestly had no idea what a Richter Scale even was. (It turned out to be a 6.9.) It wasn’t until my mom picked me up and we got Kentucky Fried Chicken and checked in on my grandmother and watched the news and saw the collapsed section of the Bay Bridge that I understood the true magnitude. (It was years before I crossed that bridge without praying, and over 20 years later a new one is finally being built.)

See, I’m from California. Earthquakes are the natural disasters I’m conditioned to–or at least taught to prepare for starting from a young age: duck and cover, secure a meeting place, know where the first aid kit is, store nonperishable food and keep plenty of water on hand, not to mention blankets and batteries and a radio. Once you live through one, you feel a little more confident in the face of them. Ryan’s a California native, too. He was also nine at the time and high in the stands at the infamous Oakland A’s v. San Francisco Giants World Series at the time. He remembers it well. He’s conditioned, too.

But last night, when the living room started rattling and picture frames fell over and that unmistakable rumble only started picking up energy, it was all I could do to make it to the doorway and stand there calling out my husband’s name into the dark apartment. He was asleep and, ever cool in a crisis, managed to go back to sleep pretty soon thereafter. It was yours truly who was more wide-eyed than ever, watching the news (in Spanish, obviously) trying to decipher what had happened, where it had originated, and where it would land on the Richter Scale. For whatever reason, after feeling my fair share in California and at least a half dozen of these Chilean tremblers over the past year, this one scared me because it was the closest to the capital and it seemed to go on without end. Thanks to Santiago’s impressive infrastructure, no damage or injuries were reported. I do truly feel safe here, even though we are situated in the Pacific Ring of Fire (as is California).

The whole earth, as it does, has been shaking. We’ve had recent earthquakes in Mexico, Indonesia, and Papua New Guinea. Before the tsunami warnings have been called off and while the damage is still being assessed, they are reminiscent of disasters and devastation in Haiti and Japan and Chile and Thailand. Thankfully, these recent quakes have not been so perilous.

But a jolt is still a jolt. It shakes free whatever it is you’re worrying about, whatever it is keeping you up at 1AM, whatever it was Jack Bauer was saving the world from on the episode of “24” I happened to be watching at the time. It made me crawl back in bed with my husband for a minute, just so I could be assured of his presence and be grateful and know that we were okay.

After a few mild aftershocks, when the ground settled down again, the picture frames were turned upright, and the news had reassured, there was nothing left to do but calm the shaking in my own system, take the deep breaths that restore order, and (after making sure Jack Bauer did, indeed, save the world again), try to get some sleep… and pretend that I’m not in fact waiting for the next one.