This Chapter of my Life

I always said that when we came home with Major to begin our life as a family of 5 that it would be a chapter of my life in which I was solely focused on family. There would be time at a later date for dinners out and parties to attend. We’d hole up together and worry less about outside distractions and more about our little unit. Quality time and helping our children acclimate to our new normal would be paramount. We’d spend time with our dear daughters and enjoy watching them take on the new role of big sisters – and we’d baby them a bit too. We’d have set backs and we’d communicate and overcome them. We’d celebrate Major’s triumphs — big and small. Over time, we’d introduce Major to the special people in his life — his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends. It would be a chapter of my life in which I would be present to my family in a way that I wish I was more often.

As I was preparing for the role of parent to our darling little boy, how could I have known that my focus on family and its role in my life would be different than I expected during this time. Different, expanded, more cherished — in the ways I anticipated and something much more. As I prepared to become a mom for the third time, circumstances would be that my role as a child to my own dad would take on such a special significance.

We arrived home from Almaty, Kazakhstan with Major on March 23, 2010 to a small group of family and friends and three proud grandparents having been driven to the airport by my dad leading the helm. It is only in photos now that I see my father had not been well. Six hours after we fell into the joyful arms of our family and were reunited with our daughters, my father’s heart was failing and a team of doctors was saving his life. It’s been 80 days since I have been home with Major and of this time, my dad has been in his home only 10 days. He has been in the cardiac unit of the hospital with emergency complications related to heart disease and end stage kidney failure. There have been too many beautiful and glorious springtime days to count during which the front porch where my dad usually sits to read the paper remained glaringly empty. Recently, my dad’s health had taken a turn for the worse. Life changes in an instant. The heart is a fragile thing. Intubation and a ventilator saved his life, though at the time, we weren’t sure there were any more miracles to be had. The family of my origins – my mom and me and my two brothers — stood vigil by my dad’s bedside. The rabbi, a man who had become a source of solace for my dad these past two months, prayed for healing and recovery at the foot of his bed. I knew of no other prayers except to say silently over and over again in my head “please … please … please… ” I remain hopeful. I must. My dad is a man who has defied the odds time and time again. Over the years, his own doctors have called him a Miracle Man and The Man with a Thousand Lives. He has not spent enough time with Major and he wants to. I have two photos of them together but there must be more. My dad has his poker games to win and days at the beach with my mom ahead of him. I remain hopeful. It is all we have, right here, the now. And in the now, everything is okay.

My father has been one of my biggest supporters of our journey to our son. I remember the day I told my parents that we were thinking of adopting a son and my father just blurting out “We support you 100%!” and then “We will love him like our own!” Later on, there were many trips my dad took with me into Manhattan to handle important paperwork because he said I shouldn’t do this alone. When I thanked him he simply said “Don’t thank me. This is my grandson we are doing this for.” It was a given. He loved him from day one. And with the stress that our adoption preparation brought me, his support meant the world to me.

What I have discovered during this time is it is we who are the lucky ones.

What I have discovered during this time is that Major, in 80 short days, has blossomed with our love and we celebrate each small step.

What I have discovered is that my daughters are a blessing to Major and they to him.

What I have discovered is that my husband, who thought it might take him a year to bond with our son, loves him wholeheartedly and openly.

What I have discovered is that Major calling “Poppa” into the phone has been a bittersweet sound for my dad to hear.

What I have discovered is that my father has never been afraid to cry, though it doesn’t get easier for me to witness his fear.

What I have discovered is that, in the end, being strong has been my dad’s only option.

What I have discovered is that despite a lifetime of illness, my father has proven to be one of the most blessed people I know.

What I have discovered is that my mom is an unbelievable testament to what it means to make marriage vows — in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. My mother is the wonderful blessing that balances out all my father’s pain.

What I have discovered is that my dad and I have grown closer in the silence of a hospital room. Holding his hand, smoothing out his worried brow in sleep and massaging his weary back has given me a level of knowing my dad that I have never experienced before. Though his years have not been without chronic and serious health issues, we have never had reason to be this scared. Perhaps, naively, I was just never realistic enough to believe there were implications to his illness. I was too young, not yet a parent, not yet fully living in the now, to know what was truly at stake. As such, I have viewed this extra time we have been given as one of our greatest blessings. Two weeks ago, I feared the worst when I witnessed my father’s still body being aided with a breathing ventilator. Days later, though weak and still ill, he was sitting in his reclining chair reading the paper and reaching out to hold my hand. Each day, I see, has been a gift that we never thought we’d have. Despite my mother’s sadness and our constant worry, there are also moments filled with joy. We are my father’s girls, at his bedside. His advocates, his cheerleaders, his silent comrades as he sleeps. We are his hope.

Beneath the facade of his battle worn body, behind the blue and white robe and the tubes and wires and scars, I see my own childhood. I hold my dad’s hands and press my smooth cheek to his rough whiskered one, and in my mind I am still dancing on my daddy’s toes to Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” on our gray threadbare living room carpet. I am still lifted high on his shoulders to see the world as I did when I was Major’s age and my dad was my hero. I was a Daddy’s Girl, I still am. And it is my prayer and the love of our family, and our hope and faith for all that is still yet to come, that will lift my dad high on the shoulders of all those who love him. What I have witnessed the past two months — how far Major has come from the scared little boy we first brought home and how we have grown as a family and what I have witnessed as my dad makes strides towards recovery — makes me still, gratefully, believe in miracles. My father has always said to me “There but for the grace of God, go I.” It is true that no one knows what tomorrow brings. We only have the now. And right now, I have everything that I have ever prayed for.