Help

My daughter was a beautiful bride. We hadn’t expected the chosen June day would be the hottest of the year, or that our electricity would repeatedly go out, or that the backdrop of vintage doors crafted for the ceremony would crash to the ground in the wild winds (beforehand, thankfully). It’s likely that noone will remember much about those things. We will, instead, hold the vision of two kids who made it to this day, surrounded by family and friends, frosting, and fanfare as they held hands and stepped off into forever.

I knew Monica when she was just a tiny girl. She came to my college apartment a few times along with my little sister. I have a few photographs, discovered on a chance trip to the attic, with Monica at my little sister’s birthday party. I look at these photos, and my two youngest sons stare back at me.

If I could do it all again, I would want only to slow it down, to trust the unfolding, to know that the hard parts would always be softened by the unexpected, and to understand that—just like the sparkly string of pearls that my little sister had given me nearly forty years ago—there’s a thread that holds us all together.

The months and weeks leading up to the wedding were filled with spring tasks, bee work, the usual family stuff, baseball, and, of course, the unpredictability of mental illness. The painter worked until just days before the big day, which left little time for me to tend to the gardens around the house. I knew the applemint would have overtaken the east side of the house. It had, but in a proud and determined way, standing tall and orderly, woven with purple geranium flowers that looked almost intentional. My work here was finished.

The years were tumultuous; primal grief and fear often took hold. How can I do better? How can I be better? How did we make it to this day—this beautiful gift of a day?

“Help!”

The small voice cries again.

“Help!”

It seemed I had just left his room. I knew from the rhythm of his breathing he had fallen asleep, but now he beckoned.

“What is it?” I ask when I reach his bedside.

“I don’t know,” he answers quietly.

I sit with him in the darkness, waiting to be sure—once again—that he is asleep before I go back to my bed.

Earlier this year, we learned that Monica, the boys’ birth mom, had died after an illness. The boys had not seen her since their earliest days. Through the years there had been torrents of sadness, hard questions, and lots of longing. After a time, I had stopped believing that she might call. I knew she couldn’t. I knew she loved them with every ounce of her being. And I know some things are just bigger than all of us.

The older of the two said he wasn’t sure how he felt. He didn’t know if he should feel sad, because he hadn’t seen her in so long. The little guy said he felt the same. They must have carried all those feelings through the years, riding the waves that will surely come again.

We wanted to find a way to honor Monica. I had suggested tossing seed to the wild birds at the marsh; my sister’s idea was to float paper boats on the lagoon. The boys decided the best way would be to get a dog. “Rockstar Monica,” aka “Roxy,” now chases them on their bikes and rests on the couch alongside them when they need her.

I often think of that energetic, spritely girl that time brought back to me as two precious boys. I see my daughter, too, but I no longer feel the angst that she carried as a small child. I see the strong, beautiful princess that she has been all along. I don’t see the mint choking out the geraniums but rather a magical surprise.

Our cries for help will be answered—sometimes in the quiet night, sometimes through long years, and sometimes with fierce footprints—even when we don’t know what we need.

With love and Gratitude,

Patty🩷