Holland
To understand how I am capable of the things I have done, the actions I have taken, and the decisions I continue to make, I think first, you need to understand why I am the way I am. Then, if you must, you may judge me.
I met my husband, Darren, my freshman year of college. He was a senior, just a few credits shy of graduating. It wasn’t love at first sight. Not for me. I didn’t fall head over heels after our first meeting. Instead, it happened slowly, naturally, and entirely unexpectedly. He became my friend before he was my boyfriend. My confidant before my lover. I always thought he was cute with his shaggy blonde hair and dimples. Sweet and kind. Trustworthy. He had a good head on his shoulders and a plan as to where he wanted to go in life. He always knew how to make me laugh, and he made me laugh often. Before I knew it, I had fallen. On our first official date as an actual couple junior year, he admitted it was a little different for him because he knew the moment he saw me that he wanted to be with me always. I knew right then I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. We were married the week I graduated.
It was a few months later when I received what I thought was the worst possible news I would ever get in my life. My mom—my first and best friend—was dead. I had just spoken with her that very morning. She gave me the family recipe for the Irish coffee cake I wanted to make for my newlywed husband. We laughed about the opulent amount of whiskey involved and how Darren would surely enjoy it. She was fine.
Two hours later, I was sitting at my desk at my new job, quickly scrolling through Facebook, not wanting to miss any important life updates from my friends when I got the phone call. Just like that, an aneurism had taken her life at forty-five years old. She was so young. Too young.
My mom was so much more than my mom. She was my father when he was no longer around. She was a shoulder to cry on, the one who dried my tears both in childhood and adulthood. She was the first one I turned to when I had a bad day. The first one I wanted to share good news with. She taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, put on make-up, flirt with boys, cook a meal, change a tire, drive a car… She gave me the courage to move clear across the country to pursue my dreams. She was my counselor, my teacher, my mentor. She gave me life, wisdom, friendship, and love. And she was gone forever in the blink of an eye.
The grief I felt over her loss was insurmountable. I was certain there was no worse pain in the world.
I relied on Darren a lot during that time. Too much, maybe. He no longer had the part of husband and companion, he was also forced to take on the sole role of grief counselor. I can’t tell you how many times he came home to find the house dark and me in bed, a mess of snot and tears and heartache. Some days were worse than others. Sometimes I forgot she was gone and it wasn’t until I tried to call her that I would remember. Those days were bad because it stung like fresh loss, and because I couldn’t believe I had actually let myself forget. How could I forget?
As the months passed I cried less and less. Time making it a little more bearable. And then I received what I am positive is the best possible news I will ever get in my life.
I was pregnant.
I rushed out of the doctor’s office, with phone in hand, excitedly dialing my mom’s number. It wasn’t until I heard the all too familiar recording that I realized what I had done. Again.
That night, I cried harder than I ever had before. My mother would never meet her grandchild. Worse, my child would never know what a wonderful grandmother she would have surely been.
She’d miss the first time my baby crawled or talked or walked. She’d miss the first day of Kindergarten, school plays, proms, graduations. She’d miss it all and I would miss her.
What I didn’t expect was for this child to heal so much of my broken heart before he was ever even born. The joy Darren and I felt soon overshadowed the sorrow. With every passing day, the baby grew inside of me, and the ache of no longer having my own parents faded.
My lifelong friend, who made the three-thousand-mile cross-country trip by my side to room with me at college, Alyssa, kept me busy with shopping sprees for maternity and infant clothes. Darren and I spent weekends decorating the nursery, buying infant furniture, and then, even more weekends putting it all together.
Despite being unable to share it all with my mom, I was happy. I still had Darren. I still had Alyssa. And I still had my baby growing bigger and stronger inside of me.
Caleb was born just two weeks after the anniversary of my mother’s death. And he was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Thick blonde hair, large blue eyes, ten fingers, ten toes, and absolutely perfect. I didn’t feel empty once he was no longer inside of me. Instead, I felt the exact opposite. I was overflowing with excitement and love and possibility. Everything was right in the world, everyone had a purpose, and everything happened for a reason.