The view from beyond it all~Is hindsight really 20/20, or is this just time healing wounds and begetting acceptance?

WARNING:  THIS IS A STORY ABOUT CROHN'S DISEASE AND STUFF OF THAT NATURE.  IT'S NOT PRETTY, AND I HAVE HONESTLY REPRESENTED THE FACTS.

I had forgotten about this piece that I wrote for a wonderful group that I belong to:  The Crohn's Disease Support Network.  Some years ago, I thought that I was facing (and who knows, I still may, one day) some pretty major [health] stuff, again.  As I researched the particulars of my situation, I wrote this blog and posted it on the CDSN forum, hoping to find someone else who had travelled this road with these circumstances; as far as I know, I am still the only person who may have to jump these sharks.  An update:  Since I could not get my insurance to agree to this surgery, I didn't get it done, so my J-pouch and I are still roomies.  My docs switched me to Humira, which is basically chemo's tough, street-wise cousin, and we are getting along quite well.  Maybe I will end up needing to go through all of this again, one day, but in the meantime, life is good, and I can't complain.  The boat I'm in has some leaks, for sure, but it's still afloat, and at the end of the day, I'd like to believe that I can paddle with the best of 'em!

That being said, here is a post from approximately 2010 - 2011.

My reason for posting this is simple: I am trying to locate a kindred soul, and it might be you. I have Crohn's Colitis and a J Pouch, which is failing (the pouch...the CC seems to be in high spirits...), and I need to have an ileostomy placed, and soon. Righto. No problem. Been there, done that; however, since my last trip down "Ostomy Lane," alot has happened, and...ok, let's back up a bit.

In a (huge-ish) nutshell: Married '91, baby '92, lalalalala '93 - '94, pregnant sold home bought home fixed home baby #2 moved into home '95, sick ick flu yuck cramp couch weight gone husband injured two-story fall tired pain weak nursing baby ALWAYS sleep sleep (unconscious?) bathroom couch FLU! (Feb) housebound PAIN PAIN CRAMP BATHROOM FEAR FLU hospital RUSH very bad 10 bags saline per hour very dehydrated very delirious (Mar) NO FLU New words: Ulcerative Colitis 5 weeks Room E-41 NPO hush hush procedures pic line veins corrupted purple arms little girl little boy ever going home to them? New words: J Pouch ileostomy surgery (Apr) reversal stoma gone (May) '96, lalalalala ugh. nausea, weight loss malaise ick again pouch closing surgeries to repair X 10 OUCH! sitting an issue BIG issue first abcess big operation very complex (in my case) no recovery time before first fistula surgeries X 3 (Apr - May), New words: Crohn's, you have it 99% sure meds? no not right now '97, fistula fistula fistula hosp hosp near death hosp bowel obstruction...on like that never medicated '98 - '01, pregnant '01, new boy (Aug) '02. hosp meningitis brain damage (!) double pneumonia influenza near death ICU going home ever? (Mar) '03, same old story over and over '03 - '07, continued issues New words: NO Chrohn's mis-diagnosis OOPS YAY no Crohn's? Ok~now what? '08, fistula surgery (Jan) New [old] words: YES Crohn's New words: Remicade '09, fistula surgery (Jan) New words: Crohn's Colitis Remicade effective? New [old] words: Ileostomy '10.

WOW.


Well, I really didn't plan on any of that stream-of-consciousness purging, here, but it brings me (finally!) to my current dilemma (and it felt kinda good, so thanks for sticking with it!):


When I had my first surgery, waaay back in '96, it was before I had a chance to get my "tummy" back (ladies, you know what I'm talking about). So, when the doctor sliced into me (a~standard?~vertical cut just above my navel running to the pubic bone) and then sewed me back up, temporary ileostomy in place, it left me with a...tummy. A lumpy, stretch marked, stapled, scarred, flappy tummy. A tummy which no amount of exercise will eradicate. Mush. Now, it's not pretty, but it's been ok. Well, ok until now. NOW what I have is this: I am very bloated from the Crohn's, and this makes the tum more prominent, and therefore I'm having a difficult time sleeping, being comfortable in any way, wearing any of my clothing, etc... Add to this the fact that I need to have another ileostomy (which means the bag in all it's glory, in all liklihood as a permanent deal, this time), and I have got a...situation.


That situation is this: I need to have an abdominoplasty (tummy tuck) prior to the surgery for the ileostomy placement. I need this procedure, not for cosmetic reasons (as sexy as I'll be with surgically-enhanced abs of steel from which is hanging a BAG OF P**P), but rather so that my surgeon can have a solid platform upon which to build the thing. Why is this such a big deal? Very simply put, because, sadly, as I grow older *SIGH*, gravity will not be my friend. This saggy baggy tummy will droop, and create unhealthy and unwanted amounts of pressure on the stoma which I will have, and that, my friends, could lead to untold complications and further corrective/maintainance surgery. The Tuck must be done first; it cannot be done after the ileostomy is placed.

And while we're on the subject, may I please tell you, The Tuck is not for weenies. Seriously~I am not particularly wimpy, but I would rather chew colored glass than volunteer for this surgery for anything other than medically sound, necessary reasons; we'll get to that later, though.


For now: The Appointment with The Plastic Surgeon...A Brief(-ish) Highlights Playlist...


I was ushered into a beautiful office, a lovely waiting room, a comfortable exam room with a nice comfy chair, a fabulous fuzzy purple robe...and a connected studio where my glamour shots (NOT) would be shot from every imaginable angle. Suddenly, those...other exams...they don't seem quite so bad...


The doctor explains the surgery while looking at (and grabbing) my belly:

"Hmmm... This is...significant amount of flesh... (poke schmoosh jiggle squeeze)." Thanks for that, Doc.

"I think I need to make...BIG cut...will be big cut, big scar." WHAT??? You mean, a scar to take out my OTHER scars???

"Many staples. First (pat poke schmash stretch pinch lift), I core out (!!!) belly button to create new one for you...here, I think. My concern, after other previous surgery, is that the blood vessels, they have been cut. They stop...this old scar. This old scar...the new navel, we don't want the skin to die (!!!): that is possible complication for you."

Right...dead skin = complication; complications = bad. Got it.

"This request is first for me...(POKE!)" That does NOT make it better. "I need to think...how will this cut (yes, I know, the BIG one) heal for you? We need to be sure it heals...tight. It must be firm for Dr. ***** to cut, for his cuts to heal on inside. There will be many staples, it is a big cut (!!!). This surgery, it will be MAJOR hit for you...for your abdomen. I think...extra recovery for you. And the Remicade...? We must be sure (squeeze jab pinch pat jiggle). I think...we will cut...here...and STREEEETCH the skin and muscle down and we staple. You will lose, I think, most of this (indicates old blood-vessel-stopping-scar from previous surgery). We must be sure of healing. I think at least three days, maybe a week in hospital."

To sum up: Cut staple cut staple cut staple...CUT!!! I get it, I get it! Big cut, big scar, big pain, big recovery. BIG! Until the stoma is placed, I may or may not have a brief career as a recovering belly-button model, except that I may or may not leave the hospital with a belly-button.

And PS: I understood the concept of "stretch" without all the extra "E's!!!" That was just arbitrary scariness!


SO...

Insurance:

They say: "Cosmetic." They say: "Medically beneficial, but not medically necessary."

I say: "Cosmetic my..." I say: "Since when are beneficial and necessary exclusive of one another?"

They say: "We're insurance, and we don't have to, so there..."

I [want to] say: "Look at these lovely photos which my plastic surgeon took."

They [would say]: "Ugh. Who should we make the check out to?"


Doctors: They are conferring and coordinating, writing letters to my insurance company, and overall taking a lot of thier own very valuable time to argue my cause, fight my case, march my march!

Remicade: Abhors, obstructs, delays, hinders and just plain out doesn't-believe-in the healing process.

Recovery: Will take up to 6 months, but the doc may consider me "healed" at 3 months if I have been a good girl and none of my flesh has died (!!!). I cannot have the ileostomy placed until I am judged completely healed from The Tuck.

My quest: YOU. I need you. You must be out there somewhere; another person who has faced this particular set of circumstances... C'mon, universe! Help us to meet! I just want to know what it was like for you. Was it worth it? Are there questions I should ask? Pros? Cons? Regrets? I can't believe that I'm the only person who has ever had to have this done, and if you, or someone you know, or even someone you may meet someday has had any experience with one or both of these surgeries, please tell me!

Lastly, let me say that even though I speak lightly and poke fun a little, I am blessed with my very own Medical Dream Team, from start to finish, and I would be lost without them. And that is no STREEEETCH!

Keeping him safe...I thought I was doing it right...

I went to online today, to Sammy's [former, thank god] school's website, and there was a survey there, an apparent attempt to "improve our school."  It got me to thinking that I might FINALLY be able to write about what our school experience was last year; so thank you, Kelloggsville, for that, at least.  Let me tell you, the experience was NOT good.

 

Sammy was in 4th grade, last year, and we entered his new school with high hopes.  As some may realize, he has some challenges:  ADHD, OCD, Tourette's, and anxiety (with some developing paranoia).  In light of these facts, I made an appointment with our new principal before school even started; I wanted her to have plenty of time to become familiar with Sammy's "schtuff," and to have the opportunity to ask questions or contact his doctor or therapist; whatever she felt that she needed to do.  I requested that she read over the records which I provided, and to please share them with his teacher(s) and school counselor.  I stated that we would do whatever was needed to help to facilitate a successful school year for him.  I asked about securing a parapro for him (as requested by his physician)...she said "Oh, we don't do that."  I was a bit taken aback by that curt, quick refusal, but I was assured that Spencer was in good, competent hands; he would be spending his days with a teacher who was "great" with kids who are "quirky."  Um...yeah...not quite.

 

Let me be clear:  This is not about bashing either teachers OR public education;  I am a staunch supporter of both.  I believe that teaching is the highest form of love; it is truly where everything starts.  Where teaching is absent, nothing can grow.  This has been my experience.  I have loved teachers since before forever.

 

I won't get into all of the gory details of Sam's 4th grade year~the meetings, the emails, the tears (mine and Sam's), the heartbreak which I felt and subsequent prayer that I said every day that I had to send him to that place ("Please, Dear God, let them be nice to him.  Please help him to not feel so alone.  Please help him to know that I haven't abandoned him to these people, that I have no choice but to send him there.").  Basically what happened is this:  No one cared.  Not pro-actively.  Not in any way that helped my little boy.  No one did anything to reach out to him, to touch his heart, to HELP HIM SUCCEED.  They saw how heavy he was, and they did nothing to lighten his load.

 

Another point for clarification:  Sam is awesome.  Great.  Terrific.  Funny.  Highly intelligent.  He is also frustrating.  Talkative.  Highly energetic.  Socially unsure with his peers.  He makes errors in judgment because he can't focus long enough to remember this:  "Think first, THEN do."  Sometimes, however, he is just naughty, plain and simple~because he's a kid.  Naughty is what they do, on occasion.  At home, and when we are with him, we acknowledge these facts.  Why?  Because even though he has more acronyms after his name than any kid should, and even though those may be reasons for his behaviors and decisions, they must never be viewed as excuses.  Sammy has to learn the same lessons which other children, of all ages, do.  This means that we can't use them as excuses, either, and by and large, we don't.  We have expectations of and for him, and in general, he is bound by the same rules, discipline, etc..., which were applied to his siblings.  However, the conclusion we have reached is this: 

 

Even though all of the kids have to clean their plates, if one of them needs to use a fork instead of chopsticks to achieve the same results, so be it.

 

I say all of that because I want to be clear about the fact that never, not once, did we ask his school to make exceptions or special rules for him; we just hoped that they could help him to discover different tools.  In fact, I actually said to his principal:  "We don't want different rules, but we need different tools."  Reasonable, right?  I offered to do whatever I could.  I was told "We'll call you if there is something you need to know.  He needs to have the opportunity to figure things out at school, even if that means some bumps along the way.  We are preparing him for 5th grade and for the "real world."  He must learn to be responsible."  All of which is true, and must be acknowledged.  All of which I agreed with (and still do) and all of which I agreed to (and regret).  The words were right, but the methodology...not so much.  I broke my own cardinal rule, and I did not listen to my tummy.  I trusted them when they said that they would help him.  I didn't press it (!) when his teacher told me that I was neither welcome nor needed in his classroom; so, once a week. I just spent a day in the copy room, doing my thing, hoping that just my being there would be good enough.  When the school counselor said that I should try to keep home and school separate, I was willing to try doing that, even though it felt uncomfortable.  And still, my son suffered.  He was bullied, by students and yes~by teachers.  Now, he made plenty of bad choices, and suffered some consequences for his actions, as it should be.  But you see, there was never any commendation...just condemnation.  What little kid can survive, let alone thrive, in an environment where he spends 6 or more hours a day with adults who hate him and never see that he's good?  Does that word~"hate~"seem a little over the top?  A bit harsh?  Let me skip ahead to the last day of school...

 

Imagine this scene:

 

Spencer and I, waiting to say goodbye to all of his friends as they return from a skating party (he did not go skating; he lost the privilege due to unfinished responsibilities at home, I believe).  As we wait, the principal arrives at the school ahead of the others.  She stands within 5 feet of Sam and I; she says nothing to us.  As the children and other staff arrive, no adult (save one, Mr. B, who is fabulous) will acknowledge us standing there.  Can you picture it?  Forget about me...they are IGNORING a 10-year-old!  Sam's teacher and his counselor both walk by, neither woman even attempts a greeting.  Fortunately, Sam does not notice, as several of the other students have (thankfully) stopped to say goodbye.  As we are finally leaving the parking lot, Sam hangs his head out the window, waving and shouting goodbye, like all of the other kids on the bus and in various cars.  He spots his principal, standing there.  Waves like a crazed person.  "Mrs. D...!  Mrs. D...!  Bye!!!  Bye Mrs. D...!" Mrs. D's response?  First, she looks straight at him and says nothing, emotes nothing~not love, not loathing, just...nothing.  She then Turns. Her. Back. On. Him.  This happened.  I saw it.  I wish I could say that I was surprised.  I'm just grateful that, in all of his excitement, Sam did not notice; he would have been crushed.  As for me, this experience has only strengthened my resolve that never again will my son darken the doorstep of Southeast Kelloggsville.  I have been so hurt for him, and so...disappointed by these educators, that I haven't been able to write about it until now.  I still get choked up, and I haven't even written about the worst parts.

 

Cut to the survey that the school asks me to complete.  Gladly, I will answer these questions.  I still hope to speak with the superintendent of the district.  Why?  True, doing so can't undo the hurt that was done to my boy, who was most certainly "left behind."  However, if our bruises can shed a light on what is, in our experience, an inexcusable lack of quality support for special needs children, then sharing this story is the only responsible thing to do.

 

Below is a synopsis of my "survey answers:"

 

"What is absolutely necessary to define a "good" education? 

 

1)  Consistent and meaningful communication between home and school.

2)  A safe, nurturing environment for student, with an emphasis on strong character development and mutual support.

3)  A well-educated, enthusiastic, dedicated staff who are willing to extend equal opportunities to un-equal, differently gifted and highly individual students.

 

The fact is that that there are many demands on teachers today to be everything and more to their students, and this in addition to navigating the very unstable waters of educational politics.  This leaves fine educators with precious little time to actually teach, and leaves education in general with severe~and dangerous~deficits.

 

In my opinion, schools in general and Kelloggsville specifically needs to change two things, and they are co-dependent~not exclusive~of one another.  The district needs to do whatever it takes to get our schools back to K - 5 buildings; grade level schooling is a disaster, and has left many children behind.  Children who relate more easily with those a bit younger or older than themselves are frequently lonely and oftentimes straight up bullied in what I consider to be an administratively-bred nightmare.  But even before the elementary buildings are returned to their previous, somewhat tenuously balanced state, the re-education of our educators must begin.  Children face so many hardships in today's world, and while~yes, it is true~educators must prepare them for the "real world;" the "elementary years" are where, in many cases, we leave the last vestiges of our innocence behind.  In light of those facts, then, I feel that our teachers must be allowed, and TAUGHT, where necessary, to be even MORE compassionate, understanding and kind, even as they establish rules and teach standards of conduct and concepts of respect and accountability.  Children must be taught to "play nice," and to be thoughtful and respectful of others..."real world" lessons that they can not and WILL NOT learn from educators who are, quite frankly too overworked, underpaid, tired and in many cases too disinterested in actually teaching our children because they are so focused on reaching grade level expectations that they have forgotten that they need to reach our children."

Because I said so...that really is the reason.

Because I said so

March 17, 2008

J.Daymon Cole~For my children

 

I am your parent…because I said so

 

I said yes to that responsibility, that joy

I said yes, I do want that girl
And that boy

And so now here you are

So full of light
And I’m here to guide you, and that is my right
Because I said so.

Because I said so

Yes~those words sometimes chafe

But without them, how could I keep you safe?
I know that to you, those words aren’t kind
They seem to do nothing for you, only bind
And I know that right now, you don’t understand
And you feel like I’m always there, holding your hand

And in a way, I am

Because I said so

"Because I said so,"

It turns out, means much more
Than restricting your life or assigning some chore
Because I said so..it’s my job, can’t you see?
It’s the thing that God gave, when he gave you to me

 

Because I said so,

I have watched as you grow
And with every moment, I have had to let go

Because I said so,

I watch as you choose
I must cheer as you win
Console when you lose
I must help you to see that there’s value in both
That both will contribute so much to your growth

Because I said so,

I must hold on, it’s true
But you never notice, when I let go of you
You probably don’t see how it tears at my heart
When I let you go somewhere without me, apart
You probably don’t know, I worry each minute
I can’t wait until I check your bed, and you’re in it!

Because I said so,

I say “No, not today.”
But I also must watch you, as you grow away
I must give you freedoms, before I am ready
I must give you bounds, and that makes my heart heavy
I must know the difference, because you don’t, yet
I must hold firm, I cannot relent

Because I said so,

I must listen to you
I must ask the right questions, I must see them through
I must require accountability,
But acknowledge you’re a child
How best do I teach you...I have such a short while!

All that I want for you is the best

The safest, the utmost, the pinnacle, the crest!
I must remain steady, yet I have to bend
I must be here for you, and I am~without end
Because I said so

Because I said so,

I am grateful for you
For the things that you’ve taught me
The stuff we’ve been through
And the stuff we’ll still go through,
And yes, we’ll survive!
(My parents had ME, and they’re still alive!)

Because I said so,

I will tell you “I love you”
In front of your friends, I will kiss and will hug you
I will fuss and I’ll tease
I’ll correct and appease
And one day, in a mirror, I promise,
You’ll see

Because I said so, that

"Because I said so,"

Is giving, and taking
It’s holding, releasing, healing and breaking
It’s yes, and it’s maybe, and “definitely no!”
Sometimes it’s saying “I tried to tell you so.”
It’s love, understanding, a laugh and a smile
It’s letting you know
You’re worth that extra mile

Because I said so,

It’s my privilege, my assignment
It came to me wrapped up in you:
My consignment.

Because I said so,

You will always be
My treasure, my precious
My child…you see?

Because I said so,

I will watch you with pride
I’ll delight in your changes
I will be by your side
I’ll encourage, I’ll discipline,
I’ll delight as you grow

I will do all of this

But I’ll never let go.

Because I said so.

Sometimes I think that I'm trying "work some magic" with a duct-taped wand...

So Sam and I had to go pick Elijah up from work, and at the top of the 68th Street exit there was a guy with a "Homeless and Hungry" sign. Sam noticed and had a dollar which he wanted to give to the man. I explained that it's better to give food than money, etc, etc, etc... So we decided that after picking Elijah up, we would get the man something and Sam could give him some food. All went according to plan...oh, except for~the guy was GONE. That's when we decided, at 8:30 tonight, to go hunting for a homeless person, armed with good intent, 2 BK Broilers, French fries, a milk, a water, and a banana. We drove in the growing darkness, looking for someone to whom we could give dinner. Did I mention, I have night blindness and wasn't wearing my contacts, and Elijah isn't insured to drive the Vue? Because of my vision, and MDOT, we ended up in the left turn lane at 28th Street and South Division, with nary a homeless person spotted. Our plan had been to look on Division, but we settled on 28th Street and the boys kept looking. NADA. So I thought that maybe if we drove behind Roger's Plaza, we might find someone. Sam's advice when he saw that stretch of pavement? "Don't roll down the windows. I'm serious." And Elijah suggested that we watch for people at bus stops who might appear needy. Sam also felt that anyone walking down the street and carrying a bag would be a likely candidate, but that anyone with a woman would obviously NOT be in need (???). So we drove, for an hour, in a circle. I finally ended up at 36th Street and Division AGAIN, and said, "OK, this is it. Start looking." It was as we approached Brann's, that Elijah and I both spotted him: A thin scruffy man with~yes, that's right~a bag and NO WOMAN. "Hey! Right there! Did you see...?" "Yes! Do you think...?" So we decided to pull into Brann's ahead of where he was walking so that we could further assess the situation. I told Elijah to call it, since I was, by now, unable to see anything at a distance. "There he is!" Elijah cried. "See?" "Yes," Sam and I replied, "Well?" "I don't know," said Elijah. "I can't tell..." The man proceeded to walk RIGHT BY my side of the car, and as he passed my door, and we were trying to decide his housing status or lack there of, and were about to offer him dinner, Elijah wondered aloud, quietly... "What if he's a lunatic?" WHAT IF HE'S A LUNATIC??? Do you see? This is what happens when I try to be a responsible parent and help my children to develop a compassionate sense of caring and social awareness: I drive blindly in a circle for an hour looking for cleverly hidden homeless people to feed, and Poppy and Mom end up eating Burger King at 10:00 pm. The sad thing is, none of what happened tonight is at all, in any way, a surprise to me. We are crazy people. Sigh...

More Mom Math...Trying to figure out my new "place value."

The person who’s most in tune to my every nuance has moved on~married to a wonderful man, establishing her own place in her own world~and I couldn’t be happier for my Darling Girl.  Her new husband is more than I could ever have wished for her, exactly the right match.  I am confident that she will learn to be a wonderful, loving wife to him.  She chose superbly, and I am proud of the woman that she is becoming.  But still, I miss her like I would miss oxygen, if it was taken from me.  We are~she and I~very much the same in so many ways, and…she gets me, like no one else ever has, or probably ever will.  We have a…certain inexplicable balance between us…  That is a great gift to receive, and I miss it’s presence already.  When she left before, I knew that she’d be back, and that makes the missing easier~that ability to think about the return.  But this time…this going is forever.  This going is gone.  Recently, we’ve even joked:  “Fine, but you only have three more weeks to…run to the store with me, help me with laundry, feed the cat…” whatever.  I forgot how quickly time flies, when you least want it to…

So here I am.  All these years of trying to be selfless in the name of mother-love, all this talk of kids first, and what am I doing?  I am sitting here, wishing that it was 9 months ago, when there was no him.  And don’t get me wrong:  I love her him, I do.  He is the best him for her, without a doubt.  But I am thinking of how much I miss her, now that she's gone.  How much I wish that her toothbrush was still there on the side of the sink.  How sad it makes me that I’ve finished the last load of laundry that has her stuff in it.  Realizing how selfish being the focus of her love all of these years has made me.  If I had to give up my little corner of her heart to anyone, I’m grateful and even happy to move aside for the one she’s chosen, truly.  But I admit that I’m a little lost; I loved her first, after all, before anybody else even knew she was there.  And no one will ever love her like I do, no one will ever read her like I can.  I know her heart at a glance…we finish each other’s thoughts, for heaven’s sake!  I knew that she loved him before she even suspected it.  And who is this man, anyway?  Does he think, for even a moment, that he can ever hold her in his heart with the fierceness that I have held her?

I am, as usual, unsure of how to play a lesser~or at least, a vastly different~role in her life…  Our equation has been pretty much the same for, oh, the past 20 years.  There has been her.  And me.  Now, it is him and her, and I am flat-out TERRIFIED of screwing this up, trying to figure out where I add in to the mix, and getting it wrong.  Lord save me from being THAT mother.

As I mull it over, it occurs to me that perhaps part of the problem is that I never, not ever, not even once, had to “let go” of a single blessed thing when I was younger.  No, that business started with~you guessed it~my daughter.  It began the moment that I gave birth.  With her first breath~in the very second that her small, perfect, wriggly little self separated from my body…a lifetime of letting go began.  We followed birth, of course, with a multitude of transitions:  Breast to bottle, parental bed to crib, even mom’s arms to dad’s.  I never worried about those things; it was all a part of it, and besides, at the end of the day, to be honest:  Mom was "The Bomb"~my place was secure~she would always turn to me, and I would always be there, arms open, waiting.  How arrogant I was about holding that sweet spot in her heart for all of those years.  The question I have to ask is:  Have I appreciated enough the privilege of being so loved by her?  Because I’m being moved in the equation, again.  I know that’s how it’s supposed to be, that it’s even a good thing, but I’m having a hard time being exactly happy about it…math, after all, is not my strength, and nobody likes being subtracted.

These are the thoughts I find myself grappling with, and yet…I have seen it in his eyes when he doesn’t know that I’m watching:  This girl~my girl~is his universe, now.  I watched him last week, as he danced with my daughter~his wife~and he held her waist with such gentle strength as he guided her around the dance floor.  I counted the happy tears in his eyes as she walked toward him, her hand on her father’s arm, ready to be given away, to take his name, his life, as her own.  I have listened to him as he’s expressed his delight at the wonder, the chance, of meeting her~of falling in love with someone so extraordinary.  I see the pride in him when he’s with her:  “This woman is mine.  She chose me.  She is standing with me.”  His pride mirrors my own feelings for her:  “That girl was mine.  She always chose me.  She used to stand by me.”  I have thought many times that I can’t fault his taste in women. 

There’s nothing that I have~not one thing~that isn’t that child’s for the asking, and the last thing I would ever want is to have her think that I want anything less than, well…everything, for her; that’s my math.  I was the first one to give this man the green light (and a little talking to about properly valuing my daughter).  I’m also actually excited in some ways:  I think it will be amazing, getting to be wives together.  I am already enthralled, watching her as she navigates this “having a man” thing:  For a relative newbie, she is skilled~patient, unfailingly reasonable and calm, quick to smile.  She’s got this, and as much as I will miss her climbing the stairs to tell me about her day, or to just give me a hug and a kiss, as much as I already have this girl-shaped vacancy in my personal space, it is as it should be.  She is right where we have wanted her to land:  Whole, happy, loved.

And though our relationship is undergoing yet another “definitive adjustment,” perhaps that will make what remains to us even sweeter.  I never dreamed that having a daughter would be like this for me.  I never wanted to be one of those moms who said “My kid is my best friend.”  I always thought that that idea held a certain [potential] danger:  A kid can have a lot of friends; what they need in a mother is…a mother.  Boy, did I underestimate the draw:  My daughter is absolutely one of my best friends, and I am so proud to say that I’m never not her mom when she needs me for that, and she has never had to compromise being my kid in order for our friendship to flourish.

Maybe I’ve been looking at this whole thing the wrong way:  A)  I have a simply fantastic new son to add to my brood.  B)  Yes, I miss her~and him~terribly, but actually, how great is that???  I mean, if our relationship weren’t thriving in the first place, there’d be nothing worth missing, right?  And C)  I’m not the only one who loves “us”~she loves us, too, and neither of us is willing to suffer a loss on that point.  Oh, and he loves “us” as well, so that’s good, right?  That's a LOT of addition.

Sooo, I need to remember that change doesn’t have to equal loss; sometimes it’s actually the dividend of all you’ve been working for, and saving.  And I think that that is the kind of math I can learn to master.