One evening in September, only weeks after my last surgery, I heard raised voices upstairs, near the boys’ bedrooms. My husband’s and my stepson’s.
“You need to figure this out, Ryan.” Troy’s voice carried the exasperation of a father who’d had this same conversation one too many times.
“I’m eighteen years old and it’s my life. Stop controlling me and let me live it!” Ryan’s voice carried the arrogance of a child who doesn’t see his own foolishness and cares little how it impacts others.
“I’m not trying to control you, Ryan. I’m trying to coach you.” I could hear the pleading, his desperation to save his son. There’s nothing more painful than to feel your child slipping through your fingers.
“You’re always telling me what to do. But I’m not you! I don’t believe the same things you believe.” His anger escalated, his words piercing.
They found their mark. “And how’s that working for you? You dropped out of college. You have no money, no plan, no motivation. How long do you think that’s going to last?”
Over the next several minutes, barbs flew with deep emotion. I understood our son’s desire for independence, remembered feeling the same at eighteen myself. But I also understood my husband’s pain, his heart to make one last effort to rescue our child from a danger he couldn’t see. In the middle of the volley, something clicked, for both my husband upstairs and me downstairs. Praying, we came to the same conclusion: we needed to let our son go.
“Ryan, I love you.” Troy’s voice softened, carrying a seriousness that warned me of what was to come. “Michele and I both love you, more than you know.” He paused, probably steeling himself for the hardest words he’d ever have to say.
“Here’s the deal. You can’t keep living here if you’re going to continue making the same choices. You’re right. It’s your life, and you get to choose. But . . .”
I knew what was coming, felt the sting of what it would cost us all.
“But this is my house. And if you choose to make choices that we don’t agree with, I can’t allow you to live here anymore.”
We’d talked about this for weeks. Scratch that, months. We knew the stakes, felt tremendous pressure to do the right thing, whatever that was. For a time we thought if we could keep him close, under our roof and eating at our table, we could keep him safe, coach him through this rough patch. But the longer we hung on, the worse it became. Now, with the tension maxed in an upstairs bedroom, we knew the truth: to save the relationship, we had to release it.
Troy continued, said what had to be said even as it broke his heart.
“I have a responsibility to lead this family. And if you won’t allow me to help you find a better path, then you need to leave. It’s not what we want, but it’s your choice.”
The next day, our eighteen-year-old son moved out. Choosing a life of pleasure over the parents who loved him.
Weeks later, Troy and I attended the funeral of a nineteen-year-old boy, one of Ryan’s friends. We were told alcohol played a role, which wasn’t uncommon or surprising with their particular group of friends. But this time the drinking led to a drowning. A split-second decision that ended a life.
It was Troy who delivered the news to Ryan, late on a Friday night, over the phone. I wondered how he would find gentle enough words to tell our son. Death news isn’t gentle, no matter how it’s delivered. It rips and shreds and changes a life’s fabric forever.
We sat in the church, halfway to the back. Two microphones stood like pillars in the front of the auditorium, and friends filed by to share funny stories and fearless adventures. They also talked about the unfairness of death and wept with confusion over the unanswered whys.
It didn’t have to be this way!
I wanted to scream those words from my chair, rush to the front to grab Ryan by the shoulders and shake him until he came to his senses. Parents shouldn’t have to bury a son. It was an accident. A horrific, terrible, but avoidable accident. I grieved for his mother, felt a physical ache in my chest. As a video displayed pictures of a boy, birth to death, I watched my son and his friends, hoping for some sign of conviction or impact. Instead, I saw only invincible teenagers raging at the unfairness of God but unable to grasp their own culpability.
Then a single thought chilled me: It could be my child in that casket. God forbid, might still be.
For almost half my life, I’d been a mother on a mission: to love my boys and keep them safe.
Look both ways before crossing!
Don’t talk to strangers!
Brush your teeth. And don’t forget to eat your vegetables!
It wasn’t easy teaching these lessons, repeating countless warnings and cautions and keeping them safe from harm. But sitting in the back of a church filled with mourners, I realized that had been the easier part of motherhood. When the greatest dangers included cavities and busy streets, and all a mama needed to do to preserve life was to hold a hand.
The harder part, the part I didn’t anticipate when I carried the infant seat out of the maternity ward, is the letting go. When the hands-on season of parenting comes to an end and the out-of-arm’s-reach parenting begins. Then, when boys become men and girls become women, parents release their children to write their own stories. And with that, the freedom to experience and endure the outcomes.
It feels like a ripping, this letting go. I liked mothering better when I could manage all the details. Now, with Ryan no longer living in our home, I was forced to watch the movie of my boy’s life play out without any means to secure a happy conclusion. Limbo. Horrific, gut-wrenching limbo.
For me, this kind of love required more strength, grace, and forgiveness than I thought I had the capacity to give. Quite honestly, it was one of the hardest things I’d had to do. Like a wounded woman at risk of bleeding out, I wanted to wrap a tourniquet tight and cut off the flow. To shut down, bandage my heart, and protect myself from any further losses. Loving a child who fought against that love hurt too much. And I didn’t want to hurt anymore.
When the funeral ended, I found my son in a circle of red-eyed friends. I knew he wanted his friends this day, and I felt far too tentative to arm-wrestle my way into his grief. Instead, I touched him on the shoulder, said his name, and wrapped my arms around my boy.
“I love you. I’m so sorry.”
The tension remained high for months following. We continued to communicate, scheduled lunch dates, and shared text messages. But we knew the gap in values remained. No amount of cajoling or convincing changed his mind. Our frustration and helplessness to resolve it exhausted us.
Then, slowly, a stronger, more powerful emotion began to ease the sting of discord.
Love. Unyielding and authentic love.
Not a love based on performance or position, but the kind of love that embraces each other — in-progress child and fallible parent — for who they are today, not who they may or may not become tomorrow.
This is the true test of parenting, when you find your child in a mess of their making and you have to decide whether you’ll guard your heart and keep him at arm’s length, or love him in the middle of it. Not agree with him, condone his behavior, or rescue him. Maybe not even like him. But there is strength in the person who digs deep to both disagree and love with equal passion. To make convictions known, maybe even say goodbye. But who, at the end of all the tough decisions, has the guts to say, “I love you. And that won’t ever change.”
This is love in the Land of Limbo. It dives into the mess, no forks or spoons or napkins. It reaches through the wilderness and finds a way to be a family anyway.
A short time later, a tragedy hit our city unexpectedly. A shooting, children and adults alike the unsuspecting victims. I saw it on the news and immediately took account of those I cared about most. My husband sat at the kitchen table. Tyler and Jacob watched television and played video games in bedrooms.
One son wasn’t so easily accounted for. Ryan no longer lived a bedroom away, within arm�
��s reach. I couldn’t grab his hand or look in his eyes, see him breathing and know he was okay. Feeling that familiar mama-worry, I grabbed my phone and shot him a quick text, hoping he’d answer.
Thinking about you. Want to know if you’re okay.
There was more I wanted to — needed to — say. I sent one more message.
I just want you to know that I’m so thankful I got to be your second mom. I love you and am so proud of you.
Hard words to say, considering all the grief and struggle and worry of the months and years before. To say them meant to open myself back up, to risk and love even when I knew it might not be returned. And yet I knew them to be true, even if I didn’t have all the answers.
He wrote back, a short time later, with words equally as costly. And equally as true.
I love you too. And thank you for being there.
CHAPTER 15
La Vita è Bella
The real enemies of our life are the “oughts” and the “ifs.” They pull us backward into the unalterable past and forward into the unpredictable future. Real life is in the here and now.
— HENRI NOUWEN, Here and Now
SHE STOOD A FEW FEET FROM THE HOSPITAL ELEVATOR.
Older than me, maybe late fifties or early sixties, dressed in black slacks, a chic royal blue blouse, and a jewel-toned silk scarf wrapped neatly around her head. I guessed her hair to be silver but didn’t see any strands peeking out from beneath the scarf.
Classy, I thought. The epitome of grace, from her choice of fashion to the way she stood, regal, and waited for the elevator doors to open.
It was early November and the day of my semimonthly postcancer checkup. I heard the ding of the elevator’s arrival and climbed inside, along with several others. A stranger stood next to the button panel, finger prepped to push.
“Where’s everyone headed?” he asked, waiting.
“Six, please,” I answered. The Head and Neck Surgery floor. My home for the twelve months before. A few others called out destinations, including one woman hidden behind all the others in the far corner.
“Twelve,” she whispered. I could barely make out her voice, even though she stood only a foot or two away.
The scarf-clad woman smiled in understanding. “I’m headed there too. No one wants to go to the twelfth floor.” She chuckled as if sharing some kind of private joke. “But they tell me today might be my last day!” She beamed with her good news.
One or two others laughed along with her, although I doubt they knew why. I certainly didn’t. I glanced at the panel holding the key to every floor, hoping to get a clue.
Oncology. The word leapt off the panel next to the number twelve.
I now understood the reason for the woman’s soft, pensive voice. The explanation for the other woman’s scarf. And the reason she celebrated the prospect of her last visit.
I’d never been to the twelfth floor. One year ago, it had been a strong possibility. As I felt the elevator lift and take us to our different destinations, I was keenly aware of how my story could’ve turned out differently. By some miracle, I’d been given a best-case scenario. As much as I didn’t want another doctor’s appointment, I wasn’t going to the twelfth floor. Thank God, not the twelfth floor. Too much fear and grief lived there, I knew.
And yet the woman with the scarf didn’t stop smiling. In an elevator filled with patients, she exuded the most joy. This both impressed me and convicted me.
A few minutes later, I sat in the now familiar patients’ room on the sixth floor. I’d lost track of how many times I’d sat in the same room, on the same examining table. It’d been a little more than eight weeks since my last surgery. I’d recovered, for the most part. The pain lingered, always it lingered, but the cyst hadn’t come back yet. Still, Dr. Forrester expected to see me every two months. Especially considering all my complications.
I knew what would happen. She’d evaluate every inch of my mouth and tongue, and palpate all the lymph nodes in my face and neck. She’d done the same countless times before, and I was used to the routine. But this appointment carried more weight than all the others.
A lot of life hinged here. It’d been one year. One year since the phone call and diagnosis rocked my world. Those who have endured a cancer diagnosis know dates function like mile markers in a race. Each one significant, and each one a step closer to the finish. In many ways, it gets harder as you go.
In the span of one year, I’d had three biopsies, several surgeries, and dozens of doctor’s appointments. Not to mention the chronic pain. I was over it. I wanted the drama to stop.
But in addition to my own life, the lives of three little children also hinged on this appointment. They’d stayed with us several times over the prior two months, slowly becoming a part of our family. At the time, they remained with a relative, going to school while I healed. But Troy and I had already decided: if Dr. Forrester delivered a “cancer free” pronouncement, the littles were coming home. For good.
In all, the appointment took no more than fifteen minutes. Dr. Forrester poked and prodded, pinched and palpated. Then, removing her headlamp, she settled into her swivel chair.
“You look great.” She smiled, knowing the relief I’d feel with those three words. “All’s clear. I’ll see you in three months. Sound good?”
Cancer free, baby! I had my life back.
If I’d had a bottle of champagne, I would’ve uncorked it. Instead, Troy and I spent the drive home discussing our plans to add three children to our family.
We needed to call relatives, rearrange our schedules. Pick up more plastic plates and cups. Buy hairbrushes, barrettes, and extra towels. Troy had spent much of the fall finishing the basement, creating one more bedroom. He was nearly done. Then we’d need to find more beds, twin sheet sets, and pillows and rearrange the furniture. Our family was about to expand, and we had some serious work to do.
Thankfully, we had time to tackle it. It was the beginning of November, and the littles were in the middle of a school year. Only preschool and kindergarten, but we didn’t want to disrupt their routine more than necessary. They’d already had enough of that. After talking with their caregiver and working out the details, we wrote the last day of the school semester on the calendar. The countdown had begun.
Aside from all the shopping and rearranging, a big part of our preparation involved getting our marriage ready for another round of parenting. In the spring, we’d celebrated our tenth anniversary. Sort of. Cancer, rude character that it is, stole the show. We didn’t get to celebrate as planned.
Years before, we’d dreamed of an epic trip to celebrate our ten-year anniversary: a trip to Italy. We saved for it well ahead of time, fifty dollars here, one hundred there. I took on extra writing projects and speaking engagements just to fill the Italy fund. It’d been our dangling carrot, the additional motivation to hang on to each other and keep moving forward. Surviving a remarriage and blended family for a decade deserved an award.
But then cancer showed up, curse it. And three children needing a home, bless them. And our Italy tickets for two had to be postponed indefinitely.
Until November, when the doctor said “cancer free.” And we realized we had a window of exactly four weeks before life changed.
It’s now or never, I remember thinking.
Cancer taught us this, that waiting for later can be a pricey gamble. The unexpected happens, contrary to our best laid plans, and later may never come. But today we had life, each other, and a marriage worth fighting for. Three littles needed a home and a family, including two parents more in love than they were on the day of their wedding.
That’s why on November 11, Troy and I boarded a United Airlines airplane with hearts full of hope and stupid silly grins.
A middle-of-the-marriage honeymoon. Cancer free, crazy in love, and Italy bound.
I didn’t expect the emotion.
Thrill and exhilaration, yes. Tears, no.
We’d arrived in Rome little more th
an an hour before. After dropping our bags, we left our hotel room to explore the sights and sounds of the ancient city.
Rome! We’re in Rome!
Within a short walk, we crossed over from storefronts with modern fashion displays to stone walkways lined with aged crumbling walls. My fingers brushed centuries-old stones as we walked down the streets of ancient Rome. The sun had set a half hour before, allowing stars older than the stones to illuminate the streets.
Cars honked and jockeyed for position on the crowded streets. Traffic lights glittered red and green. Policemen whistled and directed pedestrians and traffic. But the contemporary sights and sounds hardly registered. I’d traveled back in time.
Whether it was the darkness, the Rome-ness, or simply my awe at the wealth of history within arm’s reach, I couldn’t speak. Emotion welled up from a deep and sacred space as my fingers touched the stones that had survived to tell their stories. The lump in my throat surprised me, but perhaps it shouldn’t have.
This was my history. Maybe not directly, like the passing of bloodlines and brown eyes. But in a way that felt far more significant.
A piece of my faith had its roots here. And for as long as I could remember, faith had been my anchor. I loved history, biblical history in particular. To me, the Bible’s characters — Moses, Paul, and so many others — weren’t fictional characters spun of a writer’s imagination. They were real, flesh-and-blood people who married, birthed children, celebrated holidays, and worked honest jobs. From the moment I learned to read, I studied their stories, pictured their faces, and imagined their emotions. Now, years later, they felt as much a part of my family as my own aunts, uncles, and grandparents. In many ways, more so.
I looked at the stones under my feet, reached my hand to feel the cold, smooth surface of another bit of a wall. I could feel the nearness of others, their breaths on my neck. Paul had been here. Early Jesus-followers had thrived and suffered here. They lived and died with the hope of eternity on their lips.
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