Eight years ago today, sharp pains woke me in my hospital bed at 3 AM. The doctor said, “Call your husband and tell him the baby will be born in 30 minutes.” James arrived in 25, just as Ella’s head was starting to poke out.
Ella is now older than I was when my father died, so if I die she will remember me better than I remember him. It’s a morbid thought to have on a day of birth. I wonder if other people who’ve experienced death at such a young age think this way, too.
As a child, I kept expecting more people to die. This is what grown-ups did, right? I wondered—with a regularity that now seems neurotic—who would take care of my brother, sister, and me once my mother was gone.
Ella will never meet my father, who shared my red hair, liberal leanings, and rebel spirit. He will never take her hunting in the woods of Northern Michigan, never teach her how to weld or navigate by the stars. He never did these things for me, either, but I like to imagine he would have. I can imagine whatever I want.
My father favored tomboys, and Ella is a girly-girl, but he would have loved her, anyway. He would have taught her to make white bean soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, the way he taught me. He would have taken her into the forest, expecting her to keep up with his pace, four steps for every one of his. It makes me tired just remembering.
He would have inspected her room for cleanliness, with a military exactness. He would have made her eat everything on her plate. He would have tolerated no crying, ever (“You want me to give you something to cry about?”), but especially not on a joyous occasion like Ella’s eighth birthday.
This is beautiful. Lovely memories meshed with the “what ifs” that life is made of.
Thanks, Heidi. That’s very sweet.
This is so beautiful, Sharon! Happy was the day when our sweet Ella arrived!!
Thanks, that means a lot to me.
My mother died when I was four. (actually a month shy of four) When my daughter was that age, just like you did. I have always since loss and death as realities waiting around the corner. I thought of her as me- and was thrilled that she would have a mother longer than i had. My mother died at age 28. When I turned 28, I also lived through my mother’s death, worried I’d have the same fate-or not, and get to live longer. In two years my daughter, who was named Zoe after my mother, will be 28. Several years ago she changed her name to Zoya, and took a picture of herself standing under my mother’s portrait. I think the fear of “what if I have the same fate?” and the lure of connection are still playing a huge role in both our lives all these years later.