Knock downs. Pic Credit: Duncan Wells
I was 30, six months pregnant with my firstborn, and we decided to move back to the area where I was raised so our kids could grow up around family. It was chaotic. We found a beautiful piece of property, had house plans developed with all the perfect finishes we could want, and put a deposit on a piece of land. All the dreams were coming together. I could picture my son playing in the backyard. Would we put a pool in? I knew the school he would go to. The neighborhood, while still completely under development, would be perfect for bike riding and trick-or-treating. I remember thinking, “This is perfect, this life we are building.” I found my partner, had a baby on the way, and the perfect house.
Then a squall came out of nowhere. We had gone out for the day and picked out my son’s crib. We also walked around the store with a handheld scanner and picked out everything we thought we needed (and mostly didn’t need) for my shower registry: burp cloths, bottle washers, cute onesies. Let’s be honest and say that half the stuff put out for new parents is not needed. A dishcloth, probably the beautiful one we picked out for our bridal registry that has long been marked with spaghetti sauce stains and is threadbare from many washes, became our burp cloth because you grab what is closest. Many times my bare shoulder was the recipient of an unexpected wet burp.
What I am trying to say is the picture we develop of what is ideal is painted by another brush, and for me, the artist dealt in abstracts. Back to that day: we had just finished our wish list, excited that we had tangible items that made this chapter in our lives a reality. House plans done. Baby items bought. Name picked out. Then we got the call from my brother. “I’m coming to get you. We have to go to the hospital.”
I lost my father that night, and in some respect, some of my mother—or at least the mother I had grown up with. I lost a piece of myself; my foundation was cracked. I was no longer just their child; I was a caregiver with the task of ushering my mother through her grief as I struggled with my own. I am not saying that this was a hardship. We are family and that’s what we do, but it was disconcerting to have roles shift. Let me say, though, my mother was a strong woman; it’s just that she had been with the love of her life since she was sixteen years old.
Several years later, it was my turn to usher my mom home. Cancer. It was long and painful, but one I was honored to walk alongside her and hold her hand as she took her last breath. I was able to hold both their hands as they left this world, just as they held me when I took my first. There is probably a sense of poetry in that—circle of life and all that. One day I might appreciate it, but not today, as I am coming close to the age my father was when he passed. I think about if I were called away tomorrow, everything I would miss: the heartbreaks I could not help mend, the great loves my kids have not met, the grandchildren I would never hold in my arms and help usher into adulthood.
This feeling came to me in full force when I was struck with my own illness. But just as with a knockdown, I had to right my ship and keep looking at the horizon and all the next ports of call I will be discovering. They gave me my chart. Now it’s up to me to navigate it.
Want to know how I was Knockdown? Watch my interview with Dalila Ramos.
