One Last Chance

This is a story that I came across in the New York Times. It touched me very deeply, for many reasons. I just thought that I would share. So break out the tissues:

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One morning not long ago, as I was dropping off my son at preschool, his teacher beckoned me over for a private chat. A flutter passed through me. What had happened? Had Judah been over-tickling other children again? Throwing graham crackers?

Turning to me with a sober cast, John laid it out: “Our classroom fish died yesterday. I don’t think it’s a good idea to ignore it, so I plan to bring it up in our class meeting today. I thought you, of all people, should know.”

His concern wasn’t Swimmy, wonderful as he was. John knew death was a tender topic for Judah. A year earlier, Judah’s father had gone to the doctor for what he thought was sciatica but turned out to be cancer that had metastasized to his bones. He was 51 at the time; Judah was 2.

But that’s only part of the story. Until the time of the diagnosis, Judah and his father hadn’t seen much of each other. Sometime between Judah’s conception and delivery, his father decided that he couldn’t be married anymore, not to me, he said, and probably not to anyone.

In Texas, where we were living, it turned out to be illegal to divorce your wife while she was pregnant. So although he filed for divorce during my seventh month, we were still legally married on the day Judah was born, which also happened to be the day before our 10th wedding anniversary.

He was there for the birth and dropped in on us for visits, but a few months later I moved back to New York City, where my family lived. I felt like someone who had survived a tornado: miraculously, I was able to leave the destruction behind me. Judah, knowing nothing of his chaotic origins, was a sweet and placid baby. I loved wheeling him up and down the streets where I’d grown up.

Two years later, Judah’s father remained in Texas and I was still in New York. After finding out about the cancer, though, he called me. I hadn’t heard his voice in a while, and it sounded strained. I expressed sympathy about his illness, but that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. “You are totally within your rights to say no, but I hope you’ll at least listen to me. I had always planned to have a relationship with Judah when he was a little older, but now I don’t know if that can happen. I want to start seeing him more, as much as I can, right away. I don’t have money for New York hotels, so I’d like to stay with you or your mother when I’m in town. During chemo I might not be able to travel, but I’d like to talk to Judah on the phone every night. And maybe have you bring him to visit me.”

In some ways, this was what I’d longed to hear since Judah’s birth. Though I knew we would never be a family, I still hoped that eventually Judah would have a relationship with his dad. And it wasn’t just for Judah. I had never anticipated single motherhood and longed to share the travails of preschool and potty training with my son’s father. Maybe now Judah and his father could have a relationship and I could have a partner in parenthood. And if his treatment was successful, father and son could have a future together. Whereas if I said no, the door might close for good.

That was my first thought. I also had to consider that the worst might come to pass, in which case I would have exposed Judah to significant and avoidable pain. Right now, he didn’t know his father; any loss would be abstract rather than personal. But what if he came to love his father, only to lose him? This had the makings of either a miracle or a tragedy; it was hard to predict which.

I queried friends, relations, professionals: What would you do? The responses were mixed. A friend said, “How could you let him back after what he did? He doesn’t deserve to know his son.” My mother said, “How can you refuse what might turn out to be a last wish?” And my therapist just said, “You’ll know the right thing to do.”

I found myself thinking about what I would say to an older Judah, long after his father had died. That Judah would have a lot of questions about a man and a relationship he couldn’t fully remember. If the day came, I knew I would want to have stories to tell of the two of them and pictures to show. I suspected that the grown-up Judah, if given the choice, would want to have known all he could of his father.

Deep down, I also wanted to give Judah’s father, who was for many years my loving and beloved husband, the consolation he now needed. I shelved my indignation about the way he had opted out of Judah’s life. Though he had left me in the lurch when I was at my most vulnerable, even then I had felt more pity than anger. He walked away empty-handed, while I had Judah.

I said yes. And so their meetings began.

He would fly east and stay with my mother for three or four days. The chemotherapy was immunosuppressive, so he and Judah mostly stayed in the apartment, doing 2-year-old stuff: singing, snacking, tickling. Two sandy-haired, stocky, brown-eyed guys, rolling around on the floor.

He called me from the airport after the first visit and said: “He is the most incredible child that has ever lived. Do you realize that?” I said I did. I hung up feeling as if I’d been handed a gift. For the first time I felt he was speaking to me unequivocally as Judah’s father and that we were joined in our love of our amazing son.

Initially Judah wasn’t sure who this guy was. He started out calling him by his first name, but upon request he willingly made the switch to “Daddy.” Eventually he took delight in the word and would spring to the phone, yelling “Hi, Daddy!” into the receiver.

Over the next few months, we watched as “Daddy” lost his hair and grew weaker. He was taking large doses of morphine but still frequently winced in pain. Judah was solicitous, managing to curb the bouncier expressions of his personality when around his father. Once I heard him ask, “Daddy, are you sick?” and heard the reply, “I’m fine. And I’m going to get better.” I squirmed. I knew it was what he needed to say, but I wasn’t sure it was what Judah needed to hear.

Ten months after the diagnosis, the hospital called, telling me that it didn’t look good. I sat down with Judah. “Sweetheart, Daddy’s very sick and I’m afraid he might die.” Distress filled his eyes. “I don’t want Daddy to die. I want to see him.” “I don’t want him to die, either. I’m going to go to the hospital now and I’ll tell him what you said.”

He was in a coma when I arrived, but I held his hand and did tell him what Judah had said. I sat there and talked to him as Judah’s fellow parent, about plans for our son’s future, though I knew he probably couldn’t hear me and certainly couldn’t answer.

He died two days later. Judah was angry and sad at the news, but mostly uncomprehending. He kept asking when Daddy would stop dying and come back to us. And it was my miserable task to tell him “never” and witness his disappointment. I felt as if his grief was my fault. And in a way it was. I had opened the door.

Now 3, Judah still doesn’t believe in forever and keeps trying to find a work-around for death. “Maybe Daddy is at that hotel where I saw him once? Maybe he’s in California?” He’s frustrated that he can’t see his father, though one night when he was lying in bed I told him he could talk to him whenever he likes. He was quiet for a moment and then called upward, “Daddy, how are you? Is it dark where you are?”

Judah’s memories of his father may fade, but for now he enjoys them. Every time he passes a McDonald’s he says, “I went there with my daddy, right?” Or when he plays with a favorite toy: “My daddy gave that to me, right?” He has his paternal memories to cherish and I have my co-parental ones. Neither of us would have wanted to forgo them.

When Judah isn’t trying to knock down the daddy problem, he often talks philosophy. He says casually to a friend of my mother’s, “You know, we’re all going to die.” He wants to know the feasibility of the two of us dying together. “I’m going to come see you when I die,” he tells me. A budding scientist, he asks about what people’s faces look like when they die and where they go. I say I don’t really know.

I assure him that he and I won’t die for a very long time. Once, he heard me on the phone to a girlfriend exclaiming, “I could have died then and there!” and he went white. “Mommy, don’t say that,” he shrieked. “Don’t say that!”


I wondered how Judah would react when he heard about Swimmy’s death and asked John to let me know. A few hours later he reported that when he told the children what had happened, one volunteered that her grandmother had died. Another said he had a fish that died, a very old fish. The class agreed that Swimmy had been an old fish, too. And Judah said, “My daddy died.”

Later, another child approached Judah and asked in a worried voice, “Your daddy died?” Judah nodded. “Does that mean he’s not coming back?” Judah put his hand on the other child’s shoulder. “Yes, but it’s O.K.,” he said. “I’m alive. You’re alive. Want to play?”

Truth

Looking straight into sad eyes
I catch a glimpse of the inner being.
Gentle and compassionate, yes,
but also obdurate, disillusioned; a hardened sinner.
Desperate details of characterization,
ones I wish I had never seen, or that did not exist.
When did they appear?

The one I once knew would never hurt another,
especially a lover.
The moral fiber, once a parody of popular choices,
is now broken and torn.
The shy, good-humored, often clumsy heart
is now careless and profane; adulterated.
How can someone chance so much?
What is there for this broken heart to give now?

With pure and unconditional love no longer a truthful option,
how can it be shown that this heart does indeed care?
Can it ever be forgiven?

Apologies bare little in regards to pain.
A portrait of incongruity; good and bad,
right and wrong, love and selfishness.

I want only for a change of character.
I do not want to open my eyes
and see the same face anymore.

And where is this blemished soul but always
standing in front of me?
For a mirror can sometimes offer far too much
truth.

Holding you, touching you.
Feeling you, stealing you.

Wanting you, wishing you.
Knowing you, showing you.

Hugging you, kissing you
here I am missing you.

Walk Away

Lost sometimes, looking for a hand to hold.
Scared sometimes in this world that's dark and cold.
Missing her is all that I feel
because loving her was all that was real.

A simple choice, a life gone astray.
How could I let her just walk away?
My heart is still hers, even if she wont take it.
My heart is still hers, she can take it and break it.

I lost my love, my only one
and the things I did can't be undone.
Just one more chance is all I need
to show her what she means to me.

But I didn't know what to do or say
so instead I let her just walk away.

I know, I know, I know- T&S

Back from the last place that I wanted to fake you.
Laugh with me, shout, scream.
Now tell me you're staying.
I know, I know, I know,
you're still my love.
The same as I love you,
you'll always love me too.
This love isn't good unless it's me and you.

Box after box and you're still by my side.
The weather is changing and breaking my stride.
I know, I know, I know,
it's just this day.
House after house
just like car after car,
you see club after club and it all seems so far.

I know, I know, I know.
What else are we here for?
The same as I love you, you'll always love me too.
This love isn't good unless it's me and you.

Stick your hands inside of my pockets.
Keep them warm while I'm still here.
Tell them this love hasn't changed me,
hasn't changed me at all.

Last night I was writing about you.
I know my screaming and shouting won't keep you.
I know, I know, I know, you're still my love.


I know, I know, I know.
Be still my love.
The same as I love you, you'll always love me too
This love isn't good unless it's me and you.

Stick your hands inside of my pockets.
Keep them warm while I'm still here.
Tell them this love hasn't changed me,
hasn't changed me at all.
Stick your heart inside of my chest,
keep it warm here while we rest.
Tell them this love hasn't changed me,
hasn't changed me at all.
The same as I love you, I'll always love you.
This love isn't good unless it's me and you.

Transcending Duality

The sun is shining bright,
It knows no day or night,
Earth rises to a new born day,
With fleeting illusions to display.

Turmoil between day and night,
Displayed in black and white,
Rising from a world of duality,
Transcending to a timeless Reality.

Bitter sweet altercations in time,
Are transcended by my thoughts in rhyme,
With fate love lost and tender,
I come with complete surrender.

George Rapanos
July 2004

Love For A Child

"It's time to go home and go to bed, buddy."
"Ashley, stay Mommy's house."
"Yes, baby, we're going to Mommy's house."
"No Ashley. Stay Mommy's house. I love you."
He kissed me.
I cried.
"Ashley sad?"
"No, sweetheart. I love you."
He rests his head on my shoulder and wraps his arms around my neck.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you soon, Wes. I love you so much. Good night."
"I love you so much."

Hope for the Flowers

I read a book today that I absolutely fell in love with. Now, while I wont say that it changed my life in the 20 minutes that I took to read it, I would say that it touched me in a way that something so simple rarely touches.
"Hope for the Flowers" is undoubtedly a childrens story, but it carries with it a definite appeal to the older generation as well. The characters in the story (although they are simply caterpillars) are symbolic of many aspects of human existence. They represent everyday trials we must go through while portraying critical values such as the virtue of patience, the need to sacrifice, the importance of making decisions, the value of making mistakes, and the never ending power of love.
It made me smile and it made me cry. It was creatively illustrated and craftily written. Most of all, it made me think. It spoke to my heart. Read it if you are ever privileged enough to get the opportunity.

There is a butterfly and a better person in each one of us. You be my Stripe, and I'll be your Yellow. Always and forever.

And in pain he continued down searching for those eyes which would let him whisper, "I saw a butterfly- there can be more to life."

Everybody's Free (To Wear Suncreen)- Baz Luhrmann

Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’99,
Wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now:

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You’re not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing everyday that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body, use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40, it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen…

Song for Someone

And if we're all for someone,
and if we're born for someone,
when will she come, that someone,
and put things back in their place?

Coming back to see you, girl.
You know there's nothing surer in this world.
Remember all the maddened seasons
back when we weren't old enough to wait our turn.
And I hope we're gonna be the very same.
And I hope we can survive this wave again.

Falling Slowly- Glen Hansard

I don't know you
but I want you
all the more for that.
Words fall through me
and always fool me
and I can't react.
And games that never amount
to more than they're meant
will play themselves out.

Take this sinking boat and point it home,
we've still got time.
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice,
you'll make it now.

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
and I can't go back.
Moods that take me and erase me
and I'm painted black.
You have suffered enough
at war with yourself,
it's time that you won.

Take this sinking boat and point it home,
we've still got time.
Raise your hopeful voice, you had a choice,
you've made it now.
Falling slowly,
sing your melody,
I'll sing along.