I am an only child. I have more sisters than I can count. One of my sisters saved my life.
What is the definition of family? Is it represented by an image of a tree with branches reaching so far back in time you have to squint to read names? Is it contained in a box of unlabeled black and white pictures under the bed? It ismarked by the passing of a name, regardless of the personality or innate nature of the human possessing it? Can you see it in sisters a year apart who look so alike you wonder if they are twins? What about sisters two-years apart who look so dissimilar there is little chance you would pick them out of a line up?
Where does the family tree take root? Is it defined by who sits around your table at Thanksgiving? Or, could you make some cuts, replacing Great Aunt Ruthie with your best friend from college who sat with you for three days after your first miscarriage?
When does family begin?
I wonder if this is why hospitals make a point to ask, “Are you immediate family?” defined loosely as one generation to the front, to the back and to the side. Would a second cousin gain admittance in an emergency? My best friend wouldn’t.
My definition of family is still evolving, but I think more and more about the common phrase usually uttered with a sarcastic tone and a shoulder shrug, “Well, you can’t pick your family.” No, you can’t, not your immediate family anyway. Parents set the tone for their children’s lives. Siblings represent people we love, regardless of how they see the world or whether we would choose to spend the day with them, mall hopping and laughing over lunch. But what about the others, the people who enter your life and complete a section of the puzzle in an instant? Who do they represent on that embroidered tree?
What if there was a holiday to celebrate all our chosen family? We picked the guest list; our brothers and sisters by choice, our devoted friends for a lifetime, our adopted grandparents who lived next door, our nieces and nephews who feed our paternal yearnings. We picked the meal; a non-traditional banquet, perhaps a representative feast of each person’s favorite dish. And then, we simply enjoyed. Enjoyed our time as a group, enjoyed the lack of pretense and required actions. We embraced being truly grateful for these people in our lives, what they represent, including the fact that they would go to the ends of the earth for us, and us them. Wouldn’t that be a special day? That would be a day truly worth celebrating without need for decorations or flyers from chain stores suggesting the best way to “make the most” of your time together. The true gift is your time together.
After the first year of intense, soul-shattering grieving, I was given this gift, everyday. My sister moved to town two months after Emma’s first birthday. She brought my nieces with her.
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“I heard the new owners of Carpenter’s Emporium are opening a music store,” my mother said in a tone that indicated there was much more to the story.
“Really?” I replied with less interest than a native Chesterite would typically have for such major town transitions.
“And,” she continued, punctuating each word, “I also heard they have twin baby girls.”
Her mouth curved ever so slightly at the light instantly kindled in my eyes. “Maybe you should go introduce yourself.”
Meeting Domenica was like being struck by lightning. The first thing I noticed were her eyes. They seemed to pierce through my grief shield and see to the root of my pain. She held my gaze, even as her hands moved by rote, displacing papers and adhering bar codes to new merchandise. Without hesitation, I placed my tale of woe on the dark wood counter, wearing my sorrow; almost expecting that she would be able to handle it as a tangible item, rearrange its properties and return it to me – a less intimidating, not-as-earth shattering story. Over the course of the next two years she did exactly that.
I never knew someone like Domenica existed. Someone who knew so much about the world. Someone who was so sure of herself that she wasn’t afraid to invite me into her life; to share her children without reservation, without boundaries. She offered them to me in most intimate ways, typically reserved for mothers. I bathed them. I fed them. I rocked them to sleep. I paced with them when they were fussy. I sat in the backseat with pacifiers while they wailed, inconsolable. I kept them overnight, took them to county fairs, and showered them with love. I am a mother. I have a baby girl. They were my healing tools and she allowed it, never once resenting me or my evolving relationships with her daughters. She opened her life to me, sharingall she had in hopes it would fill a fraction of my pain.
It did.
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Gwen Rose didn’t always sleep so soundly. In fact, of the twins, she was the needier baby. She required constant attention when awake and often throughout the night.
This six-month-old innocent gave me so much. She allowed me into her life, into her world without judgment, without pity, without a trace of hesitation. Her eyes were so open, so welcoming smiling up at me from the pale floor. Her arms reached for me.
Track seven of Martha Stewart’s lullaby CD played in the small, muted blue room. Only a sliver of light peeked through the drapes I pulled across the glass door minutes earlier. My niece nestled in my chest. Her small legs wrapped around my waist, her tender arms tucked under my armpits, and her head found its sleepy home squarely on my breaking heart. Track eight played, then nine – her breaths slowed into longer, more relaxed stretches. She began to make her noise, a small contented squeak that passed through her lips and nose only as she was nearing sleep. I swayed rhythmically with the music, holding her as close to my heart as the constraints of two physical bodies allowed. We were one in movement, in breath, within our souls. Our connection was so deep, a base reaction to a shared need. I need you. I never want to let you go. I want to hold you forever.
Gently, yet in one swift movement, I inverted and placed her, stomach down, in the crib, leaving my hand on her back to maintain contact, if only for another minute. One tear fell, then another. She was asleep, the image of innocence and perfection, reflected through rhythmic breathing. Oh Emma, if only I could have felt you breathe.
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Aedan Grace nestled in the crook of my arm, relaxing back into a safe, satisfied position. Calm by nature, she patiently waited while her mother prepared her bedtime bottle. We gazed into each other’s eyes, her small hand playing gently with mine. To be so understood by such a small soul astounded me. Is this what it would have been like? Would I have sat and drank you in forever? She wasn’t Emma, but she fed that part of me in a way that I thought no other baby ever could, ever would.
As I brought the bottle to her lips, she smiled briefly before embracing the nipple. As she began to suck, her body weight increased, reclining even further into the safety of my arms. Her right hand tucked behind my back, occasionally fingering my sweater, sending visceral chills through my body. Slowly, the milk level dropped and her eyelids began to dance, opening and closing as sleep beckoned. I never took my brimming eyes off her, for each time hers appeared, they smiled at me – I love you Aunt Cara. I always will. Most nights, my tears coincided with her slumber.
*
And so, within my hell on earth, I found a piece of light; two pieces, actually. One look at these bright eyed, innocent little bundles and I knew I was home. My heart found a place to live, as a small child clung to each hip. The nights tortured my battered soul, but in the days I found a smile. I tried it on. It didn’t quite fit, but it would. They told me with arms raised just for me, with worn out bodies sleeping peacefully on my chest, with signing hands saying, “more – more – more”. They placed a mark on my heart that lives forever. They planted the seed of healing.
They are family.