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Shayne can talk again.  Kind of.  He looks like he has been in a war.  His wrists are bruised and scraped from the restraints.  He has a giant yellowing bruise on his arm from the Haldol shots–he was given more than one–and his eyes are haunted.  Plus he’s lost weight again.  He was already whip thin.   I don’t think he remembers the dirty, dangerous conditions I found him.  I had him moved with one phone call to the patient advocate.  No one really even argued with me.  They knew.  He was moved to a ward that was clean and had privacy and snacks and things for patients to do.  The nursing staff is attentive and busy and makes sure everyone is comfortable and cared for.  It doesn’t fix that other place.  In some part of my brain, I care about this, but really I only have energy to spend on my son.

When Shayne first got sick, I thought that if he had the right medicine, he’d be okay.  I didn’t really understand what was so hard about keeping to a schedule and taking a drug in the morning or at night.  It was completely frustrating for me to always have to monitor the pills and still find the pills on the couch, or in the laundry, or stuffed in a glove.  After I was finished with radiation, my doctor wanted me to take a drug that helps to prevent cancer from coming back.  I didn’t want to take the drug because it gave me mood swings.  I work with kids; mood swings and glitter, can you imagine?  But it was my choice–take the drug and lower my chance of cancer reoccurrence, or live with the risk.  It made me understand Shayne’s perspective a little better.  Sometimes I think, what if we move to San Luis, or anyplace in the middle of nowhere, Shayne could just walk around with the cows all day and just let the voices go.  It would be dangerous for him.  He would be afraid the government was watching him: the soul snatchers would still be after his soul; he’d probably think the cows were really velociraptors.  The advantage would be no one would stare at him, or pity him.  Because the thing is, he can’t help it.  His brain doesn’t know how to turn off.  It’s firing stimulants at him all the time.  The medicine dulls the voices to a whisper, but doesn’t completely extinguish them.  If he misses a dose or doesn’t take it on time, the voices gallop around his brain.

Things went really bad, really fast this time.  It seemed like he was doing great one minute, then the next he was strapped to a gurney.  Now he is committed to a hospital far away without any real idea of when or if he will be okay again.  He might be able to take his medicine in an injection, once a month.  He said he is afraid to have a month worth of drugs put into his body.  I understand that, but I don’t want to ever see him wrestled to the ground by strangers again.  I don’t want to be afraid that he is going to run into traffic, or get out of the car on the highway, or disappear and be found dead or in jail.  Because this is where we are.

Dad was a soldier a quarter of his life.  He didn’t talk about his experiences in Korea or Vietnam much, or at all, but he flew a flag and replaced it every Independence Day.  Mom wasn’t born in the country, but I heard her say a million times that “America is the best country in the world.”  There was always  a celebration on the 4th of July at their house–tons of food, and family and friends and neighbors.  I woke up today, not really sure I could face another day of missing them like I have been.  So I went on a bike ride.  It was hot as hell and the hills seemed higher than usual.  At one point, I actually stopped and lay down on the side of the road because I felt dizzy and like I was going to pass out.  I was irritated that I still am not as strong as I think I should be.  I made myself get back on my bike and get to the top of the hill, even though if someone would have offered me a ride, I would have taken it.  It’s not just my physical strength that’s zapped, it’s my emotional strength too.  I don’t know how to build it back up. 

When I got home, Shayne took one look at me and got me a cold drink of water and a popsicle from the freezer.  Despite everything he has been through, he still is gentle and kind and will do anything I ask.  He said, “This must be a hard day for you.”  And because it’s Shayne, I shrugged and said, “It could be worse, right?”  My phone was sitting on the coffee table and it looked like I had ten or twelve messages.  I opened up Facebook, and the eulogy I had written three years ago was posted on my feed.  I almost ignored it, but then I actually read it, because that day was a blur for me and I didn’t really remember what I had written.    I remember writing it the night before the funeral in one of the kids’ spiral notebooks. I remember standing in front of the church and looking up once and taking in the crazy amount of people who had come to honor my parents.  And then I remember finding strength deep down inside of me to read my words, without tears.

One of the stories my mother loved to tell was the story of how she met my father. She was working in a rental store in Cambridge, England. My dad was a soldier and had come to the store to rent a television. Mom said he kept coming back to complain about he TV, and to ask her on a date. She said she didn’t like his shoes, but she finally said yes because he was so, so nice. On their first date they went for a ride on a double decker bus. I have spent most of my adult life studying how my parents went from a single bus ride to a lifetime of love. In some ways they were so different. Dad came from the mountains; Mom from the sea. Dad traveled the world; Mom was terrified of airplanes. Dad was quiet, reserved, and introspective. Mom loved to talk, she hugged strangers, and you always, always knew what she was thinking. What they both had in common was faith. Faith was their secret ingredient, the glue that held them together. Faith in God, but also faith in goodness, faith in kindness, faith in each other. Their lives were full of believing the best in everyone and treating everyone with kindness and love. Many, many people have come to me to share small acts of kindness my parents touched their lives with–everything from leaving cold soda for the trash men to offering shelter to those down on their luck. Their generosity knew no bounds and they gave to me, my brothers, and everyone they met. Their last act was an example of their love and kindness. They came to my house with tamales and tortillas for my son, crackers and cream cheese for my daughter and forty dollars for me. I said, “Dad, I don’t need your money” and he said, “you’ve got to feed those kids.” I know I hugged them. I know I said I love you. And I know we waved good-bye before they set off “up the hill” to Cripple Creek. They were happy, healthy, and in love. And that is how I will always remember them.  Their death was sudden and shocking and horrifying. It has stunned our family and our community. Yet my parents are together and I have faith that their love will never stop touching us.

I would like to say that reading the words gave me strength, but when I read them this morning, tears sprang to my eyes.  It was so short.  It made me remember how numb I was and scared.  But I’m not sure I’d do it any differently.  My parents were a love story.  They wouldn’t have wanted me to suffer like this; but I feel like I am stuck in my pain.  I am not sure how to break free and find my way to strength again.  Too bad there isn’t a machine like the vacuum at the car wash that could just suck all the bad stuff away.  So I spent the 4th painting the porch and watching the dogs swim in the river and eating some raspberries off the vine.  I’m spending the evening with James, because the only way I know how to get through is to keep on breathing.

James went on a raft trip on the Green River.  He didn’t really know if he should go because of his garden and pets, but I knew he wanted to go.  He works so hard all year round and doesn’t play much and he’s been a rock for me.   So I said I could take care of everything for him.  I can irrigate the garden, water the plants in pots, walk and care for the dogs, throw some scratch at the chickens, check for eggs, harvest the berries.  I could totally do all that.  And I could care for the tiny wild duckling that somehow ended up in the driveway a few weeks ago.  How hard could that be?

We don’t really know how the duckling ended up in the driveway, but I am now convinced it’s a changeling.  James has gone to great length to care for the duckling until it’s old enough to survive on its own.  The duckling has an outdoor pen with water, fresh straw, and shade.  He has an indoor tub with water and a place to roost for the night and he has a holding tank to swim in.  The duckling recognizes James and hops into his hand.  When I come, he runs pell mell around his pen like a maniac trying to find an escape route.  Once he actually escaped, because I caught my arm on the jagged edge of the chicken wire causing me to say words that I don’t use on social media and the duck raced over my foot into the underbrush, with Tesla, the border collie in hot pursuit.  Lucky for the duck that the underbrush completely helped the getaway.  Tesla and I raced around the underbrush to see if the duck would emerge on the other side.  He did, but so did Rolie, James’s other dog who is a soft, cuddly-no nonsense- small animal slayer.  The duckling had buried his head in tall grass, sensing the end was near; Rolie was getting ready to clamp his teeth in tail feathers, but I grabbed the duckling from the jaws of death and marched him up to his swimming pond.  Both of our hearts were beating fast.  I don’t know if ducks sweat or have hot flashes, but there was no doubt about me.  After we arrived at the pond, we both took a few minutes to collect ourselves.  I sat next to the pond taking cleansing breaths and the duck glided around, but stayed out of my reach.

The holding tank is plastic and James has sunk it into the earth and he has goldfish in it.  It is also right next to a steep hill covered in Virginia creeper.  To keep the duck from hopping out, there is a pallet and some scrap wood, which also creates a nice shady arbor for the duck.  And there is a piece of board in the water that serves as a island for preening when Sir Duck grows tired of swimming.  When James swims the duckling, the duck will hop on the board, and James just scoops him up ending the swimming session.  With me, no way.  The duckling stays in the water out of my reach and never comes on the island.  He swims around watching me out of the corner of his eye.  There is no trust.  No love.  And no way is he going to voluntarily come to me.  So after more than an hour of this stand-off, I decided I was just going to have to catch him.  So I took the pallet off and leaned over the water, making wild grabs.  Ducks are fast and they can dive.  So he was racing all over and diving and I nearly fell in the stupid holding tank like six times, lunging at the water.  I was so glad that no one was watching.  I’d like to report that I was eventually victorious, although soaked and furious.

On my next attempt to swim the duckling, I remembered the treacherous sharp wire and avoided impaling myself, so there was no escaping out of the pen.  The swim session was chill.  The duck floated around mostly under the pallet out of my reach, but I was willing for him to have a nice long swim.  I wanted to show him that I was sorry for calling him a little bastard.  And it went very well, until he decided to just randomly pop out of the pond and scramble down the Virginia Creeper Hill.  There was no way I could follow, so I raced down the stone steps in my stupid flip flops to get to him.  James has a million projects going on and all kinds of stuff stored behind his house, so I was picking through solar panels and wire and wood as fast as I could to get to the duckling.  There was no sign of him.  I stood real still to see if I could hear his peeping.  I thought I saw movement at the top of the hill just underneath the holding tank, so I scrabbled my way back up the hill over the Virginia Creeper.  Nope it wasn’t the duck.  I decided maybe the dogs could help me.  On second thought, maybe Tesla could help me.  I didn’t want Rolie finding the duck first, but both dogs came tearing out of the house when I opened the door.  My first thought was to go around the side of the house, but I realized there was too much junk for me to be able to fit.  While I was calculating my next move, I spied the duck in front of the house behind some wooden ladders.  I had to climb over potted plants and rocks, so the duckling saw me coming; he knew I was on to him, so he start running away from me and slipped through the fence into the tree farm next door.  And that’s when I realized that there might be a reason duck rhymes with fuck.

There’s a scene in one of the Jurassic Park movies when the velociraptors are moving through the forest.  This was sort of like that except it was a baby duck.  I ran to the gate and let Tesla through, but shut Rolie out.  He ran up and down the fence line, keeping his eyes on the duck.  Tesla raced into the tree yard with me close behind.  The duck disappeared.  I started to think, “OMG, is this duck smart?”  But then I spied him, right before he fell into an empty tree bucket.  I was reassured that he is really a dumbass as he kept bobbing up and down, trying to escape; Tesla stood over him until I got there and grabbed him up.  I put him in his pen, my heart once again pounding, maybe accompanied by a tiny bit of chest pain.

I had a winescicle afterwards to cope with the stress and the heat this duck has brought on.  I hope James is enjoying his float.  I hope that he loves me enough that my inadequacies with ducks is not a deal breaker.  I have six more days.   I survived CANCER; this creature will not break me.  I hope.

I will never forget when I fell in love with street art.  I was nineteen and riding a bus through Boston.  I loved how the laundry was hung high above the streets–delicate, colorful cotton prints swaying against the back drop of black steel and gray concrete. I was even more impressed with the big murals covering old brick buildings.  I took it all in and wondered what it would be like to paint on a giant wall that people passed by everyday.  That’s when I started studying bricks and learning how to draw the texture and the richness, because really there is no such thing as brick red. And whenever I get a chance to be in a big city, I try to see some street art.  While my companions are taking pictures of landmarks, I’m taking pictures in alleys and the sides of buildings.  Museums and tourist attractions are cool and all, but I’m just as impressed with a mural flashing by in the train window.  

A few years ago, Larry Weaver, the pastor at the church on 7th and Macon asked me to paint a mural on the church stairs. I was pretty happy to be asked to paint on an old crumbly stone and concrete surface, It was my first chance at street art.

7th and Macon is about as far as you can get from a big city street.  It’s quiet and shady and no one walking by is any hurry to get anywhere else.  I started with the steps.  I’ve never done steps before, so it was super interesting to learn how a to unfold a panoramic, cascading scene.  I wish I could do it again, because now that I understand all the nuances, I’d do it better.  But once you lay down color on a surface like concrete, do overs aren’t that friendly.  Must of the time I was pretty absorbed in my work, but I did talk to everyone who stopped to admire my work.  That’s what you do in a small town.  Or at least that’s what I do.  I learned right away that if you are doing work at a church, people assume you are part of the church.  I got asked all kinds of questions.  Where is the pastor? Do I have gift cards or vouchers for meals?  I told one guy I was just doing the painting, but I gave him my sandwich.  He sat down on the sidewalk and preceded to tell me his troubles which mostly involved drinking too much.

Yesterday would have been my parents’ 57th wedding anniversary and it was also the date of the annual Taylor family reunion.  I have only been to one reunion since my parents died, and when I walked into the backyard of my aunt’s house and saw my dad’s two brothers sitting side by side, all I saw was my father’s face and all the tears that I stuff away every day bubbled to the surface.  So my big plan was to take my bag of paint and go work on a mural on the steps of a church downtown.  I wasn’t going to the reunion and I wasn’t going to mention anything about my parents to anyone.

This summer has been hot as hell, and I was prepared for a day of painting in the sun. I stopped at Walmart for some metallic green paint, then I headed for the church. I had  sunscreen, my painting clothes, a gallon of water,  brushes, and a plan.  I’d only been at the church long enough to brush the metallic paint along the edge of the river I had painted the evening before,  when the wind kicked up and raindrops started lightly sprinkling my head.  There’s some irony.  I’ve literally wished for rain, every moment, since May and the one day when rain is a little problematic, here it comes.  So I sat in the doorway of the church, wondering if I should seal the painting I’d done, but I figured that the rain probably would pass.  I calculated that if I painted all day, I could probably finish by dark.  Sure enough, the sprinkles passed, and I left the shelter of the doorway to get my backpack of paint from the truck bed.  Yeah, so I left the backpack on the porch.  At home.  Frustrated, I packed up my supplies and went back for the paint.

When I got there, Shayne was watering the flowers in the backyard and Darian was actually tidying up her room.  I was just about to leave with my paint when I noticed Mom and Dad’s wedding picture.  I walk by it everyday without even looking at it, but I stopped for a second and really took it in.  Mom didn’t have a big old wedding dress on, but she did have heels and white gloves.   She believed in marriage, but she never did understand that whole giant expensive wedding thing.  She always said, “Weddings should be small and simple.  Save the money for the honeymoon.”  And Dad is so young in that picture and he looks happy, like he is taking home the best party prize.  That’s how he always looked at my mother.  I kinda smiled and asked the kids if they wanted to take a quick trip to Springs to the family reunion.  Shayne had to work and I had to paint, but I figured we could dine and dash and I could see my family for a minute.

The first people I saw were my uncles, just like I knew I would, but this time it wasn’t painful.  It was just my uncles in their ball caps and their jeans like I’ve seen them wearing my whole life.  Both of them lit up when they saw me and I got hugs and kisses.  Their hands are big and strong, just like my dad’s were.  I said hi to everyone else and ate some great food and reminisced with my cousins about our amazing childhood and our fun times in the mountains as kids.  I mostly sat with my cousins Bea and Berta.  Bea and her husband, Faustin just celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary.  I was their flower girl.  I also stayed with them when I first moved to Alamosa and they came up to Springs during my cancer surgery.  Berta has always been more like my big sister than my cousin and it’s been a long time since I just sat with her and laughed.  These two women know things about me that no one else in the world does, and sitting with them was like taking a deep breath and remembering who I really am.

I got back to the church and my painting job with plenty of daylight, but really not enough time to finish what I needed to finish.  I texted James and asked if he would bring me a headlamp.  The church is off of Main Street on a quiet street, but there is a bar around the corner.  At night you can hear the music and the loud voices of people entering and exiting the bar.  There was also a young guy walking around shouting things at the top of his voice.  He’d been around in the morning and all evening while I painted.  At one time, he might have frightened me, but I know what it’s like to be around someone with voices in his head.  I know enough to be cautious, but I wasn’t afraid of him, mostly I felt sorry for him and hoped that he had somewhere to sleep.  Shayne was like that not long ago, and I’m grateful everyday that he is off the streets and the voices are at bay.   James sat on the steps and stayed with me until I was ready to go.  That’s love.  Presence. Patience.  Protection.  It made me think of my father.  Dad called James, “Jaime.”  He always nicknamed, or Spanish- named, the important people in his life.  James is the only man in my life that my father ever nicknamed.  It was his seal of approval.

Learning to celebrate and appreciate what I have, instead of what I’ve lost, is an ongoing battle.  Living in the moment instead of in my head is an on-going lesson.  But the more I practice, the more I realize that I haven’t forgotten how to laugh and love.  Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.  Thank you for giving me the family that I have and being shining examples of devotion and strength.

I made this top ten list when I first went to Chicago in 2009:

10 things I love about Chicago:
I love the lion statues in front of the Art Institute.
I love the Impressionist collection at the Art Institute.
I better make this simple; I love the Art Institute.
I love that there are literally millions of places to eat.
I love the rain.
I love Jane Addams and the Hull House.
I love that there are young revolutionaries in the city ready to make the world a better place.
I love urban gardens.
I love that street musicians play decent jazz on the corners.
I love watching the boats on the Chicago River.

10 things I would hate if I had to live here all the time.
The traffic. No one here drives appropriately. Traffic signals? What are they?
The sirens screaming all over the city at all times of day and night.
The train clacking by in the middle of the night. Go to bed people.
The hungry people on the corners.
The people in the park without socks or shoes. What do they do in the winter?
The wealth in a city of great economic disparity.
Dunkin donuts.-I think there are more here than in Colorado all put together.
The expense of everything–no wonder so many people are begging for a dime.
No parking–but wait a minute if I lived here I wouldn’t drive. It’s suicide.
The permanent smell of exhaust and trash.

My first trip to Chicago was nine years ago.  I went on a grant funded program for teachers to learn about American history.  It was an amazing experience because fifty or so teachers from Colorado travelled all over the Windy City to see where history happened–the site of the meat packing industry, the Pullman factory, the Haymarket Square, Union Station.  We ate food in a Lithuanian neighborhood, were served farm to table food at the historic Hull house, and. of course, sampled famous deep dish pizza.  Landmarks such as Marc Chagall’s mural, Picassso’s sculpture, and the site of the two world’s fairs were explored.  Plus we did fun things like attend a comedy show at Second City, and checked out Wrigley field.  The Cubbies weren’t doing so hot then and people were out of the park a little upset.  Okay, a lot upset.  And on my own, with a newly pregnant colleague in tow, we hiked five miles in the hot, humid air to see where the television show ER was filmed.  I saw and did more that week in Chicago than probably people who have lived there a lifetime.  In addition, to all that my birthmother lives here.  So for a small town girl, Chicago became my city.

This summer has been my summer to try to learn to relax and heal, so what better than a weekend in my favorite city with my amazing book club.  And it was pretty great–Hamilton, a blues concert, the Blue Man group, a book fair, and amazing food.  A friend of mine from high school was in town and stayed over an extra day to see me and I did get to see my birthmother, Kathy  She took me to the Lincoln Park Zoo which is one of the few  Chicago attractions that I hadn’t been to yet. The male lion was standing up on boulders looking magnificent; he took my breath away.  I can imagine if I lived close by, I’d try to see that lion as much as possible.  Knowing me, I’d pretty soon write a story about his day.  I’d start to think of him as my lion.  Charlie would get jealous, so it’s probably good I don’t have a lion.  All kidding aside, I love spending time with Kathy.  She grounds me.

The best part of the trip was spending time with the women in my bookclub.  A lot of my people in my life have done so many things for me since losing my parents, but the women in my book club have been my anchors.  I showed up on Stephanie’s door step one day soon after the funeral in hysterical tears.  She listened and got me to take a deep breath in her calm, peaceful way.  Sally has driven me to the breast cancer doctor, to my biopsies, to my ultrasounds, to radiation.  She’s brought over cherries and organized cleaning parties and so much more.  Catherine and her husband, Pat, literally saved Shayne’s life.  They gave him work and a purpose and have the ability to see beyond his illness and recognize his gifts and potential.  Linda and Susan are among my favorite colleagues and brighten my days with their empathy and laughter.  And I’ll never forget, how Patricia came to to the hospital when I had the infection and sat with me until I was released.  In these past years, there is nothing these women haven’t done for me.  We may have started out as a group to talk about books, but somehow that has evolved into sharing our lives.

When mom and dad were killed, we were reading Tracks.  Tracks is a memoir of a woman who trekked across Australia with a camel and sometimes a cameraman.  She had amazing things happen on her journey–like waking up with a sleeping bag full of poisonous snakes curling around her for warmth.  She survived to tell the tales.  I couldn’t read after mom and dad died.  Shayne was at his worst at that point, on and off the streets.  And I was trying to make sense out of all the insurance documents and the steps I needed to take to sort out my parents affairs, but I didn’t miss book club.  My friends had a gift for me.  It was a coffee table book of Tracks.  A survival story in photographs.  I have that book on display in my living room.  Everyday I walk by and remind myself, that surviving is all about facing the day with purpose.  I may not have chosen the journey, but I get to choose how to travel.  And I have never been alone.

Darian HATES when I write about her.  She pretty much HATES what I write.  Grudgingly, she will acknowledge that I’m a good writer, but she thinks I should not write about mom and dad dying, Shayne having a mental illness, or cancer.  She thinks I should write about going to an all girls boarding school, or working as a cocktail waitress, or learning to be a tattoo artist.  She also thinks that I settled by living in a small town as a teacher.  She thinks I’d be happier if I quit and moved away and became a writer or a professional artist.  She also HATES that she looks like me and she does everything she can to set herself apart.  She dyes her hair, wears dramatic make-up and bold clothes.  She calls me annoying, ridiculous, impossible.  Yep, she’s sixteen.  I never got the expression “sweet sixteen.”  It should be “savage sixteen.”

Savage or not, one of my goals this summer was to spend time with Darian.  As a parent, I hate to admit it, but I haven’t really raised Darian.  She was kind of raised by the village.  I went back to work when she was only five weeks old and my parents took more care of her than I did in the early years.   Darian had her own room at her grandparents house and her own bar stool at the kitchen counter and could get my parents to do anything.  If she said, “Grandpa, dance.”  He literally would pull out some shimmers and shakes.  If she told my mom she was hungry, out would pop the pots and pans.  I’ll never forget Darian saying, “Grandpa, I want to go to the beach.”  Two weeks later we were all in Tahoe spreading our blankets on the sandy lake shore in California.  When I did take Darian to work with me, she went from teacher to teacher, or there would be some middle schooler only glad to play with her.  I will never forget finding Darian sitting on a skateboard with one of my roughest middle school boys.  She was wearing someone’s beanie, watching the boys do tricks on the ramp in the school courtyard.  She was four.  She always liked older kids, because she had Shayne.  He was eight when she was born and he changed her, rocked her, entertained her by singing and dancing and reading to her.  He made blanket forts with her and took her to the park and movies.  He also helped her out with her chores–which meant he did them for her.    Instead of shutting her out of his teenage life, she was a sidekick, always included in his activities.  When Shayne got his license, he took over the chauffeuring.  Sometimes he’d take her to Sonic before school and drop her off late, telling her, “Walk in, like you own it.”  I spent time with Darian, but there were lots of other people making sure she got everything she needed.  Raising her was never all on me.  So when my parents died and Shayne got sick, the village took over.  James and my girlfriends made sure she got to where she needed to go, her friends shouldered her tears and her choir teacher and drama teacher and history teacher filled her hours. And honestly, she was the least of my problems.  She wasn’t lost and on the streets; she wasn’t an insurance agent, or a lawyer, or a doctor.  She was independent and strong and doing okay, or so I thought.  Or at least that’s what I wanted to think.

Last summer after I’d been diagnosed with cancer, I took Darian to a doctor for a physical. She was given a depression assessment and she came out kind of high on it.  I guess I wasn’t that surprised, but it did make me realize that at fifteen, D had her own shit storm.  Her grandparents were dead.  Her brother was not the same person who had been her champion and her comic relief.  And her mother had cancer.  Plus she had all the normal things all teenage girls have to deal with.  So I tried then to get it together and be a better mom for her.  Shayne was in Maryland and I thought it would give Darian and I time alone to build a new relationship.  It kind of did, but it also pointed out how deep her pain was.  My first indication was when I was cleaning Shayne’s room after he left.  He had spent a year in various stages of psychosis and his room left a trail of his downward decline.  He had journals filled with his spiraling thoughts.  There were piles of ashes where he’d burned documents and set fires to keep the soul snatchers at bay.  There were caches of his medicine that he’d hidden away.  Plus debris from his childhood–Pokemon cards, VHS tapes, frisbees and mementos from high school–his athletic letters, drawings from his girlfriend, Destination Imagination trophies and pins.  I worked on the room for a couple of days, boxing stuff up for Goodwill, sorting through the trash, reading over the journals.  Darian came in at one point and saw all the movies and things that I had boxed up and accused me of throwing away his childhood.  She wrapped her arms around “Speed Limit” (Shayne’s giant teddy bear) and sobbed.  For hours.  At first, I didn’t think much of the tears, but as it went on, I got worried.  I didn’t really know how to help her.  I’m a “suck it up and deal with it kind of girl,” she is not.  And that’s when I realized that maybe she needed someone other than me to talk to about her feelings.

I don’t really get depression.  It’s not like I’ve never been depressed, but for me I can turn it around–like exercise, or looking for the bright side.  I don’t get that “bone-crushing, I can’t get out of bed, I want to die” kind of phenomena.  As much as I want to deny it, that stuff is real for Darian.  I’d rather brag about her grades or post pictures of her in her glittery choir dresses.  But a clearer picture would be of her room–this giant mess of clothes and dishes and empty Coke cans that she hasn’t thrown away in weeks.  I cleaned her room, because she is so overwhelmed and crippled with her emotions that she didn’t even know where to start.  That I understand.  I can fix a messy bedroom, even if it is overwhelming and unbelievable, what I can’t fix is her heart.

Parenting is a tough gig.  It’s easy to make mistakes and hard to fix them.  A kid isn’t a malleable marble of clay either.  They each have their own emotions and desires and goals.  Darian might look like me, but she is her own person, on her own journey.  I’m doing my best to love her and support her in ways that I can.  She is stronger than she knows; and I hope that all those things the village has given her–confidence, resilience, passion will bring her through this time of pain.

Forty-nine years ago, my parents took me home from the adoption agency. The story goes that they were just supposed to meet me, but my brother, Michael, insisted on taking me home. So even though no baby preparations had been made, I for all intents and purposes became a Taylor that day. I was ten weeks old. Mom detailed my first few days in a two page narrative in a baby album. She was good about writing shit down. Even though we didn’t celebrate May 29 as a birthday or anything, it was still a day that didn’t go by unacknowledged by my mother. But it was kind of a private thing, between Mom and me.  She would usually buy me something like a pair of sandals for the summer and squeeze my hand and tell me that it was her lucky day.  I wanted to celebrate yesterday, but I didn’t want to acknowledge why.  Being adopted is one of those things in my life like having green eyes or long fingers, part of who I am.  Sometimes it’s mattered a lot, and sometimes not at all.  Yes, there’s a big story to tell, but it’s not all mine to tell and it’s complicated with lots of emotions and feelings to consider; so mostly I keep it private.   I have Kathy, my biological mother who means a great deal to me, and I have Rose, who is in my heart and mind every moment, and I have Brigitta, my second mom.  May 29 is not only my adoption day, but Brigitta’s birthday and celebrating with her was a great way to honor the family that I was given.

I was with James the night I got the phone call that my parents were in the accident.  He held me tight in his arms as I got the news that my dad had been killed.  I wanted to throw the phone across the room to stop the lies, but part of me knew that I had to ask about Mom.  I had to stay strong and focused because Mom was still alive.  When I hung up, I dialed a phone number that I’d known before I knew my own phone number–Brigitta Anderson.  She didn’t answer the phone, her husband, Joe did.  He was close enough, and I told him about the accident and that my dad was dead, tears streaming down my face and choking my voice. He got Brigitta for me; I knew he would.  The Andersons have always been part of my family.  Joe and Dad were in the military and retired about the same time and came to Canon to work in the prison.  Both had wives from Europe-mom from Ireland and Brigitta from Germany.  Pam and I are three months apart.  Our brothers, Kevin and Tom are two weeks apart.  The four of us were always together.  The Andersons and the Taylors; it was a thing.  Everyone in town knew we were a package deal.  Even to this day, I just refer to Pam as my sister, because she might as well be.  Brigitta said when she got on the phone, “What do you need me to do?”  She and Pam called Kevin and my uncles.  And they were in the room with the family the next day when mom’s machines were turned off.

In the months since the accident, sometimes Brigitta cooks spaghetti for me, or I’ve had dinner with her and Joe now and then.  They give Shayne work on occasion.  I don’t see them as much as I should, because honestly, sitting at the Anderson kitchen table just brings back so many memories.  And even if they are good memories, they can make me feel broken.  But I’m trying really hard not to be the broken girl this summer, so celebrating Brigitta’s birthday dinner was what I really wanted to do.  It was just a simple sit around the table casual dinner with the Anderson’s.  We had fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and cucumber salad, just like a dinner from my childhood.  Tom and Pam teased each other about a jar of honey.  There was lots of laughter.  The only thing that was missing was my brother, Kevin.  But then Joe told a story about how Kevin and Tom had tried to gather honey with milk jugs at a neighbor’s beehives when they were little boys and all of a sudden I could picture the scene.  Two little boys, one with dark hair, one blonde, in stripey seventies shirts and jeans, holding their jugs up to a swarming hive.  They wouldn’t have been scared of getting stung.  The honey would have been worth it.  It was probably Kevin’s idea.  He was forever coming up with a dangerous plans, like trying to fly, or building an elevator in a treehouse,  and the rest of us would go along with the plan, no matter how crazy it was.

Recently, someone asked me if I believe in destiny.  I don’t know if I believe in destiny or that things happen for a reason.  Lots of times I think things happen and you create the reasons to make sense of life.  But for whatever reason, I became a Taylor and then also an Anderson.  Mom and Brigitta were always there to pass out band-aids or popsicles or glasses of Kool-aid, or yell at us to settle down or go to sleep.  I can’t help but think how lucky I am to have to had such an ideal childhood.  I didn’t just get two parents, I got four.  And an extra brother and sister who no matter what, I can always, always count on.   I gave Joe and Brigitta and Tom and Pam hugs before I left.  I left the house, feeling happy, like I had truly celebrated getting adopted into the great life that I have.