Unexpected gifts
Jenny and I didn’t grow up together or share debaucherous nights in college. She wasn’t in my wedding or at the birth of my children and we never shared an office. Yet, I feel like I’ve known her forever. Some people come into our lives when we need them most with the exact kind of support we need and looking for the exact kind of compassion we can offer in return.
We had been in Chicago for a little over a year and I had made a few friends, but as Adelaide’s epilepsy worsened, I became more and more of a recluse. Most everyone had jobs and other children, regular ol’ busy lives, at a time when my life revolved around Adelaide and trying to keep Jackson’s life as typical and healthy as possible.
It was an unusually warm April afternoon the first time Jenny and I spent time together. She was having some moms over for late afternoon cocktails on her deck while the kids ran amok in the basement. I was hesitant to join as Adelaide would need to come with me and accommodating her many needs outside of our home was typically more stressful than it was worth. But Jenny wouldn’t let me say no.
“Can I hold her?” Jenny asked not long after we had arrived.
Few people asked to hold Adelaide and even fewer looked comfortable with her in their arms. But Jenny managed her with ease and when Adelaide expressed that she had had enough, Jenny got the message and placed her back in her stroller. When it looked like Adelaide was getting a little flushed from being outside, Jenny brought out a fan for her and rearranged a few ladies to be sure Adelaide was sitting squarely in the shade. Who was this woman? Outside of our home I had grown used to apologizing for all our additional needs but rarely had I encountered someone who accommodated them with such understanding.
“Do you mind if I take off her socks?” Jenny asked.
“Uh, go ahead.”
“There, that’s better.” She said to Adelaide. “Oh, your feet are so puffy, I know that hurts.”
“They’ve always sort of been like that, some days are worse than others. Not sure why, maybe her dysautonomia?” I said in explanation
“My feet get like this too. I know it feels better when you rub them a bit.” And so, right there, in front of her friends, she began giving my two-year-old daughter a foot massage.
Jenny has always been able to meet me where I was in life – and not because she wasn’t also busy. Though, instead of her time being filled by a career it has been compromised by something that would instantly connect her to Adelaide (and by association, me): chronic illness. Jenny has disabling lupus among other auto-immune conditions, though you’ll rarely hear her complain about it – even when she absolutely should.
Even now that Adelaide has moved on from this world, that connection remains strong. Sometimes in the most unexpected ways. Without further ado, I give you, the incomparable, Jenny:
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October is a clusterf*ck of events...my son and daughter's birthdays, a close friend's birthday, Halloween, and of course, Adelaide's passing day that comes, yep, right before her birthday. Normally, I'd be planning for these events, including going to New Jersey to be with our extended family to remember her, supply lots of hugs and love and just be there. My son Henry and Jackson have been best friends since kindergarten and our families have an unspoken pact: annual vacation, summer camp and Adelaide's week.
This year won't look like that. I caught a respiratory virus and my lupus took it to another level with pleurisy and then...the Vid. Because of the combo, my docs were worried about my oxygen levels, so when they said I had to buy a pulse oximeter, my heart sank. Not because of fear, I’ve grown accustomed to the various inconvenient and bothersome additions my various auto-immune disorders have added to my life. But because it is a perpetual part of my relationship with Adelaide. Her machines became an extension of her. But that damn pulse-ox never let you forget the reality.
I didn't have the language for it at the time but since starting Somatic therapy I understand that Adelaide and I were innately connected by our maladies and often co-regulated our systems. We did normal stuff too... talked about how it sucks to have so much inflammation, how underappreciated my cackle is, and of course, watched inappropriate stand up or documentaries all with one eye and ear on the pulse-ox.
As an atheist, there are walls that I butt up against when grieving. But it also helps sitting with the pain and especially sitting in the dark with Kelly. I do, however, believe there are moments that come as gifts. I've been so upset about not going to New Jersey and so have been trying to figure out a way to grieve and celebrate in Chicago.
I got it today.
The ladybugs, photos and mementos will come out as they always do, and now, an additional gift, my own pulse-oximeter.
