the first - and most common - is when the wish does not come true. If the wish was for something that really mattered, like for a badly-needed job or for a loved one recovering from a serious illness, the failed wish will hurt you deeply, sometimes to the point where you can't see how you'll ever get back to who you were before.
But you do. Most of the time. You find a way to recall whatever is still good in your life, in yourself, and you put one foot in front of the other and you walk back down from the ledge. You breathe, you feel your heart beat, someone says something kind to you that touches you deeply, you have a sandwich. Something.
The second way, when the wish DOES come true, is actually a longer, more subtle lesson. Subtle enough that I can only give you an example, and hope that in the telling, I'll get closer to knowing what I've learned:
Teri and I had our firstborn, John Francis McKenna, in January of 1985. We were living at the time in the bottom-front apartment of a concrete shoebox four-plex in the Berkeley flatlands; not a great neighborhood, and the landlord was a bitter man whose own wish was that either Berkeley rent control laws would all get repealed or that the place would burn to the ground so he could collect the insurance. Sorry, Arthur; try a different wish.
We had no money to speak of, but we had each other and we had our boy, and he just grew bigger and smarter and more handsome year by year. (If you believe in sin, we most definitely fell into the sin of pride, because we both felt certain that our son's beauty and intelligence and temperment were the result of our gifted parenting. But more on that later).
We both knew we eventually wanted one more child, since neither of us had been only children, and we both felt strongly that a child needs to have at least one other person with the same parents so that they can compare notes and reassure each other that "yes, our parents are flat-out nuts sometimes".
We started to try for Child #2 right before John began kindergarten, and we expected fast results because we'd conceived John in about seven or eight weeks. And in fact, Teri got pregnant in about a seven weeks again. It was a golden warm Bay Area autumn, our OB/GYN had a charming, homey office in Lafayette about twelve minutes from our house; all was good.
Until, out of the blue - no, out of the black - trouble with the pregnancy. Spotting, cramping, long periods of horrible silence while Dr. Klein peered at the sonograms. Lots of terrified waiting and feverish denial on our part. Then it was over, in the ER of Alta Bates Hospital, in the middle of the night. We cried so hard I thought we'd die.
But we tried again, and along the way we took every test the specialists could think of. Even changed OB/GYNs two times, not because of any fault of theirs but just to try to outrun whatever nightmare mojo was dogging us.
And we lost another baby. And another. Six in all. I don't know how we kept going. I don't know how Teri kept going. But we had each other, and our little boy to love and take care of, and we had friends who helped us, probably in ways I may not have even been aware of.
Sometime in the Spring of 1992, around Lost Baby 4, I think, I was working in downtown SF, on California Street, a few blocks down the hill from Chinatown. Work was not going wonderfully and money was a constant grinding worry. But as I sat on a bench in a little park at lunchtime, in the warm afternoon light, with my sleeves rolled up and my tie loosened, just trying to get my blood pressure down before I had to walk back into the office, all I could think of with all my heart was, "All I want is one more little baby to be with us and feel this beautiful sunshine on their face."
And I carried that wish with me all the way past Lost Baby 6. Then, when Teri was pregnant with not-yet-Lost Baby 7, something happened. This baby decided to stick around. At first we were numb; it took a long time for us to open our hearts to the risk of hope. But we did open up, because we still, still really wanted a new baby, and we began to allow ourselves to believe that this little one was going to make it.
And she grew stronger and stronger inside my wife, till one morning in March of '95, Teri's water broke and the contractions began - three weeks early, just like with John. We drove to Alta Bates, got checked in, then waited for the doctor. Considering all we'd been through, we were pretty relaxed. The doctor came and examined Teri, and, also just as with John, Teri was barely dilated. He says, look, I know you wanted to try for a vaginal delivery and not a C-section, but from what you've told me, this is playing out just like your first delivery - you could go through thirty hours of tough labor then wind up having a Caesarean anyway. So, you need to decide which it's going to be - go for the vaginal, or just schedule the C-section now.
Teri looked at me and said, what do you think? I said, I think it's your body but if you're going to let me decide, I say C-section. Can't say why, but I didn't feel even a moment of hesitation or second-guessing. She said, OK, Doctor, let's do the Caesarean.
We had to wait for an OR, so we had about an hour to kill. I remember there was a nature show on the TV in the room, about tigers, so we held hands and watched the big cats doing their thing in some deep green jungle for a while. It was really calm and quiet in that room.
Finally, they came with the gurney and wheeled Teri down the corridors to the OR, me following in the one-size-fits-all scrubs they give us civilians. Everything went smoothly, and I did my job - stroking Teri's cheek and holding her hand on and off, behind the screen they put up to shield us from the actual gore of the operation. The nurses and doctor murmured back and forth as they took care of business, till they all got quiet. Then one of the nurses said, in a tone I couldn't read, "Wow. I've never seen that before." Other voices agreed. "What's going on?" I said, perhaps a little frantically. "What have you never seen before??"
They explained that when they pulled our daughter out of my wife, the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck. Three times. With a knot. There was no danger, since they just cut away the cord like so much kudzu, but of course, had we tried for a vaginal delivery, there would have been no real chance my daughter would have survived.
But Jacqueline Jane McKenna not only survived, but thrived, and she was as beautiful and smart as her brother. Not as mellow-tempered, as we've noted many times - when she was little, we used to call her Lightning Bolt, because she could turn from peaceful to furious as fast as lightning, but I thought, then as now, it's not a bad thing for girls to have some sharp edges to them. And I've spent my whole life surrounded by strong-willed women; why should that change now?
So, more than eighteen years have passed since I was granted my heart's deepest wish, and what have I learned? Is my soul perpetually filled with gratitude? Does misfortune pass through my life as quickly and painlessly as sparrows flitting through fog?
No. But I do have some damn fine moments. And I'm working on the rest.
But you do. Most of the time. You find a way to recall whatever is still good in your life, in yourself, and you put one foot in front of the other and you walk back down from the ledge. You breathe, you feel your heart beat, someone says something kind to you that touches you deeply, you have a sandwich. Something.
The second way, when the wish DOES come true, is actually a longer, more subtle lesson. Subtle enough that I can only give you an example, and hope that in the telling, I'll get closer to knowing what I've learned:
Teri and I had our firstborn, John Francis McKenna, in January of 1985. We were living at the time in the bottom-front apartment of a concrete shoebox four-plex in the Berkeley flatlands; not a great neighborhood, and the landlord was a bitter man whose own wish was that either Berkeley rent control laws would all get repealed or that the place would burn to the ground so he could collect the insurance. Sorry, Arthur; try a different wish.
We had no money to speak of, but we had each other and we had our boy, and he just grew bigger and smarter and more handsome year by year. (If you believe in sin, we most definitely fell into the sin of pride, because we both felt certain that our son's beauty and intelligence and temperment were the result of our gifted parenting. But more on that later).
We both knew we eventually wanted one more child, since neither of us had been only children, and we both felt strongly that a child needs to have at least one other person with the same parents so that they can compare notes and reassure each other that "yes, our parents are flat-out nuts sometimes".
We started to try for Child #2 right before John began kindergarten, and we expected fast results because we'd conceived John in about seven or eight weeks. And in fact, Teri got pregnant in about a seven weeks again. It was a golden warm Bay Area autumn, our OB/GYN had a charming, homey office in Lafayette about twelve minutes from our house; all was good.
Until, out of the blue - no, out of the black - trouble with the pregnancy. Spotting, cramping, long periods of horrible silence while Dr. Klein peered at the sonograms. Lots of terrified waiting and feverish denial on our part. Then it was over, in the ER of Alta Bates Hospital, in the middle of the night. We cried so hard I thought we'd die.
But we tried again, and along the way we took every test the specialists could think of. Even changed OB/GYNs two times, not because of any fault of theirs but just to try to outrun whatever nightmare mojo was dogging us.
And we lost another baby. And another. Six in all. I don't know how we kept going. I don't know how Teri kept going. But we had each other, and our little boy to love and take care of, and we had friends who helped us, probably in ways I may not have even been aware of.
Sometime in the Spring of 1992, around Lost Baby 4, I think, I was working in downtown SF, on California Street, a few blocks down the hill from Chinatown. Work was not going wonderfully and money was a constant grinding worry. But as I sat on a bench in a little park at lunchtime, in the warm afternoon light, with my sleeves rolled up and my tie loosened, just trying to get my blood pressure down before I had to walk back into the office, all I could think of with all my heart was, "All I want is one more little baby to be with us and feel this beautiful sunshine on their face."
And I carried that wish with me all the way past Lost Baby 6. Then, when Teri was pregnant with not-yet-Lost Baby 7, something happened. This baby decided to stick around. At first we were numb; it took a long time for us to open our hearts to the risk of hope. But we did open up, because we still, still really wanted a new baby, and we began to allow ourselves to believe that this little one was going to make it.
And she grew stronger and stronger inside my wife, till one morning in March of '95, Teri's water broke and the contractions began - three weeks early, just like with John. We drove to Alta Bates, got checked in, then waited for the doctor. Considering all we'd been through, we were pretty relaxed. The doctor came and examined Teri, and, also just as with John, Teri was barely dilated. He says, look, I know you wanted to try for a vaginal delivery and not a C-section, but from what you've told me, this is playing out just like your first delivery - you could go through thirty hours of tough labor then wind up having a Caesarean anyway. So, you need to decide which it's going to be - go for the vaginal, or just schedule the C-section now.
Teri looked at me and said, what do you think? I said, I think it's your body but if you're going to let me decide, I say C-section. Can't say why, but I didn't feel even a moment of hesitation or second-guessing. She said, OK, Doctor, let's do the Caesarean.
We had to wait for an OR, so we had about an hour to kill. I remember there was a nature show on the TV in the room, about tigers, so we held hands and watched the big cats doing their thing in some deep green jungle for a while. It was really calm and quiet in that room.
Finally, they came with the gurney and wheeled Teri down the corridors to the OR, me following in the one-size-fits-all scrubs they give us civilians. Everything went smoothly, and I did my job - stroking Teri's cheek and holding her hand on and off, behind the screen they put up to shield us from the actual gore of the operation. The nurses and doctor murmured back and forth as they took care of business, till they all got quiet. Then one of the nurses said, in a tone I couldn't read, "Wow. I've never seen that before." Other voices agreed. "What's going on?" I said, perhaps a little frantically. "What have you never seen before??"
They explained that when they pulled our daughter out of my wife, the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck. Three times. With a knot. There was no danger, since they just cut away the cord like so much kudzu, but of course, had we tried for a vaginal delivery, there would have been no real chance my daughter would have survived.
But Jacqueline Jane McKenna not only survived, but thrived, and she was as beautiful and smart as her brother. Not as mellow-tempered, as we've noted many times - when she was little, we used to call her Lightning Bolt, because she could turn from peaceful to furious as fast as lightning, but I thought, then as now, it's not a bad thing for girls to have some sharp edges to them. And I've spent my whole life surrounded by strong-willed women; why should that change now?
So, more than eighteen years have passed since I was granted my heart's deepest wish, and what have I learned? Is my soul perpetually filled with gratitude? Does misfortune pass through my life as quickly and painlessly as sparrows flitting through fog?
No. But I do have some damn fine moments. And I'm working on the rest.
