Serendipitous Girl

While running errands a few weeks ago, I ran into an old acquaintance. We were catching up with the usual pleasantries. “How is your son? Does he have a steady girlfriend?” I replied, “No, but he and his boyfriend have been together for more than a year and a half.” With a horrified and shocked look, followed by a snarky reply, she inquired, “Well, how is that?” I gave a quizzical glare until she finished. On some level, my mind knew where her comment was going, “Having a gay son?”   After what I am sure was an equally, if not more, shocked look in my eyes, followed by an image in my mind, playing out like a seventies cartoon of a baseball hitting her upside the head. I replied with, “I don’t know. What is it like having a heterosexual son?” My response left her speechless, and we soon parted ways.   Since that afternoon, I have not been able to shake the insensitive encounter from my thoughts. I am unsure if it was the underlying tone of her question that offended me. Per...

Yesterday was National Coming Out Day. I cannot fathom ever forgetting the day Brady came out to me. If for no other reason than the importance of the event to my son's life. He was on his way home and called me, "When I get home can we talk?" His voice was heavy with apprehension and fear.  When he arrived home, he requested we go to my bedroom to discuss what was on his mind. I knew then this was serious. I braced myself for the worst. "Mom, I am gay." Not hesitating, I breathed a sigh of relief, "Ok." His eyes widened. He was in utter shock, "What? That's it?" "Yes. You are still the same sweet boy I gave birth to nineteen years ago. I loved you then, and I will love you until the day I die and even afterward. This does not change anything." The worst never came. Brady had lifted his anchor. I could see and feel this heavy burden drift away and disappear like a boat out to sea. Though looking back at those last words, his com...

Last spring, I wrote a piece chronicling the journey of my daughter's illness with POTS. After publishing it, my son lightheartedly commented, "Now it is time to write about our journey." I cringed because there was nothing lighthearted about our journey. I uttered the truth from within my heart, "I am not sure I can." While I knew I could write something, I was keenly aware of the deep trauma still tucked right below the surface. I was emotionally raw and drained from the events of the past year. If I was not careful, I was keenly aware that a volcanic disaster of pain, remorse, and regret would come spewing out, and no one could halt the explosion.  I wrestled with the uncertainty of where my writing would take us. I was unsure if we were ready to revisit the past scars jointly, knowing I would open fresh wounds and possibly old ones as well. Was Brady prepared to read my thoughts? If he was, how would he feel when I was done? As difficult as the pas...