was about that time that I grew ill. It started one night when we were grocery shopping at Fred Meyer’s. I was standing in the checkout line with Bob. Brian was seated in the front of the grocery cart. All of a sudden my stomach began to lurch with terrible pain. Then the nausea began. I gripped the handle of the cart. No! No! I didn’t want to be sick here! I held on for dear life hoping this awful feeling would pass. It did.
It happened again a week later when I was shopping at the neighborhood mall. And several evenings after that when we went out for dinner. What was happening to me?
The attacks became debilitating. I was afraid to leave the house. I began to rely on Bob to do the grocery shopping and other errands. I made excuses for invitations extended to us. I stayed away from everyone, becoming a recluse in my home.
The doctor diagnosed the problem as panic attacks. He prescribed Donnatal, a mild stomach relaxer.
“You need to get away,” Laura told me one afternoon as we sat in her backyard watching Kari and Brian playing in the wading pool. “Just for a weekend,” she added. “We’ll watch Brian.”
I gave the idea some thought. “Bob and I talked about going up to Seattle for a couple of days.”
“Well, then go.”
I nodded. “Maybe we will.”
Bob and I planned a trip to Washington the following week. It was Labor Day. A long weekend. We’d be able to stay an extra day. We made reservations at the Seattle Hilton, packed our bags, and kissed Brian goodbye. He was calm the morning we left. He knew Laura and liked to play with Kari. He seemed okay that we were going away.
The weather was beautiful on that day in early September. It had been nearly two years since Bob and I had gone anywhere by ourselves and I had big expectations for the weekend. I had packed my sexiest nightie — long, sweeping, with a lace bodice. I had polished both my finger and toe nails. I’d taken time to restyle my hair. I was excited. Bob and I were looking forward to a wonderful weekend together.
However, I had a panic attack immediately upon entering the hotel, which worsened as the afternoon waned. I took double the dose of my stomach pills and spent the remainder of the day lying on the bed.
Instead of a romantic dinner in one of Seattle’s many wonderful restaurants, we ended up downstairs in the hotel’s coffee shop. Bob ordered a steak dinner, and I, a bowl of soup, which I couldn’t eat. I felt so sick all weekend, and guilty that I’d ruined Bob’s vacation. All I could do was lie on the bed. With stomach pains. With terrible nausea. Downing my pills every few hours.
Chapter 15
I felt sad. Somedays I found myself upstairs running my hands along Brian’s high chair and crib, fingering the tiny shirts and pants and shoes I’d packed away. I couldn’t live like this, a knot in my stomach every time I thought of not having another child. As long as these baby things remained in our house, I would always be holding out hope that one day we could have another baby. There was only one thing to do — sell everything.
So while Brian took his afternoon naps, Laura and I priced things for the sale. I decided on a few things to keep: the little checked sunsuit he’d worn the first day Bob and I saw him, a stuffed animal, the first honey-colored curl I cut from his head when he was nearly two. Things a mother would do.
Chapter 16
Fearing Brian was getting too attached to me, Bob and I decided to enroll him in the play group at our synagogue. As expected, he loved it. He’d always enjoyed playing with other children.
Though Brian cried, even screamed when I said good-bye, in time he realized I would be back for him. The separation proved to be good for both of us. Brian was learning to become more social, and I had three mornings a week to myself.
* * *
Even at two and a half, if Brian didn’t like what I gave him for lunch or simply didn’t want to eat it, he’d sling his plastic Sesame Street plate across the table and onto the floor. I tried time out. I tried skipping his favorite cookie after his meal. I tried giving him more things he liked to eat. He wasn’t a picky eater. It almost seemed as though he wanted to act out simply to frustrate me, to see me squirm. He was much too young to figure all that out. Or was he? Sometimes I wasn’t quite sure.
It was always about making a decision. To act out or not on his part. To come up with a solution or a punishment on my part. It would’ve been so much easier if he was a little angel, but kids weren’t wired like that. Brian wasn’t.
I could tell there were differences between Brian and the other children. At birthday parties, at preschool, when playing with other kids, he stood out somehow. Brian was always the loud one. The more active and daring one. He was unafraid of consequences. Strong-willed and gutsy. A look at things to come.
Chapter 17
As Brian grew, so did his stubbornness and insistence to do things his way. He fought us on everything. If I said the sky was blue, he would argue. If I said we were having macaroni and cheese for dinner, his favorite, he would argue. He would pick a fight over the smallest things. I was worn down and exhausted.
Once again, writing became my escape. Keeping journals, composing poetry, even taking on the daunting task of writing my first novel, The Faithful Daughter. Writing was my saving grace. It got me through the pain and fear that I was living with — along with my pills.
Chapter 18
Brian was quite comfortable with the knowledge of his adoption. We’d always spoken of it freely in our home. Even before he knew what the word meant, he understood how special an adopted child was and how wanted he had been.
Many times he would catch people off-guard with his casual approach to the subject. Like the time when my parents asked my aunt and uncle and us to dinner. Brian was three years old. We were sitting in the family room when all of a sudden Brian walked over to my aunt. Standing directly in front of her, he put his little hands upon his hips and announced as bold as could be, “I’m adopted!”
My aunt stared at him. She was shocked, not expecting this to come out of his mouth. Not sure how to react.
“Yes, I know,” she finally answered.
It was a bit startling for all of us, but Brian just stood there with a big grin on his face.
Chapter 19
By the time Brian was three, he was in preschool five mornings a week. He loved music, watching Sesame Street, and playing with his friends. Our days were full. Preschool. Lunch. Nap. Playtime. Dinner. On weekends, we usually took a drive. Trips to the coast — my Paradise. We visited with family and friends.
My parents purchased a swing set for Brian, reminiscent of the one I’d had as a child. Together Bob and I set it up in the backyard beside the garden that Brian and I had planted.
Mom and Dad loved it when Brian slept over at their house and he loved to be with them. But Mom could see signs in Brian that she questioned. Things that led her to believe something may not be right. His determination. His anger. She didn’t like it when I described how filled with rage he could get.
“You be nice to
