Not Exactly As Planned

by Linda Rosenbaum

  Denise ushered us into her living room and led us to seats on her cushy couch. A huge television on mute was playing in the corner of the small room. Photographs of Sarah were hung on a wall alongside other family members.

  Denise brought out bowls of corn chips, salsa, guacamole and a plate of homemade brownies and placed them on a coffee table in front of us. We sat in the living room for almost two hours, chatting, looking through photo albums, rereading old letters and telling stories about the past eighteen years. We kept looking for physical resemblances between the two. Denise’s hair was much darker and skin more olive, but we all agreed that Sarah had Denise’s prominent cheekbones and square jaw.

  There was no shortage of laughter or tears. After a few hours, we were all emotionally exhausted.

  Before we arrived, I told Sarah I would make sure that she and Denise had time alone. She said she wasn’t sure if she’d need it, but I wanted her to know it was fine, just in case. After a half hour there, Denise asked Sarah if she wanted to go for a little walk together. Sarah looked at me before answering, and I, of course, nodded. They came back shortly after a brief trip to a nearby Tim Hortons. They were delighted to have discovered they were both aficionados of Timmy’s and the Toronto Maple Leafs.

  Sarah had been noticeably careful about my feelings during the whole lead-up to the meeting. “You don’t have to worry, Mum, I know who my mother is,” she said. She was equally sensitive when we were with Denise. She often gave me glances, nudges or little touches, letting me know she wasn’t forgetting about me. I believed she was making sure I wasn’t jealous or hurt. Of course, I could have been wrong. Maybe those reassuring gestures had been for her, reaffirming my presence to help her feel more stable in a difficult situation. She had two mothers in the same room, after all. I sensed a deep kindness in Sarah that day.

  The end of the visit brought the unburdening of the last Rosenbaum-Christmas secret! We told Denise what Sarah’s full name was. We could have done it before, of course, but at some point over the years we decided we wanted to be with Denise when she heard that the daughter she gave birth to on Christmas day was Sarah Ellen Rosenbaum-Christmas.

  “Come on! I can’t believe it,” Denise said, shrieking, shaking her head back and forth. “What were the chances? Talk about a Christmas miracle. Does Oprah know?” We all had a good laugh, though we had been laughing about it for the last eighteen years. Denise was just catching up.

  Yep, our Sarah Christmas, born on Christmas, and as she used to say… “raised Jewish.” We left Denise’s all agreeing that Sarah was our shared joy to the world.

  Days after returning from Kitchener, our dog Bear bit someone. Robin and I agonized over the decision of whether to put him down. Ultimately, we knew we would never forgive ourselves if Bear bit again.

  We told the kids. They were devastated and tried to convince us otherwise. But they could tell the decision was firm. Both cried. Michael was inconsolable.

  We called our vet. He told us to come in the next day. “It will be peaceful for Bear. He won’t be in any pain, we promise you.” We were told we could hold him in our arms until the end.

  “I’ll take him tomorrow morning,” Robin offered.

  “I’ll go with you, Dad,” Michael said, much to our collective surprise.

  There was no way I could take Bear, let alone hold him in my arms those last moments. Having made the decision with Robin to put him down was enough for me. For the first time in my life, I pulled out my mother’s old warhorse. “Too sensitive,” I said. “I just can’t do it.”

  Sarah, at that moment, was her mother’s daughter. “Me too,” she said. “Too sensitive.” Through tears, we laughed. Like the poem Sarah wrote in her early teens, “I’m strong as a bull, tender as my mother’s heart,” right then, she was her mum.

  Our friend Lorraine offered to accompany Robin. Lorraine and her partner Mary had a special, loving “auntie” relationship with our frisky, playful poodle. Every summer, they took him for a week to a northern Ontario island retreat, the occasion dubbed as Bear’s Big Adventure.

  After the boots and jackets went on the next morning, Michael attached Bear’s leash and walked out the door with Robin. Sarah and I looked out through the living-room window, sobbing.

  Lorraine was waiting at the boat. Good thing, because according to Robin, Michael just broke down. “I can’t do it, Dad,” he said, handing Robin the leash. He then walked home, straight into his bedroom, closing the door. It was hard to see him suffer like that, but I took comfort knowing Michael was clearly in touch with his feelings, as painful as they were.

  “They had a quiet, candle-lit room for us,” Robin said on his return. “We held Bear in our arms while they gave him the shot. We petted and talked to him while he slipped away.” To the children, he added, “He died peacefully. It couldn’t have been better.”

  I thought we needed a doggie wake cum shiva. Judaism had taught me how helpful, almost necessary rituals are during major life events, so I thought we should all gather round the table to celebrate Bear’s life in as many ways as we could think of.

  Sarah and I baked poppyseed cookies with our doggie cookie cutters, producing a big batch of spotted hounds. We lit white candles on the dining-room table on which sat framed photographs of Bear, his collar, a few pieces of kibble, a ball and a ratty old favourite chew toy.

  It was time. I made the announcement: “Okay, everyone, let the games begin.”

  No one, not even Sarah, raised her eyebrows with a “There goes Mum being a camp counsellor, again.”

  On an empty wall near us, I had taped a large sheet of blank white poster paper. I took a pack of multicoloured markers, and on the left-hand side of the paper, printed each letter of Bear’s name, each one below the next, with lots of space between each letter. B-E-A-R, vertically.

  “We’re going to take each letter of Bear’s name, one by one,” I said, “and shout out a word that describes Bear, starting with that letter, like brown for B. Then I’ll write it on the paper next to the letter. We might come up with words we wanted to explain, like barking, because Bear had a sixth sense, knowing to bark at the neighbour we all agreed was our least favourite.

  Everyone chimed in, shouting out words like, “bratty,” “endearing,” “affectionate,” “rambunctious” (ironically, all making me think of Michael as I wrote them down). Michael’s words were particularly noticed: argumentative, rambunctious, effervescent. Each was precise, clever and spot on. We had no idea he had the vocabulary — emotional or verbal.

  Just then Michael, yelled out an “R” word. “Rascal! Bear was such a cute little rascal,” he said. We laughed at Bear’s rascally moments, including theft of an entire rib roast from the kitchen counter. I kept looking at Michael. He was sharing stories, smiling, eliciting loving responses from everyone. Michael was part of the group, no small thing.

  There is a passage in the Torah’s Book of Numbers describing God taking a census of the Jews expelled from Egypt, still wandering in the desert, far from the Promised Land. “And the people … shall pitch their tents, each person by his or her own family camp, and each person under his or her own flag.”

  That’s what Robin, Michael, Sarah and I were doing, I thought, that day and always. We were wandering in the desert, far from the Promised Land. Though oftentimes lost or directionless, we came together as one. Each of us in our family camp, each under his or her own personal flag.

  Epilogue: Wolf Howling at Moon

  Toronto Island, 2013

  I SIT ON THE RED OTTOMAN by the fireplace, leaning towards the flame, rubbing my hands together to increase the warmth. Winters are cold on Toronto Island. I seldom sit still this time of year unless I make a fire.

  I hear children laughing in the background. I know the sound should make me happy. It doesn’t. I’m tempted to cover my ears.

  “Come here,” Robin says to me. “I’ve got one of us returning to the Island after bringing Michael home from the hospital
… and his fifth birthday party … the kids digging up the dinosaur bones…”

  My husband is nearby, transferring old videos of the children to DVDs. I’ve been listening to the sounds, of good times, all morning.

  An abrupt cut in the soundtrack. I hear a clarinet. Unmistakably Klezmer. Michael’s bar mitzvah.

  “I’m good,” I say to Robin, using the expression our twenty-three-year-old daughter Sarah recently taught me to replace “no.” Robin laughs hearing me say it, but I can tell he’s not sure why.

  I lie. “I’m happy sitting over here for now. I’ll come look at the videos later.” I know he doesn’t get it. I don’t want to see the videos. Too bittersweet.

  I don’t need to see the videos to remind me of the sunny day in May when we brought our first child home from the hospital. And I can still picture Michael’s birthday party, five years later, in the grassy fields of a nearby meadow. For our Treasure Island theme, Robin and I had given Michael and neighbouring children yellowing maps left behind by once-roaming pirates. Hand-drawn sketches led them to buried gold doubloons and to “dinosaur” bones bought cityside from a butcher at St. Lawrence Market.

  Then the diagnosis, the following year, 1993. Michael was six.

  In the nineteen years since learning Michael had fetal alcohol syndrome, we’ve tried our best. Michael, now twenty-five, has become a lovely, soft-spoken young man, kind of heart. Also a school dropout, unable to keep a job or function in the world without helping hands. He lives in a group home during the week, with us on weekends.

  “Mum, I want to show you my new carving,” says Michael. He has come out of his bedroom to join me by the fire. “I’m starting an owl, in the round.”

  Five years ago, Robin signed Michael and himself up for woodcarving classes.

  “Maybe this will be it,” Robin and I continually said to one another before each attempt to help Michael find something of interest, to build confidence, bring a little joy.

  After one year of classes, his large bas-relief Wolf Howling at Moon, carved from a thick piece of basswood, was finished. Third Place, Canadian Woodcarving Competition, Novice Category. The next year, Pike Swimming Through Waves, Third Place, Ontario Woodcarving Championships. This year, Bear Upstream with Salmon, Second Place, Ontario Woodcarving Championships.

  I walk with Michael to his bedroom. What I see is a chunky block of wood clamped to his desk, a few edges chipped away. Yet, similar to Michaelangelo who saw the Pietà within a block of Carrara marble, I know that when Michael looks at his piece of wood, his heart, hands and eyes are envisioning an owl within, wings spanned, eyes fierce and glaring, waiting to take flight.

  “I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do,” I tell Michael. Then, to my surprise, add, “How about taking a short break? Dad has some videos he’d like us to see.”

  Acknowledgements

  In early days, I took a rough draft of Not Exactly As Planned to writer Merilyn Simonds, asking whether my unpolished manuscript was meant to see the light of day. Fortunately, Merilyn saw the story I wanted to tell hiding within. She believed it was an important story to tell, but more importantly, she believed I could tell it. I just needed to find my “voice.” Merilyn taught me until I did.

  Editor Renate Mohr helped shape the story and bring more honesty to it. Detecting holes in the narrative, she encouraged me to confront events needing to be told.

  I put down my manuscript for several years, filing it away in a folder titled “Book, Unfinished.” Then Beth McAuley of The Editing Company stepped into my life. My “Manuscript Whisperer” gently nuzzled me back into the ring, with calm voice, skill and keen enthusiasm. Beth wasn’t going to let go of me until the manuscript was published. Her faith in both me, and the book, meant the world to me.

  Editor Jessie Hale, working at The Editing Company at the time, also provided much-needed encouragement and strong editing skills.

  In addition to early proofreading, Eagle Eye Ellen Eisenberg, aka Miss Needle-in-a Haystack, brought errant information to my attention that interfered with the flow of the story. Besides gratitude for her work and devotion as a friend, I owe her a large pack of sticky notes.

  A big thank you to Allyson Woodroofe for her stellar skills on the cover design. I could happily look at fonts and layouts with her for days on end. We almost did. And to Lynn Cunningham for following us through the design process with her watchful eye and ever-constructive comments.

  I am grateful to all who encouraged me to write the book, read early versions and provided useful feedback. They include Barbara Kopitz, Barbara Dresner, Sybil Faigin, Bonnie Buxton, Penny Lawler, Frank Meyer, Lorraine Filyer, Bob Eisenberg, Ellen Eisenberg, Lindalee Tracey, Lynn Cunningham, Steve Luxenberg, Stuart Ross, Rabbi Elyse Goldstein, Amy Marcus and my husband, Robin Christmas. My sister Barbara Kopitz, like no other, pushed me to carry on, no matter what external or internal tide was pushing back. She believed in me, and this book, from day one, and hasn’t stopped yet.

  Another big thanks to Lynn Cunningham and Andrew Hild for allowing me to include stories about their lives throughout the book.

  I am grateful to Andrea O’Reilly, publisher of Demeter Press, for publishing my book and guiding both it, and me, through all the hoops to make this happen. Angie Deveau has also been an important support at Demeter.

  An acknowledgement wouldn’t be complete without a group hug to the unsung hero parents — particularly mothers — of children with disabilities and special needs who might not have thrived without their love and devotion. It’s tough out there.

  Of course, my biggest thank you goes to Robin, Michael and Sarah, for giving me the go-ahead to share our family’s story, and to tell it my way. I hope you can feel the love for each of you oozing from (almost!) every page.