reading

My mother appears regularly to me in the form of a dragonfly—or so I like to think. I know this probably sounds like wishful thinking, or like some New Age talisman to ease the pain of grief. The fact is, I’m not sure. Go into any gift shop and you’ll find a whole array of dragonfly paraphernalia: coasters, key chains, picture frames, magnets—even solar-powered dragonfly lights. Even before my mother died, I had a beautiful dragonfly trivet hanging in my kitchen and owned a pair of dragonfly earrings. There’s something about them—what is it? Their gauzy gossamer wings, their prismatic rainbow coloring, their delicate, slender grace. There’s a sacredness to them, a fleeting beauty I’ve since learned has come to represent transformation and life’s ever-constant process of change. Some cultures, I’ve read, believe dragonflies to be the souls of the dead.

The other day, both of my children, Hudson and Lily, came rushing inside from the backyard. “There’s a bug on the door handle!” Lily screamed. When I went to investigate, I saw a perfectly still dragonfly poised on the screen door handle. And I’ll admit, I thought: Mom.

My husband, Mark, came to look with me. “I think it’s molted and left its shell,” he said. “I think it’s dead.” We all gathered around it. But when I touched it, it quickly flew away. My children know the dragonfly link I have to my mother, and though they’re too young to truly grasp the loss I feel, they often point out dragonflies to me when we’re out and about, kayaking on Hemlock Lake or waiting for the school bus in our front yard. “There’s your mom,” Lily will say proudly when she spots one, without a trace of sadness (she was barely three years old when my mother died). But every time she does this I’ll catch Hudson looking at me sidelong, gauging my reaction, checking for tears. For so long I tried to hide my sadness from my children, not wanting to worry them, until my therapist noted that by doing so, they might come to believe it’s best to hide all negative feelings and they might then learn to suffer worse when their own disappointments and sorrows come.

But here’s the thing: I know that no dragonfly pillow or necklace or lawn ornament will ever take away the pain of my loss. Sometimes the grief still feels so fresh and raw that I’ll stand under the warm water of my morning shower and cry until my head pounds. Grief is so private that it’s hard to take it out into the world. At night in bed when I can’t sleep, I’ll lie there and play a game. “Okay, Mom, if you’re really here, give me a sign. Anything. A flash of light. A car driving past, right at this very second.”

But nothing happens.

A couple things did happen, though, immediately after my mother’s death that gave me pause. After I returned from my mother’s funeral in Minnesota, I flew back to New York, exhausted. A few days later, I walked very slowly up to my office at the university where I teach. I hadn’t been up there in a long time, and classes would be starting back up soon. I didn’t care. After witnessing death up close, I found it hard to care about teaching proper grammar or different fictional points of view.

It was a hot August afternoon and I felt utterly alone. The greasy tang of Buffalo wings hung in the air, as well as the perfumey smell of peoples’ dryer sheets pumping out of vents. The sun shone down at a harsh angle and made maple trees, porch railings, and lawn chairs look surreal and hyper-detailed. When the students were gone for the summer, Brockport had an eerie, silent quality that seemed to amplify its sadness. I walked down Holley Street—not my usual route, but since my mother’s death, I’d begun changing everything about my life: grow out my short bangs, take a Pilates class, adopt new and unusual routes to familiar destinations. Holley Street was one of my new routes, lined with rambling, ornate Victorian houses turned student apartment rentals. It was a beautiful tree-lined street, but the houses had grown shabby and run-down. Plywood beer pong tables still adorned porches and beat-up bicycles were chained to each other like packs of wild dogs.

I was peering up at a stained glass window that had been smashed in when I stumbled over something. There, right in front of me, in the middle of the sidewalk, was a book: Better Homes and Gardens Sewing Book: Custom Sewing Made Easy. I picked it up; it was a hardback how-to manual with a retro 1950s look. On the cover was a red tomato pincushion, scissors, spools of thread, a tape measure, and a thimble—all the things I’ve always associated with my mother, an expert seamstress and quilter who could and did make everything, including my wedding dress. I clutched the book to my chest and brought it home.

My mind raced. Why would there be a book in the middle of the sidewalk? And what were the odds it was a sewing book? Sewing was not just a hobby for my mother; it was in her DNA, just like brown eyes and blonde hair. My mother had always wanted to teach me to sew. We had often talked about it, then laughed, since I could barely sew on a button. Someday, I always thought, I’ll have her teach me. Someday when I’m not so busy. When the kids are older. When I go out to see her for a good long visit.

The single most iconic image I hold of my mother is her sitting in front of her Singer sewing machine at the dining room table, pins held between her teeth, measuring tape hung around her neck, yards of fabric spilling onto her lap. This was where she was most at home, most herself.

Later, I relayed the sewing book incident to my family back in Minnesota via a series of phone calls. My father, so broken and incapable of almost everything after my mother died, could only cry, sniffle, and moan.

My two brothers, Jim and Mike—construction workers, hunters, great lovers of the outdoors—didn’t have much to say. Mike, younger than me by twelve years, had always accused me of looking for “drama” when there wasn’t any, and he responded in kind. Jim, the oldest, quietest, and least willing to talk about anything emotional, said, “I mean, I guess you could think it was a message from her.”

Then there was my little sister, Amy, my heart. She was the blonde to my brunette, the navy blue to my black, the uncluttered new-build to my cluttered old Victorian. Younger than me by three years, she lived about forty minutes from our parents’ house, had married her high school sweetheart, and had three beautiful kids I adored. Because my job had taken me to New York (in my line of work, you go where the job is), she and I mostly caught up by phone while we both ran errands and rushed here and there with our kids. When I told her the sewing-book story, there was a long silence, until she finally said, “Anne, oh my God! The same kind of thing keeps happening to me.” Despite our differences, we both agreed that it was absolutely a message from our mother: I still see you. I’m here.

About a month later, I was in Target shopping for some yoga pants and laundry baskets. As usual, I had to stop in the bathroom before I grabbed a cart. Inside the stall, lying on the toilet paper dispenser, was a small laminated prayer card—a pink oval with pressed ridges all around it. I picked it up, and read: As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you—Isaiah 66. I lost my breath for a second, and then a great warmth washed over my body as if I had walked into a tropical rain forest.

I pocketed the card, ended up losing myself in the bright, beautiful world of Target, and forgot all about it until later that night when I removed it from my back pocket, warm and molded to shape of my body. This time, I didn’t tell anyone, not even Mark. It was a quiet, private message, I decided. It was a whisper from my mother. It’s okay. Be calm. I’m here.

Yet another month later, I was driving between the three points of my daily triangle—day care, grocery store, campus—when I turned on the radio. I don’t typically listen to the radio while driving, preferring my favorite CDs: Amy Winehouse, John Prine, Frank Sinatra, Lucinda Williams. This time, though, I scanned several stations before coming upon a loud gospel preacher. “And Jesus said, ‘You are not alone! You! Are! Not! Alone!’ This is what I’m saying to you, people, when you feel sad and lost. This is what I’m saying to you! You are not alone.” I gripped the steering wheel before turning off the radio. Another message, I thought, from my mother? A peace settled around me as I drove home, made pasta primavera for dinner, put the kids to bed after reading to them from the original Pinocchio. But for the rest of the night, my footsteps felt airy. My fingertips seemed to touch everything with care and delicacy. When my head hit the pillow that night, it felt scooped in a cloud.

When I woke up, the feeling was gone.

Even though my mother came from a good middle-class family, sometimes I think she simply ended up in the wrong life. Despite her parents’ protests—or perhaps because of them—she let herself be lured in by my father’s daring bad-boy ways. I know that before my father, my mother had always been a good girl, and all of the photos I’ve seen of her support this: her prim Peter Pan collar blouses; her sweet, composed smile; the trusting way she gazed into the lens of the camera. The daughter of an award-winning butter maker and a nurse, she was raised in a no-nonsense religious family in a small Midwestern town seemingly untouched by the crazy, tumultuous sixties and seventies. When I used to ask her what things were like in Arlington, Minnesota during the Vietnam War, she’d shrug and say, “We didn’t really notice it much. I was working at Dad’s creamery and we just didn’t buy into all that anti-war stuff.” In the photos I’ve seen of her from this period, she wore hand-knit cardigans with shiny buttons, side-zip pedal pushers that accentuated her trim waist and hips, and a short but feminine haircut that made her high cheekbones and big brown eyes even more pronounced. Her hair was honey blonde; her eyelashes were long; her posture was poised and almost regal.

Her parents, Henry and Lucille Griep, were strict German Lutheran disciplinarians with six children. “If we didn’t eat every last thing on our plates, Dad would bang his fist down on the table so hard our glasses would rattle. I could feel it in my bones. If anyone defied him, he’d scream in their face until his neck veins bulged, then storm out of the room. He was like an army sergeant.” By age fourteen, my mother was in charge of cooking the family meals, while “the boys,” her three brothers, got to play sports and run free. “We girls had to do the laundry, clean the house top to bottom, everything. Meanwhile, the boys would be shooting baskets in the driveway,” my mother told me on more than one occasion.

Was this why she was drawn to such a party boy as my father? Was he the perfect act of rebellion against her authoritarian parents and her strict upbringing? My father even dressed the part of a “Rebel Without a Cause” in his tight white T-shirt, rolled-up jeans, Buddy Holly glasses, and black slicked-back hair. He was tall and thin. He was handsome and athletic. At one point, professional baseball scouts came swarming, eyeing him for the big leagues, but, as the story goes, just as things were moving closer to a potentially lucrative offer, my father was caught drinking one weekend and kicked off his high school team. It became his great tale of “almost,” his story of near fame and glory he’d tell over and over to anyone who’d listen.

Next to him, in pastel shirtwaist dresses and pale pink lipstick, my mother was such an innocent. But when I look very carefully at the photos, really study them hard, there’s something else in her eyes, too: a little sense of sneakiness, of getting away with something, a sort of silent flip-off to her good-girl upbringing. I wonder what she would think of my writing this. “That’s not true and you know it!” she’d say. “You’re always looking for more of a story than there really was.”

There are so many things I wish I could ask my mother, and part of what I mourn is the gaps in my history—and hers—that I will never fill now that she’s gone.

Did you and Dad have sex before you were married? (I may have been too shy to ask that one; I’m not sure.) Where did you stay on your wedding night? Did you have a honeymoon? Where did you go? And how did you ever afford it? Why did you marry Dad if you already knew he was such a heavy drinker? (I’d tried that one several times, but wish I’d pushed harder.) Was there anyone else you wished you had married instead? Did you and Dad use birth control? What did you see in him? Did he make you laugh? Did you snuggle on the couch and watch TV together? Where did you go on your very first date? Do you remember what you wore? When he went to barber school, did you ever let him cut your hair? When did you feel him start to disappoint you? Did you ever want to take it all back, start over, find someone else? Why didn’t you? What made you stay?

But like many women in my hometown, my mother was long-suffering and loyal. Divorce was something for weak and selfish people who couldn’t see the greater good their sacrifice would offer. From everything I know about my mother, she would endure whatever hardship came her way, all in the name of keeping the family together.

I don’t want to memorialize my mother as saintly or heroic, though. For every single pleasant memory I have of her—the sight of her big red station wagon waiting to pick me up after school during a blizzard, for example, or the gorgeous peach voile prom dress she made me with satin ribbons that tied at the shoulders—there are at least two or three unpleasant ones: “Do you kids piss me off on purpose or does it just come naturally?” spit out in a frustrated rage while my siblings and I beat on each other in the back seat of the car. “Dammit! I have five dollars to get through this week,” said through clenched teeth while rolling the grocery cart through the store, “so don’t be asking for a single thing, do you hear me?” Her crying at the back end of the trailer while my dad was out drinking (this one oft repeated).

It was push-pull living with her as a mother. She’d be kind and loving one minute, reading me a book while I sat on her lap or French braiding my hair before school, then the next minute I’d find her smashing dirty pots and pans in the sink while she cried and swore, hunched over the mess. “Your father thinks he can just go out and do whatever he wants,” she’d say, sniffling, “while I have to sit here with you kids! Do you have any idea how hard this is? Do you?” She’d brace herself against the counter with both arms locked stiffly at the elbows, cry some more, then eventually wear herself out and collapse in a chair. Somehow I knew even then that she wasn’t really complaining about us, only to us. The rants were for my father, of course, who was rarely there to hear them. When he did come wandering home after the bar closed, I’d hear my mother attempting a fight with him, but by then he was too drunk for any real sparks to fly. Some phrases did carry down the skinny trailer hallway and into the bedroom I shared with Amy: “…drinking all our grocery money up at the bar…” and “Don’t you even care about your own children?” and “…nothing but a goddamn drunk…” She’d hit him; I could hear the smacks and slapping. Thank God he never hit her back.

The truth is, I don’t hold any of it against her. Or rather, I understand now, as an adult, how desperately she must’ve been trying to hang on, how precarious every single day must’ve felt to her. But what I don’t understand, to this day, is why such a smart young woman would make so many bad decisions. By everyone’s accounts, my father was already an alcoholic in high school when she dated him; he was an even worse alcoholic when they got married, and although he eventually quit drinking, he was still an addict to the core and eventually took up another addiction. And another. And another. He could not have been an easy man to live with.

Because I lived far away from the cemetery where my mother’s ashes were buried, I felt the need to buy a memorial marker to have at my home in upstate New York. One afternoon in August, just a month after my mother died, Mark and I loaded up the kids and went to Sarah’s Garden Center on the outskirts of Brockport. Going to Sarah’s had always filled me with a sense of optimism; our children had grown up strolling the outdoor aisles in search of the brightest geraniums for our flower boxes or pink azaleas for the cool, shady north side of the house. Each Christmas, we’d pick a Christmas tree there, then we’d go eat at Barber’s Bar & Grill, where the kids played pinball and drank Shirley Temples and Mark and I ordered Buffalo wings and beer.

At Sarah’s, Mark and the kids gave me a wide berth while I searched long and hard through concrete statues of angels, spooky-faced and stern. There was Buddha in large, medium, and small. There were painted frogs, bunnies, ladybugs, gnomes, and, yes, dragonflies. Nothing was right—too religious, too goofy, too dreary—and I began to question the point of it anyway.

In the distance, I saw Mark and the kids pulling around a wagonload of flowers; Mark waved. I waved back at him, shrugged my shoulders, wandered around some more and eventually met them back at the register.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked, and pulled me close. He was aging well, with silvery highlights at his temples that contrasted nicely with his dark brown eyes. He’d started working out daily and was a fit and healthy 6’4”.

“No,” I said. “But yeah. You know.”

He nodded. The kids were sticking their fingers into a birdbath fountain, then splashing each other, then yelling at each other for splashing each other. Behind them, up on a shelf, I saw the perfect thing: a rooster. It was just the right mix of country charm with a bit of ironic whimsy—the rooster had a wry, skeptical look on its face. It was about a foot tall, made of gray stone with a matte white wash that accentuated its feathers. Mark got it down for me; it weighed a ton.

“Is that for your mom?” Lily asked. She turned to look up into my face.

“So, like a gravestone?” Hudson asked. Sadly, the kids had not attended my mother’s funeral, and as a result, my mother’s death remained less real to them, almost fictional. My children experienced, instead, the post-apocalypse of death: the silent, stunned nature of grief instead of the open outpouring of emotion they would’ve seen at her funeral.

Back home, I obsessed over where to put the rooster. I wanted to see it from the kitchen window when I was washing dishes or cooking, but I also wanted it somewhere semi-private and cozy. After wheeling the poor rooster all over the backyard in the wheelbarrow, I finally settled on a corner of Hudson’s little flower garden that he was kind enough to offer me. There, it would get southern sun almost all day, and would stand out in contrast to the dark dirt without being showy. Hudson’s flowers would bloom around it, and the idea of that made me happy.

Mother’s Day was gorgeous and sunny, and we all luxuriated in the backyard—Mark building a new garden bed, the kids playing Frisbee, me reading on the chaise lounge. From where I sat, I had a perfect view of the rooster, which sat wedged into the corner of Hudson’s garden. I wished I could say it always reminded me of my mother, but the fact is, sometimes I don’t even notice it anymore, tucked behind the newly planted purple delphiniums and sunflowers. It has become everyday, like my grief.

Mostly, I like looking at the pictures of their lithe vivid bodies, their gauzy transparent wings. I like their names: “Calico Pennant,” “Prairie Bluet,” “Powdered Dancer,” “Smoky Rubyspot,” “Flame Skimmer,” “Comet Darner.”

I see my mother in these words: calico fabric draped over her lap at the sewing machine while she made kitchen curtains; A Prairie Home Companion on the radio as she washed the dishes; darning socks on a wooden egg while she watched Martha Stewart make “effortlessly elegant” centerpieces out of floating orchids and tropical fruit.

My mother’s health problems began in an innocent, random way. For years my mother had struggled with a weak bladder, and whenever we got together, she’d beg us not to make her laugh because she’d end up peeing in her pants. “You kids, stop!” she’d say, crossing her legs and bouncing up and down. “I’m serious. Stop!” Whenever she’d sneeze, she’d say, “Well, there I go spritzing again.” Her mother, my Grandma Griep, had had the exact same problem, and whether it was childbirth that had weakened the muscles, or simply genetics, my mother could barely walk a few blocks before needing to find a bathroom. Amy and I already showed signs of the same problem. I knew every bathroom in every mall, store, park, running route, and restaurant. We always joked that we all had bladders the size of a walnut.

Amy had started working as support staff at a local hospital, and as a result, she’d become familiar with the various doctors and nurses, and with the procedures there. It was at the hospital that she’d heard about a fairly new and innovative solution to incontinence that involved inserting a mesh sling underneath the bladder to lift it back into its normal position. The mesh sling provided support, like a hammock, so the bladder wouldn’t sag down and cause constant pressure to urinate. The procedure was called an IVS Tunneler TVT. I never figured out what IVS meant, but TVT, I learned, stood for tension-free vaginal tape, the piece of mesh used in the surgery.

Before my mother had the surgery, I’d read mostly positive reports online. IVS was supposed to be a highly effective yet minimally invasive procedure that posed very minor risk of complications. Later, however, after my mother’s death, I found pages and pages of law-firm websites devoted exclusively to complications caused by defective mesh materials. According to one website, since doctors began using the mesh slings for incontinence in the late 1990s, the FDA had received over a thousand reports and complaints from patients. Many of the problems involved erosion, in which the mesh protruded into the organs and the skin split, resulting in pain and infection. In some cases, the mesh would completely detach from the bladder area and migrate into the vaginal walls or other organs.

Of course, none of us knew these things before my mother had the surgery; the FDA did not put out an official public warning until 2008, four years too late for my mother. Plus, many women had reported swift and successful results. Even the Mayo Clinic’s website, at the time, suggested the procedure was less invasive and less complicated than other surgeries used to correct pelvic organ prolapse (POP), the condition that caused my mother’s incontinence.

Although it may not have been medically urgent, my mother’s incontinence had begun to dominate her life. According to Amy, my mother could no longer go to the grocery store because they didn’t have a bathroom there and she couldn’t last through a whole shopping trip before she felt the urge to go. Just like my Grandma Griep, my mother kept an industrial-sized box of Depends stuffed in the bathroom cabinet, and her purse was always puffy with an emergency supply. She’d have to go badly in the middle of the night and couldn’t make it fast enough to the bathroom, so eventually she kept an ice-cream pail by the side of her bed (as she’d confessed to me with embarrassment). When I heard she’d finally made an appointment for the procedure, I was thrilled. Good for her, I thought. A positive, proactive move. I remember jotting the date of her appointment down on my calendar: June 10, 2004.

This was where things got fuzzy. At this same time, I was nine months pregnant with my second child. Though I felt great, I’d had various complications with the pregnancy every step of the way, including placenta previa early on, and later, an amniocentesis that revealed a genetic translocation in the fetus, which my doctor explained in the following manner: “It’s like you have all the right books on the bookshelves, but some of them are shelved in the wrong place.” After more testing, it was revealed that I also had the exact same genetic abnormality, and since I was okay, likely my baby would also be okay. Still, a cloud of worry hovered over the pregnancy after that, and we were plagued by fears of having a baby with any number of genetic diseases.

In addition to all of this, I was also busy chasing around our three-year-old son, grading stacks of final papers, and desperately trying to finish the novel I was writing before giving birth. It was an incredibly stressful and busy time, and as much as I loved my mother and worried about her, I was consumed with my own life.

As luck (or unluck) would have it, Lily was born four days early in what was called a precipitous birth—read: dangerously fast. One minute I was sitting at home on the couch eating an apple when I felt a tiny ping inside me, and less than an hour later I was holding my daughter in my arms in a hospital thirty minutes away. In all the photos, my hair isn’t even messed up; my eyeglasses are still on, and I’m wearing the same red T-shirt I’d been wearing on the couch. There was no doctor in the room, no time to get me off the gurney, and no time for my mind or body to process what was happening.

But the drama didn’t stop there. Later that night, when we were still debating what to name her (Lucy? Lily? Vivian?), one of the nurses noticed she was spitting up green. “That’s probably from the bile duct,” she said. Mark and I looked at each other, concerned. “That can indicate problems in the digestive tract,” the nurse said. “It’s something we need to get checked out right away. But don’t worry.”

Don’t worry? Of course we were worried, especially when Lily was whisked to the neonatal intensive care unit and no one came to report anything to us for what seemed like hours. Mark eventually had to go home and take care of Hudson for the night, while I was left with painfully engorged breasts and no baby to feed.

Later that night, I was led down to the NICU, but I wasn’t allowed to see my daughter yet, as she was still being tested. A stern, pink-faced pediatric surgeon explained to me in a perfunctory manner that he wasn’t sure yet what was wrong. As he scrubbed in at a deep metal sink, he said, “It could be any number of things. Worst-case scenario, cystic fibrosis. Or it could be a twisted or malformed intestine, which would require immediate surgery. Could be as simple as a meconium plug. Don’t know yet.” He glanced at me over the tops of his eyeglasses.

I crossed my arms over my chest. My breasts leaked milk all over my stomach, and milk dribbled onto my thighs. “Well, is she going to be okay?” I asked feebly.

He backed away from the metal sink, hands in the air. “Well, let’s say this. I don’t think she’s going to die.” That was the last I heard from him. I was sent back to the maternity ward, where I sat on the edge of my bed in the dim light waiting for someone to deliver the breast pump I’d been promised hours ago.

It turned out, thankfully, to be a meconium plug—the best-case scenario—but Lily still had to stay in the NICU until she passed regular stool, which ended up taking four nights. By the time we got home, I had no idea what day or time it was. I do remember a quick phone call to my mother. “Her name is Lily!” I said, to which my mother replied, “That’s so beautiful it makes me want to cry!” which, of course, she did. I don’t remember much beyond that. All I wanted was sleep and normalcy, neither of which was on the menu for the mother of a newborn.

The day of my mother’s bladder surgery came and went, but I don’t remember being aware of it. Only later, after talking to my sister and reading through my mother’s medical records, did I realize how much blood she’d lost during that surgery, how she’d spent six days in the ICU with blood pressure so low she required almost constant transfusions, how close to death she’d come. There I was with a newborn fresh out of the NICU and there was my mother, a thousand miles away, in hypovolemic shock after what should’ve been a same-day surgery. Amy told me later that our mother had lost so much blood, she’d looked gray, almost corpse-like.

According to her medical files, my mother’s bladder sling procedure on June 10, 2004 was “without complications and essentially no blood loss.” However, later that afternoon, she had a hypotensive episode, and the doctor was called in immediately. He noted, “She was complaining of increasing left lower quadrant pain.” An emergency ultrasound revealed “an acute pelvic hematoma that measured 14 x 8 cm.” She was rushed to the ICU for multiple blood transfusions after her blood pressure dropped dangerously. After six frightening days of constant vigilance, she was sent home after being declared stable. Nothing, however, was further from the truth. She never felt good after that, she said. She was always in pain. She had almost constant bleeding.

At the same time, back in New York, Lily changed from a sleepy, happy newborn to an inconsolable, fussy baby. She slept little, nursed often, and at night turned into a crying little banshee who sucked the life right out of me. Mark and I both spent hours walking her through the house while she cried nonstop. During this time, we hosted much-anticipated family visitors—I wanted everyone to see our beautiful new baby girl! Mark’s brother, Steve, and his family came to visit with their two kids three weeks after her birth; my sister, Amy, and her family came a couple weeks later, at my urging. The next month, Mark’s parents came for a week. These were all invited and very welcomed family visitors, except that Lily had become such a difficult baby that I could barely function. It was almost impossible to carry on a conversation or sit down to a meal with Lily’s constant wailing, much less entertain or enjoy our guests.

Of course, the person I really needed the most was my mother. I badly wanted her to see her beautiful new granddaughter. I wanted my mother’s simple attention and maybe a little bit of her help, too. I remember one phone call when I asked her for about the tenth time when she was planning on coming out. If she waited too long, I told her, airfares would go up. Mark and I would have to start teaching again and we wouldn’t have any time to visit. Lily was already almost three months old. My mother was missing all the good stuff: Lily’s first smile, her new little Kewpie-doll hairdo, her tiny little legs kicking around in the baby bath. I remember how quiet my mother’s voice got then when she told me she just didn’t feel good, that she was in too much pain. “Annie, I just can’t do it right now,” she said. But in my sleep-deprived, postpartum, hormone-crazed mind, I remember thinking: How can you not want to come and see your new baby granddaughter? How can you do this to me? Why don’t you care? My mother’s surgery had been weeks ago, I reasoned, and I figured she was probably just overreacting.