Every third day, I race off into the early morning to my job. There, I will hopefully find the engine, still and silent in the bay, the crew sleeping, the coffee pot primed and ready for the flip of a switch. These are moments of peace and quiet that are rare birds in the fire house, and in these dark mornings, I slide into my blue uniform, my badge, pull my hair back, and place my turnouts on the rig, smelling faintly of smoke, of sweat, of work I love. I place my mask on the harness, and check my air pack, making sure that should I need it, my lifeline to clean, cool air is ready and waiting. I comb through the medical kits-- IV set-ups, meds, intubation equipment, trauma gear, oxygen, cardiac monitor-- knowing that any second I could be called to the worst day of someone's life. This is my routine as I face the unknown of what the next 24 hours will bring. My shift will not look like an episode of "Chicago Fire". If I end up storming out of a burning building with a limp child in my arms that we heroically resuscitate in 30 seconds in front of a news crew, well, that would be time to retire. Nonetheless, I am constantly asked the same thing about my work-- am I afraid? Does it take a special kind of bravery to act in a selfless manner for another human? What does it feel like to sacrifice your sleep, your peace of mind, and sometimes even your health for another person?
This got me thinking. There's another musing about this to be written at a later date, about what it means to don the gear, what the weight of my turnouts on my back signify. I intend this post with no disrespect to my fellow brother and sister firefighters, for what we do with humility and grace under the most awful circumstances at times is tremendous. However, it's not every third day that I have to consciously steel myself, brace myself for what is to come, face the fire and not know if it's a warm crackle, or a fury about to flashover.
You want to know what bravery is? Ask a stepmom. Ask anyone in a blended family, for that matter.
It takes courage and tenacity to walk into an unknown battlefield, even though you might not have a clue that you should be wearing a flak jacket at the time. I can recall a wonderful lunch conversation with my future mother-in-law. I proclaimed adamant declarations of love and optimism for my future husband, his kids, and all the unknowns of combining 2 families, 2 careers, 2 households in different states. I eagerly recounted how I knew his divorce was difficult at best, how despite the conflict and anger that so often boiled into our lives, that I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that with love, positivity and kind intent, it would get better. It had to. No one could keep up that level of conflict and drama. In a few year's time, we'd all be friends, exchanging Christmas cards, laughing as we recounted stories of "our" children and all their beautiful wonders and idiosyncracies. In fact, I'd be a great peace-maker. I'd be a healing salve to the children, a rock-solid advocate and supporter to my husband, a ballast to all the rocky changes of their past few years. His ex and I would become allies and sounding boards for each other as the children grew into teenagers. My son would rejoice with his new siblings. Starting my career over would be scary at my age, but doable. Moving us all into his classic craftsman bungalow would be tight, but cozy; intimate. If you could dream it, by damn, you could be it! I can recall being more than a little shocked when my mother-in-law gave a hearty laugh, but with grave seriousness, looked me straight in the eye and said "Dacia. Oh, dear Dacia. You are a wonderful woman, and Matt is very lucky. It's obvious how much you love him... but do you have any idea what you're getting into?"
Spoiler alert: No. No, I did not. I had no idea.
I am not a graceful woman, by standard definition. I am not refined, gentle in manner, or subtly mysterious. I talk too much. I wear my heart on my sleeve, laugh without reserve, love big and fearlessly, and all too often, throw myself against walls of inequity and judgement without enough foresight to think, "this might just hurt a little." For me, moments of grace are revealed through every day acts. I hang onto the hopes that my step-children will ever again fling themselves into my arms, bury their face in my neck, and declare their love for me. This is bittersweet, because they used to. At night when I tucked them into bed and tell them I love them, I no longer hear it in return. They are caught in a loyalty bind. Their embraces are tighter, but without making eye contact they'll say "thank you." If someone accidentally lets an "I love you"slip out, they immediately become sheepish and appear guilty. It's heartbreaking.
Turns out, I'm not alone. This battle field, scattered with hopes and unrealistic ideals, is marked with an army of some of the strongest souls I know. Not just our children, step-children, and husbands/ wives, but a veritable tidal wave of strong step-parents, unknowingly joined through our shared experiences, each choosing bravely every day to never give up. Each day, choosing love, where love is not always a right granted and waved in your face like a victory flag. In fact, there's no such thing as victory in this theater, just small, sometimes imperceptible moments of grace and resilience.
Today was my kids' first day back at school after a long and beautiful weekend with their other parents. I know these are fragile times, this transition between families-- daydreams of how things used to be, dealing with the stark truth that the love is all there, but the physical reality is fragmented into pieces and divisions that the children did not choose. It's fact that no matter how bad a marriage and divorce was, all children deep down want their parents to be back together. I have friends in their 40's, whose parents divorced in their teens, that when asked, still say they would prefer their mom and dad to be married, no matter how beloved the step-parents and blended families are. There was a very uncomfortable recent period where my youngest would say at my return after every 24 hour shift, "so I guess you didn't die in a fire last night." It stung me, it angered my son, and it gave me real pause and concern about the deeper psychological ramifications-- and then I realized-- it's not that he wants me to die in a fire, but if I had to go, to do so in such a dramatic fashion would be a very guilt-free way in his mind for me to simply disappear, and his mom and dad to get back together. He's made similar statements about the untimely demise of his step-dad, whom I know he loves as well. The pain of enduring another divorce would be too great to bear, but our deaths might clear the air for a reunion.
My heart breaks for my children, all of them. I grew up in an intact nuclear family. I remember my mom and dad briefly discussing a divorce during a rough patch, and I can still feel the searing fear and grief in my belly when I thought it was a possibility. (They didn't, and to this day, have one of the most incredible marriages I've ever witnessed). I can only imagine what it is my children carry with them. They grow and heal with every passing day, but my husband and I never lose sight for a second that they are survivors of something that as children we never had to experience. I never lose sight of the fact that although I didn't even know of the existence of their father during my divorce and his, that my very presence in their life represents in some way the physical absence of their mother.
Which leads me to this afternoon. I walked to pick them up at school full of excitement to see them, feel their hugs and hear the bubbling chatter fill the house again, but also aware that today, more so than usual, the wounds are a little raw. In my step-kids' case, their mom moved after the divorce across the country, so comfort is not just a matter of swinging by for a hug, or changing a night up here or there.
As my youngest stepson rounded the corner and saw me, his face fell. We were both so acutely aware in that moment that my presence meant the absence of someone else. He gave me a limp hug, and when he stepped back, I saw the tears in his eyes. We took a minute to duck into a corner of the building, and I knelt down. I took his hand, and met his gaze, which was filled with hurt, anger, and confusion. "You miss mommy, don't you, buddy." Lips pursed, he nodded, and a few tears spilled over. We didn't speak, I just held him tight, this tender sweet child of my heart, but not my body. After a minute, he stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and grabbed my hand. It's a unique comfort to feel that end-of-school-day stickiness of a 7 year-old's hand in your own. We exited into the unseasonably bright day, to his waiting siblings.
All four of us, hand in hand, walked down the hill for home. After a few moments of silence as we took our bearings and settled into the rhythm, chatter erupted-- who saw what this weekend, who got the sandiest at the beach, the tragic story of leaving a beloved stuffed animal at a hotel. My son regaled us enthusiastically with tales of visiting a reptile show with his dad and holding a "giant" snake, and eating a pile of gummi sodas so sweet you could feel your teeth rot. We were a noisy, bouncing family phalanx. As we reached the house, the after-school conversation turned as it always does to the most critical moment of the afternoon--snack--and they ran in ahead. My youngest, as he reached the threshold, stopped and turned to me, his eyes still a little glassy, the hard resentment in his face replaced by a burgeoning softness and peace, and the hint of a smile. "Dacia, will you make me special toast?"
There are many ways to say I love you. My little big family, we're creating that language every day as we go along. I stood there for a moment in the waning sun, feeling my place on the muddy lawn, in this swirling, messy, glorious life. Grateful, strong, tender.
Brave.
