Julia’s JAM

When I really get down to it, there are not that many reasons to live. For me, right now, there is just one main reason: I’m simply not done yet. Life is simpler than people give it credit for and in the end (and I have seen the last chapter of this book, a few times over) there isn’t that much you are left with that complicates. 

This book, my life, had a sucky ending. I’ll see, maybe it hasn’t gone to print yet and there is still time to tweak the ending a bit. But, much like my typical reading habits, I started off with good intentions, the first few chapters first. Soon my curiosity got the best of me and I skipped through (cheated a bit) to the ending. As disappointing as the ending turned out to be, I am determined to go back and re-write what I can. 

There is a catch. I am only a contributor to this book and not the main author. I am keenly aware that my name won’t be on the binding or on the front cover. If I am lucky I will get an honorable mention on the gratuity page. As meager my part maybe, I’m simply not done yet. Here are a few of my notes for chapters four through the last chapter. You can consider it cliff notes/cheating just in case we find ourselves side-by-side in the metal chairs at the Wednesday night book club a good 70 years from now. 

Just to recap… In chapters one through three, we have already read that a small yellow baby was born to a beautiful yellow woman in the land of morning calm. The beautiful woman (actually, a girl) sent her defenseless babe off on the same day she was born to a life she had hoped be full of promise – in a land she only knew of from glamorous TV shows and possibly fashion magazines. A decision she would soon regret and then make over again much later. The infant was actually exactly what the young Jewish white couple in New York thought they were looking for. The purchase was a bit tricky as the beautiful yellow woman was actually pretty wishy-washy (obviously a genetically dominate trait), but the New Yorkers had the funds and wouldn’t be outbid. (Lucky for the New Yorkers, the system favors Benjamins over Deoxyribonucleic acid.) The defenseless babe grew to be even more beautiful than her mother, only with a bigger rack (I can embellish if I want to!). Chapter three ends when the semi-mature beautiful bigger rack woman (previously known as “defenseless babe”) – let’s now call her Julia – graduated university and was diagnosed with a terminal illness. She is shipped off to the holy land where Dr. and Mrs. New Yorker kindly drop out of the picture.
 
Now the cliff notes for the part yet to be written…

• The terminal illness is nothing a little bit of umbilical cord blood can’t cure. It comes at a cost though. Although she has a chance at living, she is no longer genetically connected to BYW (Beautiful Yellow Woman), albeit still genetically related to the land of her birth. A hard blow and ironic twist. 
   
• Julia’s love of her life is tired of his busy 7am-10pm life and is eager for adventure. The apartment she purchased becomes their apartment and they begin a healing journey of adventure that they dreamed up several years prior. After all, she had bought the place for its generous kitchen; something she knew might tempt him. 
   
• They go on this hiking trip in Brazil, that adorable bungalow in Southeast Asia, the oasis in the Gulf, and together they sip sweet tea from the vendor in Pune. Then the teaching trip to their homeland for a few years. Let’s not forget the lobster in Maine, the Moroccan restaurant down the street, and the Thai trip that was once postponed. Somewhere between it all, Julia earns her graduate degree and love of her life gets that bike he keeps casually mentioning. They will “settle down” in many different places over the years.
   
• He’s an amazing father and she is given the opportunity to show off her ability to give and teach unconditional love without ever being taught by example in the same manner. They complete her; fulfilling a childhood dream and life-long aspiration. He had once told her that it doesn’t matter how they come to him and he is right (although she would have never believed him had she not experienced it herself). His parents (nothing like the New Yorkers of Julia’s early days) have prepared him well for this task and she admires this about him. 
   
• At some point, she might get to meet BYW. Maybe LOHL’s (Love Of Her Life’s) BYW as well. That would be very good. The four replacements too.
   
• She grows old. Very old. So does he. They’ve seen the entire world, a few times over. They’ve watched their children grow, their families grow too. 

My life is a book and I have read the final chapter, but it sucked and it needs some major editing. First, I need to go back and write the rest, because I am simply just not done yet.
 
See you at book club…
 
Julia

Per Julia’s request - she wants some laughter out of you all.  She warned me not to post anything remotely sad or depressing.

Having had this blog window open all day, scrounging the dusty corners of my brain for something cheery, a good joke, anecdote, or at least some slap-stick - I came up completely empty.  So youtube had to come the rescue:

Julia’s newest source for a good laugh:

I just found this blog although I have known Julia since she was a small baby. I remember the first time she came to Israel, I was 12 and she was the first Asian infant child I had met. I was surprised when my mother explained that we were now cousins. I was surprised in sense that a child is when they get a new toy. A new toy that would intrigue my friends for sure. Maybe make them jealous.

The adults had a same reaction. I remember my Uncle taking a smell of her and remarking that her odor was that of any Jewish baby. Our neighbor asked how much it cost to get such a baby. People on the street would stop and ask about her. Much to her nature she was easy to smile in response to the attention.

My mother has said that my first question about Julia was, “Where is her Mother?” That is when I was introduced about the sad nature of human beings. To a young boy who was raised in a country of adult wars, I cannot imagine something worse than a mother who could not keep her own baby. I had a hope then (still remaining) that we could replicate that for which she lost.

Quickly, Julia taught me somethings much different about human beings. She is a baby sister for me. In reading this blog I am unaware of who the person in some of these writings are. Every person who knows this woman without her blog has very little exposure to the pain that she shares here. I always wondered how she could so easily love again, so easily care again, and so completely fill my life and the lifes around her with happiness given her own tremendous losses. She is a woman who has loved without return in many essential relationships. But she continues.

In reading all of the kind comments on her blog I see how many people out there care about Julia that I cannot reach. I feel compelled to share some of the Julia I know with these people. It is a hope of mine that in knowing her we can work together to bring her through this horrible days. Thank you for Julia and John for allowing me to do it.

I wonder how many of you know how beautiful Julia is? How her hair reflects the sun, how her brown eyes are welcome to any, and how her laugh is too much well-intentioned to ever insult. I can remember many times when friend of mines would talk of her beauty. I felt then and now possessive over her. As a big brother I want to put in a bottle her beauty and release to only the most deserving. She is more generous to share.

I hope that you have seen her smile and hear her laugh. I hope that you have engaged in debate with Julia. That you have seen her quick mind at work. That you have been witness to her amazing compassion and generosity. I have been touched by her. Many people have been.

I hope that you will continue to pray for her.

Truly Yours,

Ranaan

Please pray for Julia.

I don’t know what else to say.

In Love,

John

Day four on the verge of tears. Have you ever had that feeling? The lump is in your throat and your heart is about to jump through your chest. But you’re so worn out that you don’t even have the strength to cry anymore?

I never had this problem before. Typically tears come so easy for me, too easy mostly. I am the person who left the movie “Finding Nemo” with mascara lines from crying. “Snow Dogs” had me sobbing so hard I am sure I devastated a few of the kids watching with me. I cried at almost every birthday that I had. My first reaction, when overly happy or overly sad, touched deeply, impacted, or just plain stressed out is to cry. I have cried so much lately that maybe I have spent all the tears that are allotted to me in this life-time. I hope not.

I wish I could cry. I wish I cried at my last blast count two days ago. I wish I cried when my aunt said she has arranged for me to come home for Pesach. I wish I cried when he told me he would visit soon. I wish I cried and I wish I could cry now… but I am too tired to cry. I am left longing for the release that tears give me, too tired, too weak, too overwhelmed to cry.

My friend, Amie, is very wise. She’s a KAD and what I have dubbed my “brain twin.” We often speak on very similar lines. Today she said to me….

“When you don’t have a Family (biological, adoptive or otherwise), then you have to make the world your Family.”

We were talking about my “transformation.” She was telling me how she wanted to post on a listserv that I frequent that I was in need of prayers after she received an email from two of my dear friends updating my other friends about a recent brush with death. She refrained because she wasn’t sure how I would feel about putting all my leukemia laundry out there for everyone to see. I explained to her how I used to be so private, but I have realized how much I need the support of anyone who is willing to give it to me. How humbling this has been, painful even. And how tremendously good it has been… how loved I feel.

It feels so much better to me to give rather than to receive. When someone tells me, “I was worried about you,” a piece of me wants to cry, wants to apologize, and even feel embarrassed. I am not sure if this is a normal reaction. I am not sure if this warrants a therapy session or if the fact that my most recent illness has changed this all for me is the true abnormality.

The concern, the love, the prayers, the hand-holding, the unconditional everything, etc. I can’t even begin to sum it all up or make a list long enough about everything that I am thankful for. Thankful even seems like such a shallow word for this deep and profound emotion I am feeling. I have written so many posts in the past about how amazed I am at the generosity around me. My attempts to thank you all. But they all seemed too insufficient to publish.

But, I can’t wait any longer for the right words to come. My languages are too limiting. I can’t save another draft post for later. I have to satisfy with the fact that I can never repay you all, never thank you enough, never return the favor to be sufficient enough a return for what I have received.

How good it felt to come back to a facebook wall filled with love and prayers, a blog full of loving comments, emails and voicemails, cards, and visitors. How good it feels to be in a Family. Loved and cared for, touched by you.

Thank you, John, Leila, Ranaan, Gilad, Tovah, Margie, Carrie, Maya, Shira, Doda, Ajumma, Tim, Amie, DaeJun, Sefi, Noam, Jae…. this list is just a tiny piece of a much, much larger group of people who I am forever grateful to.

Tears can’t be pushed back and pain can’t be tucked away. I thought it would fade away slowly, if I just had patience. And yes, I could wait forever… because relief would feel so sweet. Day by day I chant to myself, trying to convince my soul with my most persuasive abilities, that this pain cant last forever. Hang on, Julia. Hold out. A little longer.

Waiting won’t help. I have learned to be so patient. Relief stands in my view, it’s smug face directed towards me, just out of reach. Like an owner teases his puppy with the bone so desired. And I reach a little more, and a little more each time…. forever hopeful that maybe I will luck out .

I can never rely on my luck. (Neither, apparently, can I a mother.)

So I brace for something more severe. I’d rather take another bone biopsy. I’d rather install another central line, another j-tube, another intubation, anything and all of it together at once… but there is no substitution, no bargaining, no deals to be made.

Just me and my old friend, heartbreak. Yes, heartbreak, remains. And at least, in loneliness’ shadow, at least something remains. Here with me.

Today I closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. I pushed our clocks back and I revisited myself. My healthy body, my warm heart, and my full soul. The missing pieces were back, snug in their place… where we started, where we belonged together.

I closed my eyes and I was sitting at our kitchen table on Sunday morning. Abah’s face in the newspaper. Emah with her coffee cupped in her hands, her knee bounces up and down slightly as if she is still hushing her baby - always a mother. The melon in the white bowl. The bagels in the basket, the lox and onions and capers on the glass plate. I pushed back our clocks and I was a daughter again, I was a child, looked after and loved.

My eyes stayed closed and my mind shifts to a lover I let go. I pushed back our clocks, too. Your embrace would save me, heal me, and your concern like a Lord over His follower. A religious finding you are to me, a homeland revisited, and a kind voice at the other end.

But clocks never stop, unless they die or they lie. Clocks keep ticking and so did my mind. Where was I when I lost these precious people? I was enveloped in my own pain, so physical and so real. I was consumed by abnormal cells and toxic juices being forced into my heart. I was enveloped, I was consumed, I was strangled by a reality that blinds me from what was really happening. From what really mattered.

My eyes fly open as I choke on my vomit, which drips down my chest. My hands grasping the hospital bed bars, knuckles white, and a nurse rushes in. Reality is a bitch, grief is a bear, and me… I am a visitor to my past.

Israeli, Yael Naim, is the voice behind the new MacBook ad with one of my favorite songs. Hooray Yael!

There was a post recently on a mostly Adoptive Parent e-group. A prospective adoptive mother posted a link to a web site that is written by a Korean adoptee. This PAP (prospective adoptive parent) described the web site as “refreshing” and “beautiful” and the author as “intelligent” and “well adjusted.” I eagerly followed the link …

It starts off with a small flashshow of a white baby and puppies and baby foot prints in blue, butterflies in pink, swirly clouds and other such happy fluff …. and the words “There is no greater gift than the gift of a child.” Then you enter the web site which is a Q&A of sorts of Miss Well-Adjusted’s life. At first… I thought it was meant to be funny. (Mostly because of the image of the white baby — why was the baby white? When the web site is about her life?) But actually, I was wrong.

As I read through I was somewhat disturbed. I began to feel bad for her…. as she describes how she never felt comfortable being Asian and always felt more white. She describes herself as a “Banana” (yellow on the outside and white on the inside). Each question is answered with a somewhat odd disclaimer of “I love my parents and my parents love me…” as if she must fear that this is not assumed and that what she is about to say (about visiting Korea, about searching for her birth mother, about her own family plans…) would somehow be an attack on her adoptive parents. That she must seperate herself from other KADs and feeling what we all feel and being who we are (a different race than our parents) for fear that it might somehow negate the love she has for her family. Reading between her lines… I wonder what she feels or fears so intensly that she feels the need to make this statement over and over again. And then in describing her feelings as a 9 year old on a homeland tour — about how disgusted she was by the smells of Korea and how ”most often the only toilets we could find were simply holes in the ground that required you to squat over them and flush when you were through.  I will never forget the overwhelmingly powerful stench of urine, which taught me a very important lesson about holding my breath.” It’s as if describing her unattachment and disgust with Korea would prove her gratefulness in being American. Sad. There are a bunch of other examples I could give, but I really do not have the author’s permission to be posting half her web site here. But that was not the disturbing part…

The disturbing part is why the PAP on the e-group described her in the manner in which she did. I mean, does she know this woman in person? How does she know she is well-adjusted? And who is she to make that judgement? Is that this PAP’s goal for her own child? That she forget that she is Asian, feel uncomfortable around children of the same race as she is, feel the need to qualify her love to her adoptive parents to strangers, feel alien and disgust in her country of birth? I sure hope not. That should not being any parents’ goal for their children.