Another Letter Arrives

September 2, 2____,


Dear Samantha,


In all that talk yesterday about names, I got sidetracked from the real purpose of these missives to you. This has been a rather odd week in the life of your TT. Early this week, when your mother called me with the fabulous news that you were on the way, I have to say I was walking on air. Although I’ve said absolutlely nothing about it – I am not a meddling mother, whatever you might hear to the contrary, because God knows I had enough meddling from my own mother –I have been yearning for you for simply ages. It’s been so long since your mother was young, and your mother, well, she was what we all called an “old soul.” It seemed as if it were hard for her to have fun. She always took things so seriously, martialing all her baby dolls into neat rows every night, arranging them just so in their beds and admonishing them to “go to sleep this instant.” She used to ride her bike endlessly around the same loop of streets, never even willing to venture into the neighborhoods on the other side of the road. I never worried about your mother getting into any kind of trouble, though, so for me, that was a relief. But then, as she got older, I began to worry about that very fact. See, I think it’s natural to get in a little trouble sometimes – nothing really dangerous, mind you, just some minor mischief.

So, I’ve been hoping she would decide to have children, although part of me was fearful that she would be a rather oppressive mother (remember those poor dolls, shunted off to bed and ordered to sleep!) My mission would be to make sure she didn’t ruin the life of the poor child with her orderliness and her passion for “doing the right thing.” After all, who else would feed the little one ice cream before dinner, or let her play in the sandbox even when the sand was wet? Who else wouldn’t care if tops and bottoms of clothes didn’t quite match, or if hair wasn’t cut and curled just so? That’s where I come in, the presence of a safe haven for the free spirit, the one that coaxes the playfulness and independence out and cherishes them.

This is the point where I tell you that my week took a turn for the worse, just a few days after I found out about you. I was in Dr. Sandy’s office – she’s been my doc for ages now, and I’ve always taken pretty good care of myself.

“Perfectly healthy as always,” Doc Sandy tells me each year after my physical.

“Won’t see you soon!” I always call our cheerily as she leaves me to dispose of that nasty paper gown and get dressed.

“I hope not!” she’ll reply, with a smile and a wave. But this time, she sat down on the little stool and picked up my hand.

“What?” I said guardedly, knowing just from the look of her round little Asian face that this wasn’t going to be good news.

I was right about that. A “mass” – that ubiquitous term doctors use to describe large, foreign things growing inside your body – was attached to my ovaries. Long story short, that “mass” is the dreaded cancer, Stage 3, they say, which does not refer to the door behind which my grand prize awaits. Unless you consider the grand prize all kinds of vile treatments intended to prolong my apparently shortened lifespan.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Dear Samantha. I have not given up on myself – not by a long shot. I’ll go through with any of the vile treatments they plan to dish out. Life is just too precious for me to give up on it – especially with you on the way. After all, I have a real mission now – to save you from your ever loving mother! But, just in case, I thought I’d write down some of the things I’d like you to know.

So the letters were born. I hope I can read them to you someday, but, if not, they’ll all be here in this pretty book, and you’ll know where to find me.

Endless love,
TT