When I was 10 months old, I had a hernia operation. The hairline scar grew with me throughout adolescence--and so has my love for giraffes.
Let me explain. It was during that hospital stay when my parents presented me with a tiny little plush giraffe--one that looks almost like it was crafted in the style of a Precious Moments character and was probably almost as tall as I was at that age. I was fascinated. As soon as I was able to form words on my own, I called him "Joshy".
Fast-forward through various holidays, birthdays, and souvenir-shop endeavors... from family members, friends, and even acquaintances... I was surrounded by giraffes. Drawings, figurines, stuffed animals, bedspreads (ironically enough, I don't actually particularly fancy animal print patterns), I amassed quite an inadvertent collection.
I even remember the best Christmas gift my parents had ever gotten for me. I don't remember exactly how old I was though-- nine? We were walking through a local warehouse-turned-flea-market... and in one of the stands in a display case (it's funny how I can still picture it in my mind so many years later)... on the top glass shelf on the left-hand side, behind a folded pocket knife that was meant to look like it was decorated by a mosaic of ebony/ivory... a forest scene, perhaps (it's neat how as you grow and learn more, your mind is able to fill in the gaps of childhood memories), rested the most beautiful snow globe I had ever seen in my life.
The base was etched with jungle foliage--deep shades of green; it reminded me of the movie "Jumanji". Underneath the dome stood an acacia tree (I was a giraffe "know it all" and decided that it just HAD to be an acacia tree since that's their favorite snack) beside a mother giraffe and her calf. The thin filaments of confetti in the water gave off an aura of enchantment. But there was more. When the silver oblong crank on the bottom of the base was twisted (my parents had the man behind the counter try it out), the song "Close to You" by The Carpenters chimed out in a lilting fashion (depending on how many times the gear triggers were raveled). That was the first time I witnessed real magic.
We left without it, though. I was crushed. I remember moping the entire way back home in the car--sandwiched between my older sisters in the back seat--probably playing a not-so-endearing 'game' of elbow wars and "she's taking up too much room and squishing me!". Forlorn and grumpier than ever.
When we went back some time later--it was already gone. My heart shattered.
After a while, I forgot about it--at least in the foreground of my mind. Months went by and winter came around. That Christmas--after all of the other gifts were unwrapped--there was one more with my name on it. "Pookie" [stop laughing; it's what my whole family called/calls me and I still don't quite understand why]. It was the snow globe. My parents were the ones who bought it from the vendor--they just held onto it all that time--letting me think it was gone forever.
The giraffes always symbolized my Mom and I... and "Close to You" became our song. I've moved around quite a bit since then... even across the country for a while... still, that snow globe stays with me.
But this story isn't about the globe.
It's about a different journey... one that has been in the works for over a year now. I was waiting for it to sink in. And by all other facets of realization--it should have by now. But it hasn't. Not yet.
My Mom--the same woman I've inherited my overabundant love of sentimentality from--the one who could turn a few dollars into a most cherished treasure just by putting some extra special touches to it... like a handwritten note or a stuffed-animal introduction and full imaginative backstory (yes, Mom, I'm talking about "Millie Ford" the giraffe)--she needs me now. After all of the hell I put her through growing up... even as far back as her high risk and complication-filled pregnancy with me... I finally have a chance to say 'thank you' and 'I love you' in a way that I never thought would be possible. I'm lucky.
In just a few weeks, I'm going to be the bone marrow transplant donor of the woman who battled through all of the worries, fears, emergencies, hospital stays, and obstacles just to bring me into this world. Her blood cells are going to essentially become replications of mine--we'll be sharing DNA on a whole different level. I hadn't realized that our song, "Close to You" would foreshadow an eventual symbiosis--it's even more perfect now.
The other day, while I was sitting downstairs at the kitchen table, my parents walked up to me with a small box--my Mom with a knowing smirk on her face. There might have even been the hint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye--the one she can't quite wink properly... I looked at her, not sure of the occasion, and lifted the lid. Inside was a delicately formed gold necklace... two giraffes... a mother and her baby... their heads nestled together to form a heart.
She said that she wanted to find a small way to show me how much it means to her that I was a match for the transplant and willing to go through with it [as if I ever wouldn't have]. My sister, Tristina (the same one I was undoubtedly elbowing in the back seat of the station wagon on the melancholy drive home from the flea market that one afternoon when I was nine years old) helped her find just the thing. A forever reminder of our Mother/Daughter journeys throughout the years and all of the adventures we have yet to look forward to together. I started to cry. It's perfect.
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Why do birds suddenly appearEvery time you are near?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
Why do stars fall down from the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
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I love you, Mom.
I love you, Dad.
[I even love you, Jenny and Trissy.]
We're going to get through this.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 