Easter: A Strange Dream and a Real Life Nightmare or: Why I Never Had Kids

I awoke from a strange dream Easter morning. I was at a truck stop on a long journey, and I had very little money. I made several trips around the store looking in corners for change someone might have dropped, all the while trying not to appear that I was doing so. I had enough money for a soda, so paid for it and then left.


As I was about to get into my car, a man appeared behind me with a wad of cash. Within a few seconds (as can only happen in dreams) he and all of his friends had taken up a collection for me. He explained that they knew I had been looking for dropped change, and wanted to help. "We're Christians." he said.


I really needed the money, but told him that I couldn't accept it because I am not a believer. I felt that their goal in giving me the money was that they were hoping I would become a believer - that I would think this was a divine spirit looking after me and be overcome with emotion and fall into the comfort of that wonderful make-believe world where everything is all part of some divine plan that the feeble human mind is simply unable to understand, allowing me to take false comfort where there is none.


The next thing I know, I'm at a beautiful mountain range next to a guy in a pickup truck, who is apparently part of the same group of men from the truck stop. They are Masons.


The man was very handsome, and seemed to be infatuated with me. I really liked him, but felt very sad, because I knew it would never work since he was clearly very religious and I am not.


He was showing me his property, telling me all about what he owned, as if to say "this can all be yours if you'll just fall for me". I couldn't do it.


I awoke with an awareness of just how difficult it can be to stay true to your convictions in a world that does not accept reality, and insists that you are mistaken in your adherence to the facts... a world that seems to believe you are missing something very real that you can only see if you abandon logic and your mind's ability to override the primitive, fear-based instincts that have allowed the human race to survive for so long, yet now seem to be poised to destroy it.


The day seemed to fly by. I took dinner to a friend who was working and we went to see a movie afterward. I came home after midnight, and for the first time since the wee hours of Sunday morning, took a look at my FaceBook messages.


There at the top of the status updates page was a message from a dear person I went to school with, pleading for prayer for him and his family. His oldest son drowned yesterday while swimming in a lake.


I sent a message that I was so sorry to hear of this tragedy, and that I knew he would be in shock for some time, and that I wanted him to feel the love that I and all of his FaceBook friends have for him.


A request for prayer, I believe, is simply a request for moral support. I can give that without prayer, but either way, it doesn't lessen the pain. It might distract from it a bit, but it doesn't lessen it.


Another schoolmate, (or rather, a church-school mate), lost his son to a drug overdose last year. His ex-wife (Henry's mother - I've written about Henry on my blog before) is a FaceBook friend and frequently shares her struggles in dealing with his loss with us. The first year is the most difficult with any loss, and this Easter, she was struggling with the first Easter that she had been without her eldest son


I never had kids, at least not biologically, so it might be assumed by most that I couldn't possibly imagine the pain of what it would be like to lose a child. That's probably accurate. I have, however, experienced the loss of an almost-stepson, and it's something that many who know me don't know about.


When I was in my mid-20's I was dating a man who was 16 years older than me. He had two kids. His oldest, a son, was an extremely intelligent, talented young man. He could play the guitar, write poetry and song lyrics, compose music, and he was planning to go to culinary school to become a chef. In fact, he was already working at a resort as a cook.


He had enlisted in the military so he could earn some money for school, but before he ever set foot on a military base, he was struck by a drunk driver while riding his motorcycle home from work. He died at the scene.


He wasn't all that much younger than me, but I felt very maternal toward him. We had had many late-night conversations with him asking advice about everything from his girlfriends to his career aspirations and even his belief that he would die before he was 21. Sadly, he did.


When I lost my father, it was difficult. I was 15, he was a young 38. He had been very ill and the one stabilizing factor in my brother's and my life. It felt like the earth had dropped out from under my feet when I lost my dad, but I didn't burst into tears - his death was imminent and we had all known it for some time. It was the most painful thing I had experienced at the time, and I always thought there would never be anything more difficult. I was wrong.


When what I call my almost-stepson died, not only did it feel like the earth had dropped out from under my feet, but it also felt like both of my lungs had collapsed and my heart had exploded. Tears and sobs escaped from me involuntarily. There was no stifling them, no maintaining composure. Screaming and sobbing uncontrollably and feeling every bit of strength leave my body is all I remember. That, and calling someone I wish I had not called for comfort, as that person has never been able to offer any, but when you feel as though you're lost in outer space, floating further and further away from any level of functionality, you'll reach out to just about anyone to help you become somewhat grounded again. I suppose to that end it worked. Nothing grounds you like a cold-hearted response.


I became friendly with my almost step-son's mother. As painful as it was for me to lose him, I could only imagine how difficult it must have been for her to lose her firstborn, her son. If I could identify any one deciding factor in my decision not to have kids, this would have to have been it.


I have not had an easy life. So many things have taken place, from childhood to the present, that were simply out of my control and devastating. A few difficulties in my adult life were of my own making - that is to say, my inability to deal with certain situations created some unbelievably worse situations. But, for the most part, a large number of freak events (accidents caused by others, a fire, almost drowning, and a long list of other traumas out of my control one might find only in an adventure film) have occurred throughout my life, leaving me with a feeling of vulnerability to just about anything that could possibly go wrong.


I suppose on some level, despite the fact that so many seemed to think I would make an excellent mother, I felt the need to avoid motherhood in order to guarantee myself at least one devastating event in life: the loss of my child.


There aren't many things we can control in life. Natural disasters, man-made disasters, violent behavior from others, traffic accidents, illness... these things can happen to me, you, or those we care about. They can happen to anyone. But they can NOT happen to my children, because I don't have any.


My friends who have children would no doubt tell me that motherhood is so rewarding that it's worth any pain one might experience if the unthinkable were to happen - that the time you spent with your child would be so precious that it would always outweigh any pain you would experience if something were to happen to your child and they precede you in death. They're probably right, but I think I've earned the right to spare myself the possibility nonetheless.


I have one nephew. I have seen him in person only once: when my brother and his wife came to town for my grandmother's funeral. He's grown a lot since then, and while I wish I could see him more often, I console myself with the fact that it's probably best to keep my distance, something that is easy to do since I am both the black sheep of the family and a non-believer, and my nephew's parents are both very active in their church.


I have a lot of friends who have children and/or grandkids. They're crazy about their "Aunt Angie", and even though my friends are mostly religious here in the bible belt, they know that I would never interfere with how they want their kids to be brought up and/or taught when it comes to religion. I've gotten quite close to these kids, and I truly do think of them as nieces and nephews, but there are times when I feel myself worrying about what they are going to be exposed to at school (I worry less about those friends who home-school their kids) and I always, ALWAYS have in the back of my mind the fear that I am going to have to watch one of my friends deal with the pain of something happening to their kids, and experience the pain again myself of watching a young life ended much too soon.


Those who know me do not consider me to be a fearful person. I can be quite brave, bold even. (Perhaps even foolishly so at times.) But when it comes to losing young people in my life, I am an absolute coward, and I feel no shame for that. That's just how it is.


In real life, dead people don't wake up. Sure, you hear about "miracles" where a baby starts breathing again after being declared dead and the mother holding it for several hours. The truth is, the baby was never dead, just had an imperceptible heart rate and imperceptible breathing. There is no resurrection for innocent children or anyone else. There is no comfort in losing a young person.


That doesn't mean that losing an old person is less painful, just that you can at least console yourself with the fact that they had a long, productive life, the opportunity to experience a wide variety of what life has to offer, and an opportunity to share themselves with the world. Not so with a child or young adult just beginning their lives, full of possibilities never realized.


True, they'll never have to worry about being abused in a nursing home or losing their home in an economic crisis. No bankruptcies, prisons, divorce, no losing their own children. But the fact that they never had the opportunity to try their hand at life and beat the odds and lead happy, successful lives in a world that is not often friendly to those who live outside of the status quo, that is a devastating loss that no soul should ever have to bear.


I know, that same argument could be made for why those of us who have so much love to give should have children. To that I say: Save the joys of parenthood (and the sorrows) for those who haven't already used up their tolerance for emotional devastation. For me, the only guarantee in life - perhaps the only one besides death and taxes - the guarantee that I won't have to suffer the loss of my child... it sometimes feels as though it's all I've got left, and I'm holding onto it.


A.