Logan Clare: An Origin Story

You were born in the midst of a May snowstorm, but that’s hardly the most remarkable thing about your birth story. Bringing you into this world took years of planning, hoping, and dreaming. The road to your arrival includes a tragic love story, the emergence and destruction of a superhero, a high tech scientific laboratory, a pandemic, and a myriad of plot twists worthy of a full length feature film (or perhaps even a trilogy).

For years your Father and I talked about having children. We tried, in the way many young couples do, but were somehow unsuccessful in growing our family beyond the two of us (and the menagerie of pets we’d acquired). At one point we were successful in conceiving the child who would have been your older sibling, but they were gone from the portrait we were painting for our future almost as quickly as they had first appeared. While we were still grappling with that loss, life suddenly threw us one of the most cruel and complex curveballs we could ever imagine.

At some point in your life, when you encounter difficulty, someone may say something like – “look, it’s not brain surgery!” While their point may be to belittle the extent of your struggle with a flippant retort, the remark they are making is rooted in the fact that brain surgery is really freaking hard. And it doesn’t matter if you’re the actual brain surgeon (although yes, their role is exceptionally difficult), the patient, or one of the people who has to sit by and wait to find out how successful the operation was… brain surgery is, indeed, really freaking hard. And your Dad had three of them in under a week’s time.

The first operation was largely successful, as 80% of the tumor invading his brain was ultimately removed. The second, also a success, as the massive hemorrhage created during the first procedure was repaired. And the third, also successful, as the neurosurgeon was able to relieve the swelling that developed in the days following the first two efforts. But as your Dad began to wake up, it was clear he was no longer himself. The series of operations had changed the very fiber of his existence.

Now I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself, but your Dad, who had previously been just a “normal guy” (normal to others, anyways, I always thought he was pretty exceptional), had emerged from brain surgery as an actual, honest-to-goodness superhero. Some of his doctors brushed it off as a drug and surgery driven delusion, but I saw it with my own eyes. No tall buildings were lept in a single bound, but marathons were conquered and, with the drive and determination your Dad displayed, I think he could have taken on a building if that’s what he’d put his mind to.

For 28 months, your Dad fought everything that was thrown at him. He knew that the cancer was unbeatable, but that didn’t stop him from fighting. All the while, we continued to dream about growing our family… we continued to dream about you. As the cancer (along with the medicine he was taking to fight the cancer) threatened to destroy that dream, he did what any good superhero would do. He found a way to outsmart the villain. He called in super friends (in our case a fertility doctor and her team of scientists) so that when the time was right, you could come to be. A lot of parents worry about the day when their child will come to them and ask “where do babies come from?” My only concern about that day is that I won’t be able to accurately explain the science behind the miracle that is you!

Your Dad desperately wanted to meet you (and, maybe he did — you’ll have to tell me when you’re older). Together we imagined the person you would grow up to be. We talked about all of the fun adventures we’d have as a family. Whose eyes you’d have (they’re mine). Whose smile you’d have (it’s his). It breaks my heart to know that you will never have a photo of the two of you together. It hurts that you won’t get to squeeze him or wind your tiny fingers in to his beard and tug at it as you fall asleep in his arms. And I’m sorry that you’ll never get to hear him tell you any of the Dad jokes he’d been practicing for years. While there are so many things he won’t be here to give you, he wanted to make sure that you did have something special that was just from him: Your name.

I didn’t know if we were expecting a daughter or a son until the moment the doctor placed you in my arms. But your Dad had told me two years prior that our daughter would need a good strong name… Logan, just like The Wolverine. I told him that I would need to meet you first to know if the name fit. Not just any little girl can be named Logan, so I had to make sure that was really your name. It’s a superhero’s name after all. And I needed to make sure that you exhibited the same super strength as your Dad.

The world will forever talk about the year 2020 as a year of chaos and struggle. The history books will talk of a pandemic that swept the globe and a wave of civil unrest that swept through our nation. They’ll talk about how the economy collapsed as millions lost jobs. Baseball was shut down until July. Restaurants, theaters and public places were closed and boarded up, and families were forced to distance themselves from one another (also – murder hornets were briefly a thing). But, in the midst of all of this chaos… there was you.

You were born in the middle of a May snowstorm. I delivered you without a partner because your Dad had died, and the threat of a killer virus made it too dangerous to bring in a pinch hitter. I had a broken leg, which contributed to the complexity of your arrival. You were six weeks early and weighed less than 5 pounds. The nurses described you as feisty. There was no denying your super strength from the moment you came screaming into this world. You are a mix of the best parts of both of us. You are strong. You are super. You are Logan.

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She’s not Megan

My dog recently suffered a loss. It was the kind of a loss that I know a little something about. The loss of a partner. The loss of the one you used to “do life” with. The loss of a best friend.

image1 (2) — Megan & Duncan, December 2008

Duncan first met the love of his life in 2008, about an hour after Travis and I adopted him from a shelter in Ohio. Megan, my parent’s black lab/golden retriever/who the hell really knows mix was about three at the time, and just aching for some canine companionship. And Duncan, an abandoned puppy who never knew his mother was in desperate need of some maternal guidance. Their eyes locked, their tails wagged in unison, and in that moment they both discovered exactly what had been missing from their lives. Each other.

While Duncan would go on to spend most of his life in New York, and Megan lived out all 14 of her years as an Ohio resident, the pair spent a significant amount of time together. My parents, who regularly traveled the I-90 corridor en route to visit my sister in the greater Boston area, would drop Megan off for days or sometimes even weeks at a time. She’d settle in to our menagerie with ease, somehow even co-existing peacefully with our cats in spite of her overtly murderous nature. Likewise, when we were scheduled for extensive travel, we’d make arrangements for my parents to care for Duncan. When we’d split them up after a long, or even a short visit both would spend the subsequent days pouting before eventually returning to their individual routines.

When Travis was diagnosed with a brain tumor in 2016 my parent’s asked if there was anything they could do. “Can you come get Duncan?” I asked, knowing that dealing with the impending chaos would be easier without worrying about our dog, and knowing that they’d be at our door step as fast as their Hyundai could carry them. Duncan would remain with them throughout much of the 28 months of Travis’ illness. Even during the periods where Travis enjoyed relatively good health it was nearly impossible to juggle constant medical appointments two hours away and properly care for a dog (especially one as spoiled as Dunc). He missed us, that was apparent each time he visited, but living with Megan was hardly a consolation prize, as he flourished with her by his side.

As the end of Travis’ life neared I let both of my parents know that I was going to need Duncan to help me get through the immediate aftermath of losing my husband. I worried a bit that he wouldn’t come willingly, that he’d spent too much time bonding with Megan (not to mention bonding with my Dad’s running schedule, and my mom’s endless supply of dog snacks) to leave and return to a life with me and the cats. Much to my surprise and delight, he immediately fell into my routine (or lack there of). It may have had something to do with the fact that in those early days after Travis died I walked, a lot. I didn’t know what else to do so I just wandered. I’d grab Duncan’s leash and we’d just go. My step-counting app would read 6 miles, and I’d have no idea how it got there. Duncan was far from reluctant in helping me through this particular manifestation of grief that I was experiencing, he likewise had no trouble assisting me through the long naps that followed the long hikes. We were a good team.

Unfortunately, Megan didn’t fare so well. My parents reported that she didn’t want to take walks or really even leave the house. She was approaching 14 years old and with the large quantity of lumps distributed throughout her entire body she seemed, at that point, to be more cancer than dog. They feared her end was nigh and asked if they could bring her for a visit. Her visit would end up lasting the better part of three months as she suddenly perked up once Duncan was back in her life.

Her vision and hearing seemed to be significantly impaired, which explained her hesitance to take walks without Duncan by her side. He displayed an incredible amount of empathy and patience for his companion as she slowed down. Our six mile days ended as Megan couldn’t quite keep up with that pace. Duncan didn’t seem to mind slowing down for her, adopting her schedule, and giving way to her needs. The dog who regularly stares me down at 6:00am, demanding that we walk now (right now!), was instead patiently waiting for Megan’s aching joints to wake up each morning, as shorter mid-day adventures became our new routine.

I was perfectly equipped to handle this sort of doggy-home-hospice situation, having just been through it with my own human companion. I was working mostly from home making me available to walk Meg whenever she was awake enough to go. I was occupying a house with which Megan was familiar, having spent the majority of her life there. And I was dealing with significant grief that included feeling a lack of purpose having spent the better part of three years providing care for a man who was no longer in need of anything from me.

Each day Megan seemed a bit slower, and a little less capable. But she was eating, drinking, playing and smiling so it seemed best to just let her live her life rather than providing any intervention. And then, on a warm Sunday evening in June, Duncan watched helplessly as the love of his life suddenly lost the ability to stand up on her own. Just hours before they’d hiked a solid two miles and danced in a river together, and now this. He stared at me, his eyes begging me to do something to fix her and make it better, while somehow knowing that there was nothing that could be done. He said goodbye in the same room where they’d first met nearly 11 years prior, and stood by quietly as my dad and I helped her into the back end of my Subaru for her last ride.

Duncan’s grief seemed to manifest itself in much the same way that mine had a few months prior, with a need to wander. We’d find a trail to hike and he’d insist on taking every side trail we encountered until the miles began to rack up. It was 7 miles that first day, 6 the next, we’d hit 8 on Wednesday that week. We’d get home from a walk, he’d nap for a few hours and then begin asking for another walk. How could I say no? Each time my parents visited he looked for Megan hoping she’d get out of their car. Instinctively he knew she wouldn’t be there, but he still looked, just in case.

A few weeks back a dog did emerge from their car. You see, while the options for finding reliable human companionship after you lose your life partner are few and far between (and sometimes creepy and terrifying), there are shelters and rescue organizations that can help you find new four-legged friends pretty quickly. They’re just there, waiting, wagging and wanting your love. And while they can never replace what we’ve lost, they seem to need us as much as we need them.

Ms. Halle Berry, my parent’s recently adopted awkward, gangly, chocolate lab/who the hell really knows mix, immediately locked eyes with Duncan and embraced him as the mentor she’d been waiting her whole short life to meet. Duncan’s greeting was less than enthusiastic, but not entirely unfriendly, and he’s even allowed himself to enjoy her company on occasion during their brief time together. He’s approached his relationship with this new recruit, in a manner similar to most of his other dog encounters. Duncan can be friends with other dogs on Duncan’s terms and when it’s convenient or desirable for Duncan. It’s often confusing for the other dog especially those for whom Duncan assigns the status of “outside friends,” which is exactly what it sounds like. Duncan’s “outside friends” are dogs that he will only play with outside, immediately ignoring and shunning them as soon as they step inside a building.

Halle is a wonderful companion and has started to fill in small pieces of the Megan-sized holes that were left in my parent’s hearts. She seems bound and determined to make Duncan fall in love with her, courting his affections in every way she can think including punching him, dropping toys on his head while he sleeps, chewing on his face, and body slamming him as she runs full force across the yard. Mostly he ignores her, occasionally acquiescing to her advances with something that resembles friendship. Unfortunately for Halle there’s just not much she can do to change Duncan’s opinion of her (although less face biting might help some). In Duncan’s mind there really are only two dogs who have existed in this world aside from himself – Megan, and everyone else. And thus she suffers from the same fatal flaw as every dog he’s ever met. She’s not Megan.

She Already Knows

On my 33rd birthday I wrote an open letter to my 23 year old self discussing the crazy twists and turns my life had taken during the decade of time that had just passed. I woke up on my 35th birthday with a similar desire to write to 25 year old me, but just couldn’t bring myself to tell her what her (0ur) life looks like today. How do you tell someone who is just about to get engaged, buy a house, and land her dream job that exactly ten years from that day she’ll be single, unemployed, living in her childhood home, and checking virtually all of the boxes on the crazy cat lady score card? While I seem to be falling short on providing proper guidance to my younger self at the moment, there is no shortage of advice being sent my way. With plenty of wisdom to choose from I thought perhaps I could cobble together something for her (me) from the advice of others, but I wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

I could start with the friend of a friend who told me that she was “a mess when her husband left her” but that she “reclaimed her life” by doing all of the things she couldn’t do when they were together. Even though my husband didn’t exactly leave but rather died, I put her advice into action and tried to think of things that the confines of my marriage had prevented me from doing. All I could come up with, however, was watching movies with Ashton Kutcher in them and wearing colorful pants. Travis and I were so insanely compatible that those are literally the only two things I could think of that he despised, that I might actually like. And after perusing the Kutcher compendium on Netflix and browsing the vast world of floral leggings available in online stores, I’ve come to the conclusion that he may have actually been saving me from myself with these two very reasonable deal-breakers.

There was also the more practically focused advice from the 91 year old widow who cornered me after a church service and recommended that I invest in a life alert button since I’m “all alone now and could fall and be on the floor for days before anyone knew.” While being seen as a peer by a nonagenarian could be a shock to 25 year old me’s system, at least then she’d know that she’s not alone in all of this. My new friend had further offered to help me gain residence in her retirement community, but I had to stop short of filling out the application when she told me I wasn’t actually eligible to live there until I was 55. Perhaps someday 65 year old me will be able to reach 55 year old me and let us all know if this gels with our future plans.

Of course I also need to consider the potential impact on the cosmos if one of these letters were to somehow actually reach her (me). I’m not exactly sure how time travel works, but I’ve read enough science fiction to know that confronting one’s younger self with bad news is a recipe for disaster in the form of disrupted timelines and alternate realities. 25 year old me was a real go-getter. Who knows what calamities she’d inadvertently set off in pursuit of changing her fate. Worse yet, what moments of joy she may have caused us to miss as she sought to avoid her (our) own sorrow.

No, it’s better not to try and reach her. It’s better not to warn her of the things that lie ahead. After all, she already knows everything she needs to know to get through what’s to come. She knows she loves Travis and that being his wife is something she both wants and feels called to do. But she also knows that he’s not her better half (and she is not his). She knows that considering herself to be only a fraction of a person in need of finding her missing piece is at best a tired fairy tale, and at worst a socially imposed mandate that makes those living a life without a partner feel somehow incomplete. She absolutely loves the life they’re building together, but she knows that what makes their relationship work is that they are both entirely whole people who don’t complete, but rather compliment each other extremely well. She already knows that if she is ever without him she will miss him terribly, but that she can indeed go on without him because she’s strong and will only become stronger with the love and support he’ll provide during the years she has him by her side. 35 year old me may require constant reminders of all of this, but 25 year old me is a lot smarter than she (I) thinks (thought). She already knows.