Three Little Birds

September 19, 2024

I want to tell you “Don’t Worry About a Thing”—because every little thing really is alright.

That song was a staple of our living-room sing-alongs and dance parties, and it even became part of your physical therapy. As you declined, the song’s slow, steady pace was something you could keep up with.

Later, when you were in a wheelchair, it was still a living room dance party go-to. Behind you guiding the chair we could do twirls  and turns.  Facing you holding hands we could do dips and swings.

I was thinking about that song today, because, looking back, it’s curious—all the things we stressed out about with Natalie.

Over the years of your illness, we worried constantly about Colombia. You weren’t able to travel back. Communication with the lawyer was sparse and confusing. We never knew what was actually happening, and I felt like we should be more on top of things. But I wanted to respect your role in that world. We seesawed between pretending it wasn’t an issue and bursts of frantic, futile activity that only created stress and changed nothing.

I cajoled and coaxed you about getting Natalie’s US citizenship documents. Finally, when she turned eighteen, I asked you if I could contact her to see about starting that process. You agreed—but she declined my offer. I was crushed and dismayed.

Then there was the time you told the attorney in Bogota to buy you a ticket to Colombia. That came out of nowhere. I had to intervene to get it canceled, and it took so much time and energy. On one hand it felt like I was humiliating you and treating you like a child although that was not my intention.   On the other hand I was so frustrated and impatient with the whole situation.

The truth is, you could not have survived that journey, but the saddest part is that you didn’t have the capacity to know that. You got lost just walking around the apartment complex; you would never have made it through an airport alone. The brain swelling from flying would have surely killed you.

How could I walk that tightrope?

I know how deeply you beat yourself up for not sending money to Colombia. All the things you came to this country to do had been taken from you. You wanted to earn a degree from a U.S. university, yet the brain tumor took you out of graduate school just six credits short of your master’s degree. You wanted to provide for your brother, for Natalie and Catherine, for your extended family, but became too disabled to work. For decades you worked relentlessly to come North for the American Dream—only to see it slipping through your hands.

For the first few years after your diagnosis, we talked openly about your loss and your sadness. We cracked dark jokes about the American Dream and the U.S. healthcare nightmare. Then, over time, we stopped talking about it—except in those brief, stressful flurries of activity that led nowhere.

I regret that I did not honor your sacrifice.

I want you to know now that your sacrifice was not in vain. You did achieve the American Dream—and more.

This came to me because I talked to Natalie last night. There is so much love between us. It always feels as though she, Laura, and I were simply meant to be a family. Our connection is remarkable.

I am humbled by how readily she loved and accepted me. I marvel at her courage. how as a twenty year old on her first journey to the US, she flew to another continent to spend three weeks with you and me, two people she barely knew, with no idea of what she was walking into.

Today I realized that you and I worried about all the wrong things—the property, the documents, the lawyers. We never worried about whether our daughters would get along, or how our families would blend.

And the truth is: it’s magical. There’s celestial grace. The heavens opened, the angels descended, and we were showered with blessings.

Natalie and Laura and I adore you. We adore one another. We will share family bonds for the rest of our lives.

You and I never dreamed it could be this divine—because we were so busy worrying about the mundane.

I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love. ― William Blake