Motherhood for the 1st Time at Age 65
When life gives you lemons make lemonade
What would our world be like if women’s reproductive organs could be insured by Lemon Laws? Imagine a universe where female bodily functions could be easily insured, and flaws were repairable or replaceable?
I used to dream about this. Beginning in adolescence, I was not healthy in my lower latitudes. Fertility was not my strong suit; I was a perfect candidate for replacement parts.
In the 1990’s, after many years of trying for a baby and medical intervention, we were childless. On Christmas Eve, my first husband left me, leaving a vague post-it note on my pillow. In short order, “We” became “Me.”
Soon his new girlfriend, also my good friend, was pregnant. I was alone, in my 30s, childless and friendless, trying to put the pieces back together.
We were young. As my husband’s affair became a relationship, our friends decided to exit my life because of circumstantial complicity with the dishonesty of my spouse. I was lonely but also oblivious, denying that the man I loved would betray me.
For four months, on weekends, I would open a lounge chair in the front yard of our home. I sat there for hours, under the beautiful cypress tree, taking in the fog, waiting for my husband to return. By then his future ex-wife was in her second trimester, and I had heard little or nothing from him. In a strange way the fog amplified the silence in my soul, I wanted so much for this not to be my reality.
Small towns thrive on the commercial value of ordinary gossip. As such, in our small town, the truth of the “real reason my husband left me,” was revealed to me by a stranger. The person who told me thought for sure I already knew, but my veil of denial went up in flames that day; my world was rocked, just like the earthquakes that frequented our town.
I contacted our estranged friends to confirm the truth. Weeks later an invitation to my husband and his girlfriend’s baby shower arrived in our mailbox. Was this a cruel joke or obviously misdirected? Someone mistakenly thought I was long gone, when in fact we were not divorced yet.
While it took me years to move on, especially with my faulty reproductive organs, I flourished in my profession. Time ran out for me to be able to conceive, but looking back now, perhaps I had no time to begin with at the moment I was born. Child- bearing is not an entitlement; my destiny was meant to be.
When I eventually met and married my second husband, we chose not to have children. For us, this was the best decision ever. For me, it alleviated my fear that he too would leave me for a fertile woman.
With the “children” chapter closed, we moved onto a vibrant and happy life; nothing is missing. We left that small town and established a remarkable happy “we” in a large city 4,000 miles away. We shall spend the rest of our days here.
Fast forward 30 years.
My second husband and I feel like we’ve “won” the game. Our affection for children has been poured into the lives of six nieces and nephews. These offspring want for nothing. We enjoy great relationships with our entire family.
I also have a swimming family. My swimming family consists of upwards of 300 adult U.S Masters Swimmers who comprise a team in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. We share time together daily. Our heads are often in the water, but I’m a chatterbox so I find ample opportunity to keep up my teammates’ lives.
During COVID, Abbas Karimi, a swimmer from Oregon, arrived to train with our team for two weeks. Abbas, an Afghan refugee, was born with no arms. In 25 short years he had experienced a lifetime of suffering, surviving four refugee camps, and countless other hardships and atrocities. Abbas was rescued by a kind-hearted American who had sponsored him to come to America.
It was a bright summer day when Abbas jumped into the pool with 50 fellow adult swimmers. It was magical. Like a lost fish, he had found his school. Abbas appeared to be younger than his years and was quite shy; but he was a phenomenal swimmer.
There is a whole cadre of athletes worldwide, who are largely overlooked. They compete each Olympic cycle in the week following the Olympics for the able bodied. Abbas’ swimming involves leg and core strength; he is more efficient in the water than swimmers who have arms. And, Abbas has raw talent.
What became a visit became a home for Abbas, and a family even larger than his own birth family. His dreams became reality when he swam for the Refugee team in the Paralympics in Tokyo Japan in 2021.
Following Tokyo, Abbas returned to Ft. Lauderdale to continue his quest for greatness in swimming. Entire teams of managers are needed for elite athletes, and I had some extra time and curiosity about this inspiring young man. Abbas is the most able person I know, and doesn’t notice people staring at him, especially while driving.
Yes. Driving. It took about a year of instruction, and driving authority oversight before Abbas was granted a drivers license. He does everything with his feet. “Everything,” in case you were wondering.
I became his business manager handling most matters outside of the pool. Then I also became his “mum”, given that his own mother still lives in Afghanistan.
A few months ago, I became “MOM”, Yes, “MOM.” I never thought it would be possible, but this was “music to my ears.”
Confused, I didn’t notice the evolution of what he called me at first. After all, “mum” sounds a lot like “mom. “
I respectfully inquired with Abbas because I know his mom is still involved in his life. But he is adamant I am his American mom. When I reflect upon the past year, I now know how this happened. Read on!
It began in the summer of 2022 when Abbas was preparing to visit Afghanistan, to see his wife for the first time since their wedding in late 2021. Abbas claimed he knew all about the birds and the bees and was quite proud of his prowess in the bedroom.
This was a front. Finally, the day before he was to leave, he innocently sat me down because he needed some “advice.” I realized that I needed to tactfully help him navigate some basic female issues.
I ended up drawing a diagram of women’s anatomy on the back of a drugstore receipt, which embarrassed all who were present. The lesson was swiftly completed; I’ve never talked so fast in my life. “Whew,” I was in a medium state of fluster when I abruptly decided to go purchase intimate products. While surprising and embarrassing, this conversation (and later instruction on use of products) was necessary for his mental well-being, and for the launch of his marriage.
Never in his native culture would Abbas have learned enough or been able to ask questions of his own mother to become a confident lover. When Abbas returned from his trip, he had truly become a husband, and clearly, he had become a man.
Abbas and I consistently spend several days a week together, training in the gym, preparing and eating meals together, and doing all the things a mother and adult son would do together. The rest of his days are spent with coach Marty. Marty and I are each childless; we jokingly call ourselves “co-parents.” Marty and I take turns at being the “good cop” or the “bad cop;” our parenting skills are on the same page. We have great communication, yet each of us is exhausted by our new role.
Early on we had a series of traumatic dental appointments which restored Abbas’ teeth. When melancholy strikes, we spend hours on the beach talking it out. We watch movies together, he knows the lines to every Bruce Lee movie, and he has the karate moves down pat. I made him go see Barbie with me.
I took Abbas for his first pedicure, or “was it a manicure, he has no arms,” he laughed with me. We went shopping for his birthday, and “no” was not in my vocabulary. We went to a local discount store and enjoyed selected items of clothing with designer labels, to compliment his usual wardrobe of hand me down shorts and T-shirts, or old swimming swag.
I’ve attempted but nominally succeeded in teaching Abbas about money; money management is not my strong suit; I know how to spend it, not count it. Abbas never asks for anything. Never. I give what I can from my heart, and whatever is returned is so much greater than I ever could have imagined.
For several months now my love for life seems to have a broader dimension. The world is a consummately beautiful place. For the first time in 66 years, I feel like I am a mother. Long dormant maternal instincts have crept up on me, and it feels awesome. I care about Abbas, as if I had given birth to him.
Today, Abbas and Marty had a “tiff.” It involved a major breakfast failure yesterday on Marty’s part. They argued about whether eggs should have catsup on them. Abbas said “absolutely,” Marty said “no.” It was my turn to be the” good cop.” My solution was to take Abbas to breakfast after practice. I texted Marty this picture:
As I kissed Abbas goodbye after breakfast, I reminded him of several errands he needed to do. I worry incessantly (especially when he drives in the rain) and I celebrate his incremental successes constantly. He brings immeasurable happiness to my life; more importantly we have created contentment and harmony together. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Abbas is my son.
