What's in a name?

Elizabeth Bone is an inspiring and strong woman, and she has been a dear friend of mine for a quarter century. She wrote this beautiful essay, which I'm honored to share with you this Mothers Day. Thank you, Elizabeth!

“I had a dream about Sophia last night,” my mom said suddenly from her hospital bed. I was confused, not sure exactly what she was referring to. Then I remembered our conversation from the day before. My mom had asked me what I would name a baby. This would have seemed like a cruel question from anyone else. I was still recovering from an emergency surgery a few weeks before, where I lost my baby, a fallopian tube, and possibly the chance to ever have children. My stomach ached from the surgery and my heart ached for the loss of life. After five years of marriage, spent traveling around the world as naval officers, my husband and I were ready to start a family. But it wasn’t just that we were ready to be parents – I knew deep down that my mother was not going to be able to fight her aggressive form of lung cancer forever. She wanted to be a grandmother more than anything, and I knew I could give her that experience if I could just get pregnant fast enough. And I did, but then tragedy struck.

Answering my mom’s question the day before, I had quickly replied, “If it’s a girl then her name will be Sophia and if it’s a boy….” My mom had stopped me. “It won’t be a boy,” she said confidently. I had to laugh. My mom was as strong-willed as they come, and it was one reason her doctors said she was still alive three years after being diagnosed with an aggressive type of cancer. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if she managed to will me a baby girl. And after having two girls herself, boys were foreign creatures for my mom, in her eyes rambunctious, messy foreign creatures definitely not suited for her orderly world.

A few weeks before, still getting used to the idea of being pregnant, I had doubled over in pain one night while at home. The pain was intense, searing, the kind of pain one never forgets. My husband was on a business trip in Singapore, but I knew if I could just drag myself over to the phone I could call the one person who could make this all go away – my mother. To this day, I wonder why I didn’t think to call an ambulance instead. My mother lived 40 minutes away in another state, and more importantly, was completely weakened by her debilitating cancer treatments. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was in a life and death situation – an ambulance would have been the much smarter choice. Emotionally, though, I needed my mother. I made it to the phone and called her – and then slid to the floor after she said she would be there right away.

My mother’s face said it all when she arrived to rush me to the emergency room. As a nurse, she could quickly assess the medical situation, and knew it was dire. As a mother, she could feel my pain. In her expression I saw extreme sadness, not just for the pain I was in, but for the loss of a dream we both had shared. Although we had never talked about the cancer treatments not working, I believe my mother knew then that her time remaining on Earth was short.

Shortly after I had returned from the hospital, my mother entered the hospital for what would be her last time. Our conversations stayed light, except for the conversations about children. My mother wondered aloud what I would look like pregnant. She talked about things her friends had told her about their daughters getting pregnant. She talked about her dream of Sophia. Although in my head I was screaming, “Stop talking about this, it’s never going to happen now,” I let her talk about it because I knew that she needed it, needed to visualize what my life as a mother would be like.

Not too long after our “Sophia” talk, my mom’s one remaining lung finally gave out and her brave fight ended. She had left me with many gifts as her legacy – the gift of fighting hard for the things that you want, the gift of a strong woman role model (one that didn’t think twice about rolling down the car window and telling the person in the next car to turn their music down, much to her children’s dismay), the gift of always being there for your children while still taking care of yourself (my mother started running for the first time at age 50 and ran a half marathon shortly after; she also completed her PhD while undergoing chemotherapy). I didn’t know then that her last gift to me had been the gift of hope.

Elizabeth with Sophia and Connor

As the next two years following her death unfolded, my husband and I found our hope and faith tested again and again. The IVF treatments were not only unsuccessful; they also made me incredibly sick. I found my hopes raised and dashed as we got the dreaded phone call from the infertility clinic that yet another treatment had not worked. My husband’s conviction that we would someday be parents helped me get through – and on the days when I doubted his faith, I remembered my mother’s dream of Sophia.

Three years after my mother passed away, we received the news we had waited so long to hear – we were finally going to be parents. We decided not to find out the sex of the baby. But as I grew larger and larger, there was still one thing that didn’t make sense. One piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. Everyone, from the nurses in my doctor’s office to the hairdressers in my beauty salon to the guy behind the deli counter, was convinced I was having a boy. As boys predominantly run in my husband’s family, this made sense. But yet….what about my mom’s dream about Sophia?  

In late February 2005, my labor pains began and my husband and I grabbed our hospital bag. Ten not so short hours later, our baby was born, and the doctor declared, “Congratulations, you have a new baby girl.” I should never have doubted the power of motherhood.

Fast forward seven years later and I have a beautiful, sweet little girl who makes us laugh and smile every day. Sophia Mary Bone has her grandmother’s name, “Mary,” and I can only hope some of her traits. And yes Mom, that rambunctious, messy boy that you were so afraid of – I have one of those now too, and Connor is one strong-willed three year old. He gets that from you.

Olé

When I first visited the south of Spain at the age of 20, I probably didn’t know the difference between “flamingo” and “flamenco.” But during that trip, my dear friend Raquel’s father who I call “Tio” (or Uncle) introduced me flamenco music, and to a guitar master named Paco de Lucia. It was instant love for me, and from then on I couldn’t get enough flamenco. On future trips to Sevilla I sought out live performances in bars and theatres, and for the past two summers Raquel and Tio treated me to concerts in the exquisite gardens of the Alacazar palace. At home, I played Paco de Lucia cds, studied flamenco dance for several years, and dragged my husband to flamenco festivals and even a painfully boring film on the subject in a tiny independent theatre that he still groans about. But nothing could have prepared me for the experience of last night, when my husband more than made up for mocking me all these years and gave me a wonderful gift: front row seats for Paco de Lucia’s concert at Strathmore Hall.

I knew we were in for a treat, especially with the incredible acoustics of the Music Center, but didn’t realize the effect watching someone I’ve so long admired—a true musical genius at the height of his craft—up close would have on me. I’ve been lucky enough to see musical legends like Eric Clapton and Prince in concert before, both incredible talents who can certainly tear up a guitar. But witnessing Paco de Lucia’s fingers effortlessly glide over the strings gave new meaning to “while my guitar gently weeps” and actually made me weep. Plus being up front meant I could catch the subtle exchange as he orchestrated his peers, guiding them with a small smile or nod, and feel the reverence they had for him. I could appreciate the expressions of the singers, pouring out their souls with words of longing for love and places I remember like Sevilla, transporting me there. I could almost touch the dancer who spun and stomped his feet so fast I thought he might create smoke. It was amazing, inspiring, and humbling all at once, and I wish each of you could have been there to experience it with me. If you haven’t ever heard anything by Paco de Lucia, please check him out and tell me what you think.

Rich in books

I’m ashamed to admit that it took chaperoning a fifth grade class trip to the Rockville Memorial Library for me to remember how much I love the library. The old Rockville library, the site of the new District courthouse, was a huge part of my childhood. The stairs in the building were open, and as a little kid I was terrified of falling through the spaces between them. But that didn’t prevent me from looking forward to leaving with a bag full of books, feeling rich. Throughout my teens, the library was where I did my research projects—searching through the microfiche and encyclopedias—and whispered with my friends during group projects.  But ever since college, with the explosion of bookstores, coffee shops, and the internet, I slowly minimized the role of the library in my life.

The old Rockville Library

Even after motherhood, although my older son and I would sometimes walk to the same Rockville library from our home, we still ended up in the Barnes and Noble kids’ section more often. Looking back, Barnes and Noble made it so easy—the kids loved playing with the train table, I could sit with a latte and chat with friends, and we all enjoyed story time. I’d usually let the kids buy a small book to take home, but realize now that they spent most of their time fixated on the one book they wanted. It wasn’t the same experience as the library, where there is no “you can’t have that,” or “put it back.” My mother never groaned when I had a stack of books too heavy for me to carry on my own. I know now that it delighted her to know that I would read them all.  

I cried when I saw the old library building get torn down. It felt like a part of me was being destroyed, even though the new Rockville Memorial Library was open. The new library is a breathtaking building, a truly lovely space to be in that I remember marveling over when it first opened five years ago. But I’ve only made sporadic visits since. During my son’s fieldtrip, while the kids looked up information for their research projects, I leisurely browsed the stacks and ended up with a pile of books I didn’t intend for myself. My son left saying, “I love the library,” and I decided that we need to make regular visits to build new memories in this special place together. I want my kids to understand what it’s like to feel rich in books, even when you have to give them back.

The New Rockville Memorial Library

Welcome to the jungle

As one of the less outdoors-inclined people I know, it took a stretch of imagination for me to write about trekking through the wild and wonderful Amazon for my latest choose-your-own-adventure book. Even though I’ve "hiked" through tropical rainforests in Costa Rica and Panama, they were basically strolls on paths where I stopped to photograph the light reflecting off the trees, spotted a few unique bugs, and caught glimpses of cute little monkeys. So when it came to depicting what it would be like to seriously hike along the largest river in the world and encounter jaguars, pit vipers, and piranhas, I definitely needed help.

Lucky for me, in addition to some great guidebooks, help came in the form of Ed Stafford, the Guinness world record holder for walking the entire length of the Amazon River basin in a journey that took him over almost two and half years. Ed generously shared his experiences with our team, and added authenticity and real-life drama to the story. I was riveted to hear firsthand accounts from him about his adventures, from battling swarms of bees to fighting fatigue to scaring off wild pigs-like animals called peccaries. And the American in me found it all extra thrilling to hear the stories narrated in his charming British accent.

Ed wrote a book about his journey called Walking the Amazon that was recently published, along with providing his insight to the Worst Case Scenario Ultimate Adventure: Amazon, which will be available next month. Reading it allows kids (and adults) to experience what it would be like to navigate the mighty jungle and survive like Ed . . . IF they make all the right choices and avoid the pitfalls. Writing it allowed me to dream of getting to the Amazon one day and inspired me to seek a little more outdoors adventure in my life.

What would you do?

My fifth grader recently needed to pick a quote that spoke to him for a school project. Searching for Martin Luther King, Jr., he selected a passage from his speeches that dealt with big issues like ignorance. I realized that, ironically, he didn’t quite understand what ignorance was, and urged him to choose something that really meant something to him. So he ended up finding a line from The Lorax about caring. His project made me think about quotes that resonate with me. I often see thought-provoking passages on Facebook statuses, in signatures, and in articles—beautiful words by the likes of Dr. Seuss, Lennon, Mandela, Rumi and Mother Theresa that serve to inspire, elevate, or ground us. But the one that kept coming to mind is a simple anonymous saying written on a pewter paperweight that my friend Shazia gave me years ago. It was a gift of encouragement as I prepared to go back to work for a research organization after consulting from home and raising my kids for five years. The paperweight says, “what would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?” I’ve never told Shazia that I often stared at that paperweight on my desk for the next five years at my office, at times thrilled with my decision to be there, and at other times hungry for something more creative. And I still look at it today, now sitting on the desk of my home office while I finally attempt to do exactly what I would if I knew I could not fail: writing for myself and trying to make a living doing what I love most. I’ve been blessed by the support and encouragement of my loved ones to take the risk, whether they realize it or not. Thanks, Shaz!