Ambivalence

I am torn between two courses of action, and it actually hurts.

 

Over a year ago, we moved from the only town we had known in the flattest of the flat Midwest, to a valley in the south of Oregon. Right now both Logic and Emotion pull me back home. Toward the terribly humid in summer freezing in winter nothing fun to do outside place where our friends are. It could make sense financially-lose some salary but gain some lower costs of living. Everyone we love can get to know Ava. I want to be near people who will genuinely share in our joy at her every new ability. Even though they have seen dozens of babies bat their first toy, take their first bite of applesauce, and ride their first trike, our friends and family will gush in amazement. This awes me. The fact that the new life we created can dazzle others, not just her parents.

Don’t get me wrong, there are people here who like her. Co-workers and friends who buy her things and say how cute she is, but it will never be the same. I’m confident that we could visit often enough so that she will have memories of her grandparents, uncles, and cousins, but they won’t be a part of her day to day existence.

 

So, we’ve made our decision. We’ve begun planning how to get our things into a tiny trailer, and drive two cars, two adults, one baby, one dog, and one rabbit across the country. Again. I’m in the middle of applications, phone interviews, and checking the paper for houses for rent. I yearn to be there when our next friend gets married, or one of our brothers has a baby, or any of the host of celebrations to come.

 

We also say, often, that we don’t want to have a special savings put away labeled “money to fly back for funerals”. I hate to speculate about which events are important enough to spend thousands of dollars for. Will it be your grandma? Or mine? Before we embarked on our Oregon Trail, we knew there would someday be a reason to fly back on the next plane because our grief (guilt?) was too great.

 

In April, this question was answered. We didn’t even have a decision to make. For that, I am grateful. We booked our flight and dragged my huge belly across the country knowing we had no other choice. I guess we had had about a week to speculate. “Would we go if something happened?” Too afraid to use the present tense, as if saying “when” instead of “if” would somehow change anything. I awoke on the morning of the news already knowing it was over. I had three missed calls and a few texts, which of course I did not read, hoping to delay the pain until I had at least showered.

 

Sadly, it was the best visit we’ve ever had. I felt so lucky to be there, hoping that our mere presence would say what we could never say over the phone. Just this morning I had a twinge of thought that she would be there, holding Ava, if we just drove back home next week. Of course, she won’t. Instead, she has given me a gift. Her disappearance, her (dare I say it) death, tells me I can never let this happen again. Even though we had to get out of there, even if for only a year, I can’t help but think I should have been there.

 

But, as I sit on the sand hearing waves crash, I sob inside wishing my baby could grow up here. I already miss the coast, the giant redwoods, even the wildfire smoke that chokes me if I’m outside too long. It has long been my dream. The West has been pulling since I can remember. I know that if (when?) we’re all packed up driving away, my heart will ache for this place, the only place I have known with my sweet baby girl.