Our Greatest Gift...

I don't know if I'll ever be ready to say goodbye to Angie. She was such a huge part of my life, even though I didn't see her all the time.

I've been battling the usual mix of emotions that come with tragedy. Obviously there's grief over losing a close friend. Also, there is a sense of anxiety that is borne out of something like this. You start thinking, if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone I love or even to me. It's a terrible feeling.

I'll never get over losing Angie, but I think I do need to move into a new phase of grieving -- one where I'm not afraid all the time. In an effort to do this, I've been focusing on the major impact Angie had on my life, which was not only her giving us Nathaniel, but mainly her friendship.


Angie's best friend, Kyle, gave me Angie's favorite purse, which I recognized immeadiately. I've been trying to figure out what to do with it: use it or just store it as a reminder.

Mom answered that question for me: "You know she'd want you to use it! She'd say you're crazy if you don't."

I laughed, knowing that is exactly what Angie would say.

One day, when I'm able to do so with a smile, I will use it. Just not today.

Below is a column I wrote published in January of 2004 in The Jupiter Courier when I worked as a reporter/columnist there. The last half is all about Angie, and it's the part of her that I will always hold on to.

After this, I'm going to try to return to my normal postings. I know, for my own sake, that I have to.

But, more than that, I know she would want me to.

There's something a little "different" about my family.

I have four younger siblings. My dad and stepmother's sons are the spitting image of me to the extent that our baby pictures are nearly interchangeable.

But my mother and step-father's children don't look even closely related to each other, much less to me. In case you hadn't guessed it already, I'll reveal the "secret": My youngest brother and only sister are adopted.

Don't worry -- I'm not letting any family skeletons out of the closet. They have always known that they are adopted, so it's not going to be a shocking revelation they'll have to face today (or when they're old enough to read).

My mother and stepfather have made sure the kids understand where they came from. They know they were born out of somebody else's tummy. More importantly, they know they were chosen to be members of our family.

People tend to do a double-take when they see us. Our substantial age difference is a one reason. I am 17 years older than my youngest brother and 19 years older than my sister. When people see us together, they assume I am a young, unwed (no ring on my finger) mother. Sometimes people scowl. Other times, they look at me as if I were a living symbol of courage; a real, live Murphy Brown.

Another noticeable difference is our general appearance. What people sometimes have a hard time comprehending about my family is the obvious difference in our skin colors.

Both of my adopted siblings are biracial, though it is slightly more obvious in one than in the other. According to birth records, both had a black father and white mother. But my brother has perfectly tan skin that appears to have been kissed by the sun, and my sister has skin smoother and whiter than a porcelain doll. Go figure.

As for me, I am an Irish-English, freckled red-head.

But external differences aren't the only peculiarities about my family. Truth be told, I think we are a little different, even for an adopted family.

When we opened our doors to my little brother, we also opened them up to his birth mother.

She bravely gave birth to my brother at the age of 17. Even more courageously, she knew that someone else could take better care of him than she could. On the morning of his birth, she handed him over to us.

Through the years, she has become part of our family. She vacations with us, flies in for week-long visits, and shares gifts and greetings with us during the holidays.

Some people might question the lack of boundaries in our relationship, but I never do. I've spoken with her at length about the choices she's made, and I believe the contact she shares with her son has saved them both.

As a boy growing into a man, my brother will never resent his birth mother, because he'll never be kept in the dark about why he was given to us. And she will be free to continue to grow into a successful woman with a wide-open world at her fingertips, because she will never feel the void of not knowing her son.

The birth mother's role in our family may be different from what other families in our position would allow, but I truly cannot imagine it any other way for us. We may be different from each other -- and from other families. But we are as loving and caring as any other close-knit family.

Being different is just one of the many qualities that makes us special.