Tatum’s Girls
It is fall.
Tatum. Pretty. Slight. Angular. Shy. She carries her infant in her arms, her two older girls trailing behind. My infant girl, born on the same day as hers, is plump and squishy, her cheeks so big they make her eyes squint. Her infant is long and lean, like she is, and when I hold her for a moment she feels as light as a feather in my arms.
I tell Tatum that I exercise and eat right. I admit I occasionally drink wine, but I pump and dump. She pulls her sweater more closely around her and explains that she just isn’t producing enough. Her Lupus has flared up. She believes in breast feeding. She had done it for the other two girls and wants to do it for the third.
I ask about logistics. She says they will drive down to pick the milk up as often as they can. I offer to drop some off when I am working near her husband’s office or the town where they live. Both are over an hour away.
We haven’t gone through any formal process. I had mentioned my excessive production to my chiropractor’s wife, and she knew of Tatum’s challenge and put us in touch. Now here we are, filling her cooler with dozens of bags of breast milk from my freezer. They offer to compensate me, and I refuse. I am happy to help, happy not to have my body’s hard work go to waste.
They take the milk home. Weeks later I drop some off at the husband’s office. A month after that, I deliver some to their house. Tatum’s mother has come from Kansas to help. Tatum is struggling. She sits on the couch, depleted. With her mother’s aid she hopes to rest and get back to herself.
The baby looks good, her cheeks filled out, her eyes alert. Seeing the baby has me missing my own, and I quickly finish my day and drive home, relishing her giant smile and solid weight as I lift her into my arms.
It is winter.
The husband arrives at our house, cooler in tow. Tatum and the girls have gone to Kansas, where her family is able to provide more help. Her health has not improved. He is flying out the next day and bringing the milk with him. He has already checked with the airline to make the arrangements.
I give him every bag I can spare, wondering how this will work going forward. I don’t hear anything for several weeks, and then I email to say I’ll be working near the office and can drop milk off if they need. The husband thanks me, tells me he is moving back to Kansas permanently to be with Tatum and his girls. One more delivery would be greatly appreciated. I tuck a farewell card into the cooler, wishing them luck and thanking them for the experience, which, for me, has created a bond with Tatum and her baby.
It is February.
Tatum has been in the hospital for three weeks, but she is improving.
It is March.
Tatum has been transferred to a bigger hospital with more resources. She is young and strong, and they are figuring out why she isn’t improving.
It is April.
Tatum is gone. Her organs shut down.
Our babies have not yet turned one. It hits me hard. I cling to my baby girl with her cherubic cheeks, knowing how hard I would fight to stay with her. Knowing how hard Tatum must have fought. Knowing that there are three daughters without a mother, a mother’s worst fear realized. There is no making sense of it, no justification, no rationalization. I think of those girls, longing for their mother’s touch and smell and voice, and it guts me to near paralysis. It fills me with terror and sadness and vulnerability. I force the memories and emotions away into the deep recesses of my brain. It is too difficult to contemplate.
It is fall.
I wonder how Tatum’s girls are. Two must be nearly grown. The youngest, whom I helped nourish, is now 13, the same as my daughter. What scars do they carry? What life did their father make for them? I imagine how strong they must be. I should think of them more often, despite how uncomfortable and sad it makes me. I decide as I am celebrating my daughter on National Daughters Day that from now on, I will celebrate Tatum’s girls too. They’ll never know it, but I think Tatum would approve. Mothers always want their daughters celebrated. Here’s to you, girls.