She and I

She and I

I was 24 when Adrianna was born in 1988 in Austin, Texas, and my life changed forever on that day. This, of course, is not a unique experience: all parents lives are changed forever the day they become a parent. And there are other life-changing events as well unrelated to the initial onset of parenthood such as other births, deaths, marriages, career changes, etc., but that doesn’t diminish the super nova that was Adri’s arrival in my life.

And it goes without saying that this event created seismic waves in other lives as well, a tsunami that changed the direction of many, chief among them of course her mother but also other family members and eventual friends and even her own children, but this is my story, my reflections. It is, after all, the story that I’m the most intimately familiar with, but I want everyone to understand that the Hank-centric narrative thus created takes nothing away from others. 

This loss is extremely hard for all the reasons I’ve already stated and written about, and most of that is self-evident. Anyone with children would understand, obviously those who have lost children and especially those who have lost their only child, but of course you don’t need to experience such loss to have an inkling of the profound grief that those who knew Adrianna are experiencing.  People get it and have been extremely supportive, patient, and understanding. 

But there are only a few people that I think totally comprehend the full extent of what this has done to me, because they know from first-hand experience just how important she was, how close we were and just how much my life focused and revolved around her. 

For the first 12 years the entirety of my life and the decisions and choices made all revolved around her. I didn’t start making room for someone else until I met Cindy, and eventually I began to divide my efforts, thoughts, and decisions between the two of them. 

Cindy, however, is of course self-sufficient. She is an important part of my life, occupying one side of the same coin with Adri who occupied the other. Until May of this year I was still preoccupied with trying to make sure Adri succeeded in life and she still commanded an inordinate amount of energy and thought for the entirety of her almost 37 years. This is par for the course, obviously, for one’s children, but I think this is amplified with an only child and with Adrianna’s circumstances and my personality even further.

But those first 12 years it was literally just Adri and me, from my point of view. The first almost three years I was a stay-at-home dad while her mother and I finished school. We were poor students as most students are, so we qualified for WIC, the program for low-income people whose letters stood for “Women, Infants, and Children” which tried to aid the health of this population by supplementing food such as cheese, beans and formula as well as providing nutrition education. They required you to go to monthly (or weekly? I can’t remember) meetings where they talked infant and toddler nutrition as well as breast-feeding techniques and strategies. I was always the only male there (I mean, it’s right there in the name of the program: “Women”), but that was fine by me. 

Then I’d take the vouchers they gave us and shop for the blocks of cheese and bags of dried beans and cans of powdered formula that we’d stockpile, usually with Adri in tow. We were always together.

She was born a substantial nine pounds, and was in the 95th percentile for everything including length and head circumference. Of course, that couldn’t last forever or she’d have been 7 ft tall as an adult, so when those percentages started slipping the doctor got a bit concerned with weight loss. I’d come up with high-protein good-fat meals for her that I’d make daily, the main concoction being scrambled eggs with avocado, canned Veg-All, and occasionally chicken liver added that I’d make in the microwave every lunch. She never let me forget later in life that I’d fed her chicken liver, but eventually her weight did level out.

I began to worry that she wasn’t socializing enough with other children since it was just her and I during the day at home, so I looked for something that would help that situation and found the perfect thing: a job as a substitute at a local day care chain. It was great because I could take her with me and they’d include her care as part of my employment. She got to hang with other kids and I got to bring in a whopping $3.25 an hour to boot a couple times a week. Win-win.

Eventually I took over the computer education role at the chain and would go from school to school teaching the computer classes to the pre-K kids, and both Adri and I would eventually be based out of just one of the schools so she got to be member of the two-year-old room permanently. 

When my marriage ended and her mom moved to Louisville to be closer to her parents and took Adri with her I was devastated. I had the best visitation I could get back then, the first, third, and fifth weekend, Wednesday night, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, the week after Christmas, her spring break, and six weeks in the summer, but of course once she moved out of state I really couldn’t take advantage of the weekends, Father’s Day or Wednesdays. 

I moved back to Dallas to be near my family because it was a dark time for me. It rivaled how I feel now. Adri and I had literally been together 24/7, and suddenly I never saw her and had to wait weeks or months between seeing her. 

All I did during those periods without her was think of her and save all the money I could for plane tickets and gas money to drive up there. I had to find apartments that I could afford that would also allow her own room. I’d find jobs that would afford some flexibility, eventually working at and then buying a company that taught computer skills at DFW schools and rec centers so she could be with me when I was at work. 

I’d record movies and TV shows that she’d like and then draw on the VHS box little artwork for her. Some I’d send, some I’d keep so she could watch when she was here. I’d buy day planners and plan out the entire summer and spring break, filling each day with different activities: The zoo, the arboretum, the aquarium, the science museum, go karting, arts and craft projects at home, cooking lessons, swimming outings, Saturday kids’ movie days at the local dollar cinema, Six Flags, library visits. Anything and everything. 

Trying to cram as much life into the distilled and compressed time we had together, then watching her sleep at night filled with contentment yet dreading the day she’d leave again.

For Thanksgiving, I’d drive up to Louisville, pick her up, and then drive to Chicago to spend the holiday with my grandparents. This was more cost-efficient since it was just four days, and it provided us a nice road trip which she loved. We’d talk about everything and anything. Then I’d drop her back home in Louisville and drive back to Dallas in silence full of sadness and despair that was never rivaled until recently.

She told me everything. She called me excitedly when she was not yet 12 to tell me she had her first period. She talked to me about her body issues, about boys, about her family, about squabbles with her friends, about school, and about her hopes, fears and dreams. I was so extremely lucky that my daughter felt comfortable enough with me to talk with more honesty and about more issues than I had been as a child. It made me feel good, and lessened the pain of not being with her a bit. I thought I was doing something right, the best I could in an imperfect situation.

She knew how I felt, and even though she was a little girl she was concerned with what I was missing. One time she came with a tooth she’d hidden in her pocket. She had lost it a few days prior and brought it to me telling me that “It’s not fair that you never got one of my teeth for the tooth fairy.”

 I still have it. It was the tooth fairy’s loss. 

I’d write songs for her and about her, and give her a CD filled with them. When she’d return, she’d have learned them all. Music was important to both of us. At one point she got into an argument with one of her classmates when she was about three: she insisted that her daddy had written the Barney the Dinosaur song (“I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family…”) but the other kid didn’t believe her. I had to break the sad news to her.

I helped her learn to ride a two-wheeler and taught her to drive a stick shift. We took a state-approved parent-taught self-paced driving class one summer so she could get her license. We’d watch old movies at night. We’d sing our songs. 

We’d drive up to Chicago one week each summer over July 4th, the 16-hour drive again filled with wonderful conversation and music. We’d watch fireworks on the banks of Lake Geneva and I got to witness the entire evolution of her childhood reflected and encapsulated in this experience over the years: at first being too young to pay attention, then finding them “beautiful,” then being “too old” for such baby stuff before eventually once again finding them beautiful and regretting when they ended. 

Then she’d go back to Louisville and I’d start saving money for the next trip and planning what we’d do.

Adri helped me decide on a ring for Cindy, and she was with us when I proposed. I couldn’t not have her there for that moment. We planned the wedding date for a day when Adri could be there. Cindy and I stood up by ourselves, but in my head Adri was my best girl.

She called me when she went into labor with Bryce, and I immediately got in my car and started the 12-hour drive to Louisville. When I was just entering Little Rock I got the call that Bryce had been born. I arrived a few hours later to a beaming daughter who now was a proud mother. 

It was one of the top 5 days of my life.

A year later she and her family moved to Dallas to be near me, and it was another top 5 for me. She said she wanted her boy to have a positive role model and to grow up in the place that she got to spend so many great days in as a child. It touched me deeply. 

She was my only child, and maybe because of that, and because I didn’t get to see her every day and missed out on so many little things, she became what some might think too big a part of my life. Her issues also demanded a bit more care and attention, in my opinion. Perhaps I was too attached; perhaps she was too attached. 

But for better or worse she was basically my raison d'être, my entire purpose in life, all that I had done and all that I would do. My redeeming contribution to my life that I always felt otherwise fell short of my expectations and potential… but she was enough.

And now she’s gone.