Today is my Marissa’s 32nd birthday, and the scar is unbearable. I’m not talking about the scar from my C-section, though my 3 scars there are constant reminders of my emptiness. I’m talking about the scar in my heart that won’t heal, won’t close up, won’t ease, and won’t stop impeding my ability to completely move forward.

My normal writing is more formal, but, for today, it will be more of an impromptu stream of consciousness. I actually think impromptu stream of consciousness is redundant, as stream of consciousness is automatically impromptu.

When I posted two years ago, I had written that “perhaps Marissa is a mom now herself.” Well, I found out from a former friend that Marissa is a mom. Emma Charlotte was born about a year and a half ago, and, according to this former friend, Marissa needed IVF. I’m not surprised at all about that, as, with all of her surgeries and the removal of her colon, her insides were definitely agitated. In fact, from the time we first went to the gynecologist, when she was a teenager with polycystic ovaries, Clomid was discussed as a possibility for when she was ready to have a child. Then, with her 8 grueling surgeries and knowing that the road to children might be arduous, I lined up a doctor for her at Mount Sinai who specialized in helping women without colons conceive children. I even blogged about it (marissasurgery.wordpress.com).

This former friend, who had no business stalking my children and no business telling me of her findings (hence the word former), told me that Louis had made a heart out of used in-vitro syringes to announce that they were expecting. I wouldn’t have thought the daughter I knew would have announced her pregnancy in such a personal way, but I never thought the daughter I knew, and with whom I thought I had an unbreakable bond, would leave me without even the slightest glance in the rearview mirror.

I have never even seen a picture of Emma. I sent her a rocking horse, actually a rocking rabbit, with her name on it, but I have never seen her. I signed the note, “GM,” though I’m not sure what I meant by those initials. Of course, more than anything, I wanted the “GM” to mean Grandma Marla, but, left to interpretation, they could have also meant Grateful Mom. Yes, I was so grateful that Marissa was able to have a child. She had been through so much, and she deserved to be rewarded for her valiancy.

I kind of deserved to be rewarded for my valiancy, too. I was so young when I started my family, and I stayed in an emotionally abusive marriage where gaslighting was Mr. Jaffe’s modus operandi. Giving birth to Marissa at 23 and being one of the youngest moms around, the probability of my being a young grandmother was strong. Unbeknownst to me, however, the probability of my being a young grandmother who wouldn’t know her grandchild, was also strong.

There is much more to say, and I will say it when the tears dissipate. For now, however, I want to wish my daughter, Marissa, a day of love, health, hope, peace, and clarity. I love you, Roo.