Off Balance: A Memoir (9 page)

I’ll never forget my husband Mike’s face when he walked through the door after work and saw the photos of Jennifer for the first time. He did one of those double takes you see in the silent movies. He looked as shocked as I’ve ever seen him. Mike has seen and heard his share of interesting stories and, as a surgeon, has met people from all walks of life, so he takes most things in stride and is not shocked by much. The photos, more than anything else, threw him for a loop. I practically gasped on the phone earlier that day when I tried to describe how Jennifer looked spookishly like my younger sister Christina. Jennifer and I definitely have a very strong resemblance, but she and Christina looked almost like twins. Like Christina and myself, Jennifer strongly resembled Tata’s side of the family, but after a closer look, I realized that Jennifer looked more like my father than any of us—it was unreal. It was difficult to get my head around the fact that someone else in this universe could look so much like us. The round face, straight dark hair, big brown eyes, pronounced chin—she was 100 percent Moceanu.

With final exams over and my official to-do list almost clear, the plan was to rest and wait for Carmen’s arrival. It proved valuable space for me to regroup. I couldn’t help obsessing about how difficult it must have been for my parents when Jennifer was born. Rubbing my belly and feeling the warmth of Carmen inside me, I felt sadness and even pity for Mama and Tata, feeling they had no choice but to give away their own flesh and blood. I could almost understand that that time was just too painful, so they coped by pretending it never happened.

Christmas Eve 2007, I lay in bed with my eyes wide open while the house slept soundly: Christina on the couch, Mike’s parents in our guest bedroom, and Mike beside me. We were all gathered to celebrate the holidays and await Carmen’s birth. I had a hunch
that my little miracle was going to be a Christmas baby, and the sporadic contractions I’d had over the prior two days fueled my certainty. As I tossed from side to side trying to find a comfortable spot, there it was. A strong contraction followed by another and another. I just lay there, listening to my body. I wanted to make sure it was the real deal and dreaded the thought of being that first-time mom who rushes to the hospital only to be sent home with “false labor.” My overnight bag was packed and I was ready to go, but I had to be
sure
it was the right time. When a contraction would start, I’d freeze and wait out the pain in silence, counting the seconds until it started to fade. I stayed calm between contractions, which is typical of how I’ve always dealt with physical pain in the gym or anywhere else. I go inward and just try to work through it myself. I didn’t want to disrupt anyone’s sleep until it was absolutely necessary, so I tried hard not to make any noise at all.

By the time the contractions were coming every five minutes or so, I was doubled over in pain in our bed. Mike was trying to comfort me and waited calmly for me to give the signal that I was ready to get into the car to go to the hospital. He granted my wish for one last call to the doctor to make sure this was really it, then he, Christina, and I were off, driving through Cleveland’s early-morning darkness on Christmas Day. I remember seeing the patches of snow on the road outside the window between contractions.

It gave me the extra strength I needed to have Mike and Christina beside me for the delivery, and I was grateful to share the beautiful moments of Carmen’s birth with them. Mike has been my partner, my motivator, and the most loving and supportive husband I could have asked for, and he didn’t disappoint when I needed him most that day.

My sweet sister Christina was almost silent during the entire labor and delivery. I am pretty certain it scared her to death. Her eyes were wide, mouth agape, and she said she’d “never seen anything
like it.” I really don’t think she knew what to expect next, but she stayed by my side the entire time, holding my hand, and even my leg, when I needed her. I fed off of her love and encouragement.

Carmen made her debut on December 25, 2007, around 3:06 p.m. After the final push, a silence gripped the room, which made me nervous. I realized I hadn’t heard her cry. Mike rubbed my arm and said everything was okay, but it was in his doctor voice, which made me worry more. I could see my doctor looking and assessing the situation, and I held my breath until I finally saw a smile spread across her face. Only later did I learn that Carmen had the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck and there was some concern, but it was fleeting. I was so relieved once I heard her cry a minute later. It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

We were blessed with this little miracle. She truly was a marvel. I was in awe and felt so fortunate, so happy. She was the most beautiful and precious being I’d ever seen—with a full head of jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and a cherub round face with Mike’s Filipino button nose. I was at such peace holding her in my arms tightly swaddled with her pink-and-blue-striped hospital beanie on her head. I kissed her and held her to my chest. It was the absolute best feeling in the world.

It was January 14, 2008, a good five weeks after I had received Jennifer’s package, when I finally picked up the phone to call her. My stomach was a bundle of nerves, but I sat at the desk in my office and promised myself that I wouldn’t get up until I had completed my mission. It was around 9:00 a.m. and Carmen was down for her morning nap, so I knew I had to take advantage of the quiet while it lasted. I took one last sip from my coffee mug, drew a deep breath, and dialed. Once the line started to ring on the other end, I
felt less nervous and actually got more excited with each ring, wondering why she was taking so long to answer.

“Hello?” Her voice was raspy.

“Hi, Jennifer. This is Dominique. How are you?”

She seemed a bit startled, clearly not expecting a call from me or apparently from anyone else at that time in the morning. I glanced at the clock quickly to make sure I wasn’t calling obnoxiously early.
Nine a.m. That’s decent
, I thought. I had been on “mom time” for the past three weeks, which meant I ran on a twenty-four-hour clock dictated by my little Carmen. To me, 9:00 a.m. wasn’t much different than two in the afternoon or two in the morning, so I made a habit of checking the clock before calling or texting family or friends on a whim.

“Oh, hi,” she said after a pause.

“Christina and I had the biggest shock of our lives. Our parents never told us about you. I definitely have a lot of questions myself,” I said matter-of-factly.

Silence.

“I want to thank you for going about this the way you did, Jennifer. I respect you so much for that.”

“I didn’t know what else to do, but I knew I had one shot to show you that I was for real,” she jumped in.

“There was no question in my mind from the photos that it was for real. My mouth just dropped when I saw my mother’s handwriting and then my father’s signature on those legal documents you sent with your letter. I just about dropped the papers from my hands. I was totally overwhelmed with emotion when I read everything, but I really do appreciate the way you went about it—there was no question in my mind that this was true.”

I had little sticky notes spread across my desk reminding me of things I wanted to ask or tell Jennifer. I figured they’d provide some backup help if I got nervous or if there were awkward silences. Mike added his extra support by poking his head into the office
every few minutes while keeping an ear out for Carmen. What do I say to the sister I have never met before?

Turns out Jennifer and I had plenty to say to each other, and I really didn’t need my sticky notes at all. Our conversation seemed to open up and flow quite easily and pretty soon we were chatting away. I felt like I was talking one hundred miles a minute. We both had so much to say, and I remember both of us saying, “This is so crazy” several times. It was just so bizarre. The entire situation felt like a strange dream that was still hard to wrap my head around, even as I was talking with her.

“Talking to you is something I’ve been dying for since I found out that we were sisters,” she said. “When I got your letter saying that you believed me, I almost passed out. I had no idea how you were going to react, but I knew I had to write to you. I figured the truth was something you should know if you hadn’t already been told.”

I made a point to reiterate to Jennifer that I really didn’t know about her prior to receiving the package. I didn’t want her to think, even for one second, that I had known about her all these years and had simply chosen not to contact her. She said she had a feeling that was the case but had always wondered.

“I have had real dreams about meeting you, and in them you reacted horribly, and I was so worried. I didn’t know how you’d react—if you’d be accepting or not,” she said.

I had Jennifer on speakerphone with the volume set to max so I could really hear her voice and not miss anything. I was so immersed in our talk that I hadn’t noticed that Mike had grabbed our video camera and was filming the conversation. I shot him a serious look and gestured to stop, but he ignored me and kept filming. I am thankful now that I have parts of our first conversation recorded. There was so much said between us that I could barely remember half of it after I hung up. That’s my husband, thinking
ten steps ahead as always. He knew that one day we would all want to look back on this moment—and he was right.

“This has been very difficult and emotional for my family also,” Jennifer said. “I mean, they’ve known since I was very little that
you
were my sister, but they never told me until much later, when I was older, which was the right thing to do.”

“You’re lucky that your parents were honest with you,” I said. “That’s the best gift they could’ve given you—their honesty. I was very upset with my mother and father for not being open with me and my sister. It came as a complete shock when we found out.”

“This October will be five years that I’ve known about you, but it’s still surreal for me, too,” she said. “Ever since I was a little girl, I was always hooked on you. I don’t know why. I loved gymnastics and I knew that we were both Romanian, and you know, your birthday is the day before mine.”

“Yeah, I saw that on the court documents. So, you are going to be twenty-one this October. Wow! Maybe soon we can start making up for lost time somehow. I look forward to meeting you,” I said and meant it, but inside I knew I was not ready to meet. That would have to be down the road a bit.

“By the way,” Jennifer blurted out, “you know I have no legs, right?”

Excuse me, did I hear correctly?
I thought to myself. I remembered how Mike sometimes pokes fun at my bad hearing—probably a result of listening to blaring music in my teenage years.

“What? What did you say?” I asked.

“I was born without legs. You didn’t know?” she asked.

Hearing it from her hit me like a ton of bricks, and I immediately welled up but tried my hardest not to let her know I was crying.

“Well …” I searched for the right words, but I’m not sure what the right words would even sound like. “Well, my dad did say something about it, but I thought his memory might’ve been a little
fuzzy or that he was exaggerating … I guess not.” I realized as soon as the words left my mouth that they sounded really bad. Definitely not the right words.

I tried hard to remember exactly what Tata had said about the birth. I do remember him saying that they wouldn’t be able to afford to take care of the baby because she was born with “no legs.” I certainly didn’t take him literally. It’s the way Tata talked when he wanted to emphasize something. He had a way of twisting things to fit his purpose, so I never really knew what was true and what was exaggerated. I guess I interpreted Tata’s version of “no legs” to mean that Jennifer was born with a minor disability or other health issue. Besides, in her letter, Jennifer had said she did gymnastics and volleyball, and I never in my wildest dreams pictured her doing those sports without legs.

Things got so crazy after Carmen’s birth that I still hadn’t had the opportunity for a true family summit on Jennifer. Christina and I had talked about it for hours on our own, but my face time with Mama and Tata was limited to their visits after Carmen’s birth. They were glowing as first-time grandparents, and it never seemed like the right time to bring up those painful memories and a part of their past that they had kept deeply hidden for twenty years.

Now, sitting here talking to Jennifer, I was kicking myself for not getting better answers when I drilled Tata and Mama immediately after I received Jennifer’s package. Maybe I was in denial and really didn’t want to know everything yet. Perhaps I just couldn’t process all of that information at once—a sister I never knew of
and
, by the way, she has no legs.

“People forget about me having no legs within minutes of meeting me,” she said.

I was fascinated with this girl. She had so much confidence and positive energy. I was drawn to her and wanted to know her.

“I think it was just a hard time for my parents in their lives,” I said, realizing that I sounded almost silly defending Mama and
Tata. But I couldn’t stop. I explained that they were poor immigrants who came to this country with very little in their pockets and struggled for a long, long time. I remembered Tata saying that they didn’t have any money or insurance, and that’s why they went all the way to Salem Hospital for the delivery.