My mom suffered several miscarriages and one particularly sad late-term miscarriage after I was born.
I remember making her a get well card at my aunt’s house. I remember talking about her boo-boo and wondering if she’d have a Snoopy Band-Aid. I remember picking her up from the hospital and taking her home.
Finally, in 1989 her dashed hopes were rekindled. She would undergo in vetro fertilization treatments in St. Louis. Our house, where I was a 12-year-old only child, buzzed with excitement. Would we have triplets, twins, one?
Would we get one at all?
During lunch one day when I was in middle school, a counselor tapped me on the shoulder and indicated I had a phone call. My mom was on the line asking if I wanted a brother or a sister.
My friends jumped for joy as I screamed, “A sister! A sister!”
Nine months later, in October 1990, at 12:53 a.m. that sister came screaming into the world.
I was there that night.
She was the cutest baby I’d ever seen. She was tiny and had dark hair with a hint of red. She looked like one of our uncles.
It is Morgan’s infancy that got our mom through her first battle with cancer. Our mom said it was Morgan who kept her going on the days that chemo took its toll.
As a toddler, Morgan had blonde hair, green eyes, a button nose and the funniest personality. She wore red lace-up cowboy boots tied impossibly tight. Ponytails had to be perfectly straight with no bumps. Her bright red lipstick, borrowed from our mother, was applied with makeup artist precision by the time she was 3.
I remember making her a get well card at my aunt’s house. I remember talking about her boo-boo and wondering if she’d have a Snoopy Band-Aid. I remember picking her up from the hospital and taking her home.
Finally, in 1989 her dashed hopes were rekindled. She would undergo in vetro fertilization treatments in St. Louis. Our house, where I was a 12-year-old only child, buzzed with excitement. Would we have triplets, twins, one?
Would we get one at all?
During lunch one day when I was in middle school, a counselor tapped me on the shoulder and indicated I had a phone call. My mom was on the line asking if I wanted a brother or a sister.
My friends jumped for joy as I screamed, “A sister! A sister!”
Nine months later, in October 1990, at 12:53 a.m. that sister came screaming into the world.
I was there that night.
She was the cutest baby I’d ever seen. She was tiny and had dark hair with a hint of red. She looked like one of our uncles.
It is Morgan’s infancy that got our mom through her first battle with cancer. Our mom said it was Morgan who kept her going on the days that chemo took its toll.
As a toddler, Morgan had blonde hair, green eyes, a button nose and the funniest personality. She wore red lace-up cowboy boots tied impossibly tight. Ponytails had to be perfectly straight with no bumps. Her bright red lipstick, borrowed from our mother, was applied with makeup artist precision by the time she was 3.
She was a great little sidekick until I turned 16 and wanted – demanded – to be left alone. She roller skated down the halls of Martin at Ole Miss while my parents helped move me in. She left me weepy messages on my answering machine and sent me crayon drawings.
Then one day I went home to Missouri and the little girl who adored me was gone. In her place was someone who had little time for me. She had her own life. On the day I got married, she was delighted to be my maid of honor but it also interrupted her plans. She was a teenager, after all, with a very important social life that my festivities were infringing upon.
The tables had turned.
By the time our mom got sick again, Morgan was going on 17. Our mom joked that she had two children but they were both an only child.
As her health declined, our mom’s first goal was to see Morgan graduate from high school. Thankfully, she did get to attend the ceremony, and she was able to help move her in at Ole Miss and see her through the first semester.
It is still hard for me not to feel like Morgan, more than anyone, was robbed by our mother’s death.
Just before she died, our mom tried to ask me to take care of Morgan. She couldn’t form the words, not from the illness but from the grief. Realizing what she was trying to say, I broke in and swore to the heavens I would. I would. Don’t worry, I said.
She needn’t have worried, for Morgan and I found comfort in one another as naturally as anything else in our lives. We are the only two people who know what it was like to be Robin’s daughter, and there is great, great solace in our sisterhood.
Morgan is the best of our mom: her creative talent, her beauty, her compassion, her gentle, kind soul. It is one of the great joys of my life to watch her grow into the young lady she’s becoming.
Then one day I went home to Missouri and the little girl who adored me was gone. In her place was someone who had little time for me. She had her own life. On the day I got married, she was delighted to be my maid of honor but it also interrupted her plans. She was a teenager, after all, with a very important social life that my festivities were infringing upon.
The tables had turned.
By the time our mom got sick again, Morgan was going on 17. Our mom joked that she had two children but they were both an only child.
As her health declined, our mom’s first goal was to see Morgan graduate from high school. Thankfully, she did get to attend the ceremony, and she was able to help move her in at Ole Miss and see her through the first semester.
It is still hard for me not to feel like Morgan, more than anyone, was robbed by our mother’s death.
Just before she died, our mom tried to ask me to take care of Morgan. She couldn’t form the words, not from the illness but from the grief. Realizing what she was trying to say, I broke in and swore to the heavens I would. I would. Don’t worry, I said.
She needn’t have worried, for Morgan and I found comfort in one another as naturally as anything else in our lives. We are the only two people who know what it was like to be Robin’s daughter, and there is great, great solace in our sisterhood.
Morgan is the best of our mom: her creative talent, her beauty, her compassion, her gentle, kind soul. It is one of the great joys of my life to watch her grow into the young lady she’s becoming.
It is through her life that I so clearly see God’s will: my mom endured multiple miscarriages so she could have the best prize of all, Morgan Leigh.
Happy birthday Morgan. I love you.
laura hough smith 