Eight and a half years ago, we made a reservation to stay at a little wine estate in the Languedoc region of France for a month after our second daughter was to be born. For years I'd dreamed about a place in the south of France surrounded by old stone walls, endless rows of vineyards and tall shade trees. A place where I could hop on a bike with a big basket on the front and peddle ten minutes along a dirt road to a nearby village for fresh, crunchy bread, aromatic cheese and vin du pays. A place where we could just enjoy the company of both our healthy, happy kids and adjust peacefully and privately to our new family dynamic. We paid a deposit, negotiated the time off work and reserved our flights.
When Shannon was born, we found ourselves in a state of profound uncertainty. The more we learned about her birthmark, the more we realized that the next few years were not going to play out like we'd hoped or planned. Almost immediately we cancelled our plans to visit France and booked ourselves instead on a flight to Dallas, Texas to attend a conference hosted every two years by an organization dedicated to supporting children and family members affected by Shannon's rare type of congenital birthmark. We came back armed with solid information, relationships with others going through the same experience and some hard choices to make.
From the very start, traveling with her was stressful. Not that she was a bad traveler. Quite the contrary. But we had not yet hardened ourselves to the reactions of others, mostly innocent, who gazed unexpectedly upon a small baby with a very dark birthmark covering half her face. Deb's skin was, and is, far thicker than mine. She would simply ignore other people's reactions - not an easy feat when she was the one carrying our newborn around in a snugly, facing out, through some of the world's busiest airports. I took the opposite approach, staring down people who stared at my baby. How dare they gasp in shock, open their eyes wide in disbelief, or look at us accusingly as if we'd somehow caused this through neglect or injury. I sought out confrontation but seldom found it. The reactions of most people was entirely natural, exactly the way I've probably reacted a thousand times when confronted with something unexpected. When they'd notice me staring at them, staring at my daughter, they were, on the whole, embarrassed and apologetic. I recall once, on a flight to Edmonton, berating a young flight attendant for looking at Shannon and uttering "ahhh, poor baby." "There's nothing wrong with this baby," I spat back, "just with stupid people who speak before they think and put more importance on physical appearance than anything else." She didn't now what hit her and spent the rest of the flight apologizing. I did, eventually, feel bad about my overreaction.
As time went by, I realized I needed a new approach. I was exhausted and angry at the end of every day. It finally dawned on me that in a few years Shannon was herself going to understand that she was different and begin to take note of other people's reactions, including my own. I can only imagine, of course, but I can imagine that growing up as girl can be very stressful in a world that draws its conclusions about you long before you say a word or do a good deed. No matter how many surgeries we subjected her to, Shannon was never going to fit society's narrow minded definition of feminine beauty. No matter how smart, how kind, how talented or how strong she might ultimately become, she would always look "different" in a world where looking perfect was what girls were encouraged to strive for. I eventually realized that by getting visibly pissed off with people who stared or pointed at her, I was communicating to her that it was not ok to be different. She would learn to react by watching me react. I was defeating my own purpose.
I still pay attention to peoples' reactions to her and it's been interesting to observe how they differ in the many cultures we have exposed her to this last year. Mostly, though, I now pay attention to her reactions. I wonder what she's thinking when she sees people point or stare at her as they always do. She and I have developed an unspoken code, whereby we look at each other, smile and wink when she takes note of someone's reaction. My message to her in our special code is "yeah, I saw that too. Keep your chin up. You can't control other people, only yourself. You're a loving, strong and beautiful child. You're going to be just fine." I hope her message to me is "I'm ok. I know they're not trying to be mean. I know what's important in life. I know you love me just the way I am. I'm on the right track." That's a lot better than "if that ignorant jerk doesn't stop staring at me, I'm going to walk over there and punch his lights out," which is the direction I think we were likely heading before.
Shannon is one of the bravest people I know. She gives me strength and courage every day (as well as headaches and complete exhaustion). It takes true grit to put aside what makes you different, what makes you stand out in a crowd, and head out there every day without fear and with an abundance of natural joy. When I feel like getting mad at someone for staring too long, I get strength and calm from her. If she can take it with grace and poise, then I should be able to as well. All it takes is a wink and a smile from her and I'm back on track.
When we cancelled our plans eight years ago, Ania and Jorge, the owners of Domiane de Saint Ferreol, fully refunded our deposit, despite having no obligation to do so. They invited us to come and stay with them whenever we could, and enjoy some complimentary wine from their cellar in addition to their lovely property, which is just as I'd imagined it all these years now that we are finally here. The old chateau sits at the end of a dirt road and is surrounded by neat and rolling rows of vines, just starting to flower, for as far as the eye can see. The apartment bedrooms, which surround a sun drenched courtyard, have long shuttered windows that welcome in the sunshine, scent of fresh flowers and birdsong when we cast them open every morning. They have two lazy dogs, a fish pond with a running fountain, a set of boules and a large lawn to play on. Ten minutes away is a quant medieval town whose streets are lined with bakeries, pastry shops, butchers, chocolatiers, cheese and wine vendors. Don't try and get anything done between noon and 2:00 pm. - the french lunch hours when everything closes to leisurely savour the most important meal of the day. The produce is fresh, local and packed with wholesome flavour. There is a farmer's market somewhere every day of the week where you can pick up fruit and vegetables still coated in fragrant dirt. The tomatoes, having never seen the inside of a freezer, supermarket or transport truck, are heavy and firm. When you slice them, not a drop of water, which is pumped into their North American cousins for freshness and mass, seeps away from the fruit. It's all delicious, red meat. Flavour explodes from them in each bite. The reason that french meal servings are so small is that each bit of sustenance is packed with natural taste and nutrition. We find ourselves satisfied with four or five cherries or strawberries, whereas normally we would polish off an entire bowl and still want more.
Sitting under a big shade tree on the lawn this afternoon, sipping a chilled white and watching my daughters try to drown each other in the pool, I'm struck by the passage of time: ten months since we left home; six weeks until we return; eight years since we first planned to visit this spot; 100 years - all new people.
We made the decision to put our lives "on hold" and travel for a year with our kids one afternoon while waiting for Shannon to recover from one of her surgeries. The four years of planning flew by as fast as the last one has. It's hard to believe it's almost over. We're actually starting to think about our return to home and normal life again and it's not that displeasing. When you step away from life for a while, you realize that many of the things that motivate, worry or aggravate you are what a good friend would call "first world problems." They have little to do with what makes us, or others, happy in the long run. I hope I remember that the first time I threaten to become unglued after this year is said and done. Maybe Shannon and I need a secret code for that too!
Outside the stars and a fingernail moon are all showing off in the night sky over southern France. Orion has hidden himself below the horizon as is his custom in the northern hemisphere in summer. When next I see him, it will be late September in Yellowknife. I would never want to wish my time away, especially at the dawn of summer. Let's just say I'll be happy to see the hunter whenever or wherever he decides show himself next.
Good night.