Megan Siobahn

Well, I guess the time has come. I need to, want to, write about the thing that I most and least want to write about. I have cried for the last two days, almost constantly, as I walked closer and closer to this task. My eyes hurt. They hurt the same way that they did in the months following November 3, 2014. Burning. I don’t even have to try. Tears pour from my eyes, at the mere thought of my girl. Nothing else hurts this way. Most days, for the last ten years,  I have been able to push these feelings away so that I can get on with daily life. Not today. Or yesterday. 

Her birthday is coming. March 24. She would’ve been 40 years old. This I cannot imagine. She always looked like a child, all 4 feet and 11 inches of her. She reminded me of a little fairy,  buzzing around in the whimsical way that they do, scattering their magical dust all around. Ironically, she loved Tinkerbell. I think that she related to how mischievous Tink seems to be. I also think that she was keenly aware of her power in this way. Her magical fairy dust. 

July 1983, I took a pregnancy test. I had been trying to get pregnant for months. I wanted Emily to have a sibling and I wanted to enjoy all things “motherhood” from the start. I was 20 years old. The test came back positive. I was elated. 

I had a wonderful pregnancy, surrounded by experienced mothers whom I worked with. I had chosen to have a natural childbirth, first seeking out the only hospital that offered water births. Unfortunately, I developed preeclampsia and was not able to follow that plan through. I had a wonderful midwife tending this pregnancy, having started the Birthing Center at Illinois Masonic in Chicago. She, Betty Schlatter, would be the one to deliver Megan. 

Things went along well for 9 months.  I was healthy and strong. My husband was very attentive. Emily, then 2 years old, eagerly awaited the arrival of her sibling. She was due March 17, a very special date for us. I wanted her to be healthy and to have my dad’s pale blue eyes. He had passed away just 3 years before. I wasn’t fixated on which particular gender she would be. I already had Emily and she was a beautiful, delightful girl. 

Fast forward to March 22…the beginning of a 48 hour labor with only minor complications. Emily waited in the adjacent waiting room with my mom while we tried every natural method to encourage that little stubborn Peanut out. And then, she arrived. 

She was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen, all 5 pounds of her. She didn’t cry. She just looked at me with those amazing pale blue eyes. I don’t remember even thinking of a name for her. I was so sure that she was going to be a boy that we always called my growing belly, “Bobby”. Somehow, the name Megan Siobahn came to mind and it was a sealed deal. 

For the next few years it was obvious that she was brilliant, charming, beautiful and sweet-natured. Although I went back to work when she was a few months old, I quit before she was one. I couldn’t stand to be away from her. I enjoyed every moment that I had with her. 

We had family and friends, celebrations and adventures. I thought that there was nothing she couldn’t do. Giving her an idealistic childhood was my goal. We made that happen. 

She thrived in school: always top of her class. She loved learning and mastered things so quickly. Teachers and coaches reveled in her spark. She loved her life and life loved her right back. 

By the time she was 15, exactly 15, she went into a store in the mall and applied for a job. She had 3 jobs that summer. She was self-reliant and independent and never wanted to be a burden of any kind. Her spirit was fierce. She made up for being “vertically challenged”. She had many tattoos, a whole sleeve on one arm too. To me, she was amazing. Every dream I had, every positive idea that I could come up with, every hope that was in me was wrapped up in Megan. I made sure that she would have all of the things that I didn’t during my childhood, primarily support and attention. My growing-up home was not a bedrock of this. I wanted everything for her. I would do anything for her. I had never loved anyone or anything so completely. 

She won awards, wrote the mayor about her ideas of what could improve the city of Chicago, she did her homework, she played with friends. She was a Girl Scout, a state scholar and a recipient of multiple scholarships to some of the best schools in the country when she graduated high school.  She volunteered with disabled children, excelled in the International Baccalaureate program and was often “teacher’s pet”. She played basketball and then took on volleyball which she received an MVP award for in her sophomore year.  

She was kind. Megan fought for the underdog in many arenas. She gave her money to homeless people. She volunteered at the Bonaventure House in the city. She could read me like a book. She was a good sister. She was a hard worker. She loved her family, as dysfunctional as it was. She loved her friends. 

She was determined, spunky, witty, beautiful. 

She had dreams and hopes: a vision for her future. She also had demons, but that was not ALL of her. That was one part of her. Her beautiful, shiny, sparkly, lovely spirit far out-weighed the rest. 

I can still see her, in my mind’s eye, on her last birthday here. She turned 30. She came running out of her apartment on Hoyne. Caitlin was inside, having come from Arizona to celebrate with her. I handed her some White Castle sliders, her favorite, and vanilla ice cream with chocolate and bananas (another favorite). I wished her a happy birthday, gave her a kiss, held her for a second and told her that I loved her. 

Today, I wonder what she would be doing if she were here. Would she be happy? Would she have a job that she loved? Would she have a family? Would she still be running? What would her life look like? 

This is a painful experience, one that I cannot articulate well. Maybe on Sunday, March 24th, I’ll imagine holding her again, giving her a kiss, feeling her beautiful long hair, her head nestled under my chin and tell her how much I love her. How much I miss her. Every day.