my dreams and all the plans. I had nothing.”
“It was a boy?” I gasped, pain searing through my chest, which I didn’t understand. This wasn’t my story. This wasn’t my pain to feel.
She nodded, one tear slowly making its way down her cheek.
“I was far enough along at that point that he was fully formed. I only had three months left in my pregnancy. I named him after his father and stood over a grave were they lowered both of my boys into the ground together. I buried him in his father’s arms. I was one of the lucky brides. I had a body to bury. A couple weeks later I was admitted back to the hospital. I hadn’t been feeling well after losing little James, but attributed it to all of the stress I was under. I had a temperature of one hundred and three degrees, and couldn’t stand with all of the pain. I turns out that I had developed a uterine infection as a part of the miscarriage. They tried to get the infection under control but in the end had to take my uterus. I was told when I came to after the operation. I remember hearing piercing, haunted screams as they told me. It was several days later before I realized that those screams came from me.”
She dropped the zeppole into the hot oil she had prepared, listening to the music of them sizzling while they turned a beautiful golden color. She used this time to compose herself, as if steeling herself to the obvious questions that I would have.
“How did you survive that? You lost everything, how did you come back from that?” Seriously. I came apart as if my world ended every time we had to pack up and move again. This woman lost her husband and child, and her ability to have children all within a month. I looked at her with a crazy level of new-found respect.
“I almost didn’t. I had it all planned. At the hospital, they had given me a lot of prescriptions. Some for pain. Some for depression. I think they just felt so bad, they kept scribbling out medication orders for me, hoping that something would take away what had happened to me. I had all the bottles lined up. I had written a note to my family, apologizing. I had a large glass of red wine poured, ready to help me take the pills. Right as I was setting out what outfit I wanted to be buried in, my wedding outfit, the doorbell rang.”
She shook her head, looking both sad and amused by whatever imagery was playing out in her mind.
“Standing at the door was the most formidable force in my life. All four feet eleven inches of her. My grandmother. She had a suitcase next to her and barreled through the door and straight to my kitchen. Apparently, she had decided to move in for a bit. Said I was too thin and that if I had the sense that the good Lord gave me, I would be feeding myself properly. I ran to the bedroom to hide the pills and everything, ashamed that my nonna may have found it.
She had brought the recipe box, and we spent time every day baking and started selling our baked goods to local stores. My dream started then, to open up my own bakery. I started putting aside a little bit of money every month towards the Dream Bakery. That was what I named it, because everyone should have the opportunity to have their dreams come true. The truth of the matter is, I was inconsolable. I felt like my world had ended. The only solace for me was baking. I would spend hours in the kitchen, measuring, pouring and kneading. I created variations on traditional Italian favorites that my nonna and my family raved over. I had figured they were only being kind, to try to help me through the depression. One day, there was a local shop owner at my front door wanting to see about buying some of my pastries for his shop. Before I knew it, I was selling my pastries in five different locations in Providence.
It kept me going, baking these goodies. It helped me start to see light at the end of a tunnel.”
“So, what happened next? Did you become a famous baker in Providence, Rhode Island?”
“No, I
“It was a boy?” I gasped, pain searing through my chest, which I didn’t understand. This wasn’t my story. This wasn’t my pain to feel.
She nodded, one tear slowly making its way down her cheek.
“I was far enough along at that point that he was fully formed. I only had three months left in my pregnancy. I named him after his father and stood over a grave were they lowered both of my boys into the ground together. I buried him in his father’s arms. I was one of the lucky brides. I had a body to bury. A couple weeks later I was admitted back to the hospital. I hadn’t been feeling well after losing little James, but attributed it to all of the stress I was under. I had a temperature of one hundred and three degrees, and couldn’t stand with all of the pain. I turns out that I had developed a uterine infection as a part of the miscarriage. They tried to get the infection under control but in the end had to take my uterus. I was told when I came to after the operation. I remember hearing piercing, haunted screams as they told me. It was several days later before I realized that those screams came from me.”
She dropped the zeppole into the hot oil she had prepared, listening to the music of them sizzling while they turned a beautiful golden color. She used this time to compose herself, as if steeling herself to the obvious questions that I would have.
“How did you survive that? You lost everything, how did you come back from that?” Seriously. I came apart as if my world ended every time we had to pack up and move again. This woman lost her husband and child, and her ability to have children all within a month. I looked at her with a crazy level of new-found respect.
“I almost didn’t. I had it all planned. At the hospital, they had given me a lot of prescriptions. Some for pain. Some for depression. I think they just felt so bad, they kept scribbling out medication orders for me, hoping that something would take away what had happened to me. I had all the bottles lined up. I had written a note to my family, apologizing. I had a large glass of red wine poured, ready to help me take the pills. Right as I was setting out what outfit I wanted to be buried in, my wedding outfit, the doorbell rang.”
She shook her head, looking both sad and amused by whatever imagery was playing out in her mind.
“Standing at the door was the most formidable force in my life. All four feet eleven inches of her. My grandmother. She had a suitcase next to her and barreled through the door and straight to my kitchen. Apparently, she had decided to move in for a bit. Said I was too thin and that if I had the sense that the good Lord gave me, I would be feeding myself properly. I ran to the bedroom to hide the pills and everything, ashamed that my nonna may have found it.
She had brought the recipe box, and we spent time every day baking and started selling our baked goods to local stores. My dream started then, to open up my own bakery. I started putting aside a little bit of money every month towards the Dream Bakery. That was what I named it, because everyone should have the opportunity to have their dreams come true. The truth of the matter is, I was inconsolable. I felt like my world had ended. The only solace for me was baking. I would spend hours in the kitchen, measuring, pouring and kneading. I created variations on traditional Italian favorites that my nonna and my family raved over. I had figured they were only being kind, to try to help me through the depression. One day, there was a local shop owner at my front door wanting to see about buying some of my pastries for his shop. Before I knew it, I was selling my pastries in five different locations in Providence.
It kept me going, baking these goodies. It helped me start to see light at the end of a tunnel.”
“So, what happened next? Did you become a famous baker in Providence, Rhode Island?”
“No, I
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