I am my parents’ eighth child. I would have expected that they might have quit having children long before I came along, the thought of which leaves me wondering if perhaps I have been put on this earth for a particular purpose. I realize that, should that reason be discovered, I must actually recognize the opportunity to know its real worth. I am sincere in my belief that the story of A Bridge Between must be told. Quite possibly, then, writing this story is my true purpose in life.
A Bridge Between is a love story - my love for my parents and their love for each other. It is a memoir of the paths we have taken together through life, as well as the journey yet to come, as they advance into old age.
I know exactly how lucky I am to be enjoying my parents at this stage in their lives. Too many of their contemporaries have long passed away; numerous others suffer a diminished quality of life that is at best difficult, and at worst, heartbreaking for both themselves and their families. A Bridge Between is a celebration of two lives lived to their fullest and the struggle to maintain the same as the inevitable aging process bears down on them.
The view of my childhood as an eighth child is different, of course, from that of a first child, or second, third or fourth or, well, I think you know where I’m going with this. What I experienced was different even from the ninth child’s view. I am sure that each sibling I have has a very varied perspective of what happened when we were children because, if you stop to consider the circumstances, there is no actual physical way we could have all been hanging around in the same room at the same time, experiencing the same events. We simply just wouldn’t have fit in most cases, and in many others, wouldn’t have wanted to. I anticipate that at least several of my brothers and sisters, when reading A Bridge Between for the first time, will be convinced that I actually grew up in Disneyland or some comparable fantasy world, or at the very least that the massive head injury I suffered as a four month old baby served to skew my take on life forever. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. A Bridge Between reflects mine, and mine alone. It is the story of my parents and me, written from the perspective of a 50-something year old 8th child. If you have been privileged to shared time with your parents as they age, whether you are an only child or grew up in a tangle of siblings as I did, you might recognize yourself or your parents in these pages. This, then, is your story, too.