EASTON, Md., November 22, 2011—Each Thanksgiving I pause during the hectic rush of the holiday season and give thanks for the great gift of motherhood.
There were pivotal people that made my life with my daughter Maxine possible, and special meaningful places and events, too. It’s in that spirit that I’d like to share my eternal gratitude for a most unexpected event that could have changed—or ended—my life and hers, but, thankfully, didn’t.
I dodge lettuce, cilantro, and translucent fingers of bean sprouts that are strewn about on blankets at a makeshift sidewalk market. I am sweaty and flies and fumes envelope me.
So why am I smiling?
The chaotic streets of Hanoi are the stuff of legend. We came fully prepared and, as a New Yorker, I thought I knew about traffic, but I was completely unprepared for traffic that is entirely unimpeded by streetlights, this do-or-die effluvium of toy-sized taxis, thick herds of bicycles, jumbles of hand-pushed carts, and the ever-present parade of motorbikes.
Oh, the motorbikes of Vietnam.
My husband Scott and I stand perched at the edge of the busy intersection. Maxine, not quite five months old, is nestled close to my chest in Baby Bjorn, a black sack adorned with sleek silver strikes, a modern day papoose. Scott and I grasp hands poised to face the incessant and noisy traffic that abides no rules.
We have no choice but to cross this street. If we don’t cross, we don’t get back to our hotel. Suddenly Scott yells, “Go!” over the din and, holding hands, we plunge into the flow. Somehow his hand comes loose from mine. Ahead of me, I watch him perform a noble sidewinder, his back arching, and his hips swirling, to miss the impact of the blazing bikes. I have turned into a lead figurine, better suited to a display case in a dusty antique shop than here in a dynamic sea of wheels. The bikes are so fast I can feel their hot zoom rumble in my belly.
I press my hand to Maxine’s back protectively.
Scott has made it to the other side and stands on the sidewalk outside beside a little market shop, where a riot of colorful umbrellas spill out onto the ragged, dusty sidewalk, looking like a burst of magical forest mushrooms.
“Run!” he thunders, but I do not. I am alone with my baby, this child I knew about for decades, but whom I only met 12 hours before. “Run! Run!” Scott calls again. Despite my paralyzing fear of running in front of the mad motorcade of commuters I amaze myself when I finally do.
I do not look at the coming traffic. Instead, I concentrate on those magical mushrooms, a vibrant beacon on the other side of the road. I drive my shoulders forward like an ox. My eyes cast downward to the pockmarked pavement. I am closing in on the other side of the road. Scott is now reaching his hand out to me. I believe I am going to make it. And just then, it happens. I am hit.
The handlebars of a motorbike jam into me with such force that my backpack spins off my shoulder and knocks Maxine, tucked in her Baby Bjorn, so hard that she swings like a pendulum. I feel nothing. The motorbike that hit me has peeled away, oblivious to the swipe. Another rush of motorbikes whizzes past.
Did this happen at all? Was I hit? I wait to drop to the ground, but I don’t fall. I don’t even stagger. I wait for blood. Then I realize then that the bulky, hulking backpack that I have complained so bitterly about dragging through the streets with me, filled with baby bottles, and formulas, and diapers, has saved our lives. What would have happened if it had hit me in the front, where the 11-pounds of soft baby was strapped to my chest? My paralysis is lifted; the thrum of the street comes back into focus and I sprint towards Scott.
He stretches his arms out to us. Safe on the sidewalk I let out a laugh, so ridiculously deep and loud that I don’t recognize the sound. I am a parent, a mother, and we are a family.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Andrea is an adoptive mother and a journalist. She is at work on a book, "The Red Thread," a collection of stories told by families united through adoption. She is also owner of Media Branding International, a public relations/media consulting firm. She is the editor of Food & Travel in The Communities at The Washington Times.
Read more The Red Thread in The Communities at The Washington Times.
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