Saint Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of the lost, of the pregnant and of travelers; today is his feast day. And today I’m thinking about my BFF, her sons and her grandson.
A couple of months ago, on what would have been her youngest son Anthony’s 28th birthday, my friend Leilah learned that the baby her eldest son and his wife were expecting was a boy. Juan and Elsa decided to name him Anthony Daniel, after the baby’s uncle.
Anthony died five years ago after a great and terrible struggle with brain cancer. He was a bright creature, a gifted photographer and a joy to pretty much everyone he came into contact with.
Anthony was born with health problems—my first meeting with him was when he was maybe three or four, getting off a plane with his mother and carrying the plastic cooler that contained his meds. But even then—while a bit shy in the new surroundings—he was just so self-possessed. Everything was interesting to him; he absorbed life-things like a beautiful brown-eyed sponge.
Although much of that was his force of character, I think a lot was also the utterly unconditional love Leilah gave him.
She gave the same to his older brothers. Juan and Joe started out with difficulty, too. Their birth family abused them and they came to Leilah with the sort of disruptive attitudes and behaviors you’d expect. Leilah never gave up on them. Through gangs and drugs and learning disabilities, she was the best mom she could be to them.
And since her then-husband is and has always been a malignant narcissist, with all the steadfastness of a junkie on the make, pretty much all the stability the three boys had, they got from her.
The MN has a short attention span; he went through hobbies (and jobs) like a drunk through gin. Bow hunting, photography, Alfa Romeos—one minute the be-all and end-all; then next, so last-season. He was that way about being a father, too. He lost interest in Juan and Joe because being a parent to them as teen-agers required actual, you know, work. When he moved away from Oregon, he left them behind and took only Anthony with him.
Anthony somehow managed to not only survive living with MN, but to grow into a bright young man, a truly fine photographer, a percipient intellect. He recommended challenging novels for me to read, agreed that B&W was at the heart of photos and had an exuberant sense of humor.
But all this was cut short when he died of brain cancer, age 23.
I don’t suppose a mother ever recovers from that, and I won’t talk about the special circumstances surrounding Anthony’s death. Moreover, she’s had her own health issues to surmount in the past year. So her joy on 1 April at announcing that on that very day Juan and Elsa discovered they were going have a son and were going to name him after Anthony was inspiring. Her delight made me feel like life was better, 500 miles away.
But only 20 days later, baby Anthony was born via emergency Caesarean section, much, much too early. That infant did his very best to stay with his parents, trying to breathe on his own, but in the end he had to let go. He died in his parents’ arms, opening his eyes to see their loving faces.
Anthony would have been 28 on 1 April, but died five years ago. Little Anthony lived 13 days. Not long for either of them; not long enough for either of them. But young man or premature baby—they both gave it their all. There are no small souls in that family.
Perhaps Saint Anthony looked out for them; I don’t know. I do not believe they qualify as the lost; but perhaps as travelers they would have fallen under his purview.
But today, on Saint Anthony’s feast day, I’m remembering them—the young man I last saw, with his older brothers, playing like otters in a motel pool on a summer night in Portland 25 years ago, and the baby I only visualized in my prayers.
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