Life as a Wicked Step Mother

 

The home phone rang.  This was during the era where you still answered home lines and so I did.

“Is this Kerry?” a man’s voice asked.

“No,” I replied.  “This is the wicked step mother.”

Unfortunately, that deep, strong voice belonged to a special investigator with the State Police and his job was to determine if Kerry was a suitable candidate for the state police academy. 

I had always heard horror stories about step parenting and I stepped into the role very ungracefully.  I walked a tightrope, wanting to be involved and interested in her life but not overstep my bounds as the second mother.    But Kerry made the job pretty easy.    

I will never be the first one she calls when something exciting happens or there is bad news.  But when she talks to her dad, she almost always says make sure to tell Mary.   For her 21^st birthday, she decided to jump out of an airplane and her dad was so angry that they couldn’t discuss it but she called me and poured her heart out about why it was important to her.  A few years later, her dad was very ill and I couldn’t convince him to seek medical care.  So, I called Kerry, poured my heart out, and she casually stopped by the next day and gently guided him to get the care he needed.  We make a good team.

One day we had extra tickets to a hockey game and invited Kerry.

“Can I bring a friend?”  she asked.  This is how it came to be that we chaperoned the first date between her and her future husband, Joel.  And that was followed up with one of my greatest honors when Kerry asked me to photograph their wedding.  I was also invited into the room when Kerry’s parents first met her daughter, which was the first time I ever held an hours-old baby.  Kerry gave me lots of first experiences.

Fortunately, having a step mother with an odd sense of humor does not prevent an individual from getting into the police academy.  Kerry was one of just a few females that were accepted into the class and the even fewer that graduated.   While there is a dire need for females in law enforcement, they don’t make it easy for female candidates.   The basic training is 26 weeks live-in paramilitary training that is both physically and academically challenging and female candidates must meet the exact same physical requirements as males.  Kerry did well, and it was with a huge sense of pride that we traveled to watch her cross the stage and be sworn in by the governor. 

Her first few weeks as a trooper were shaky.  Her first day home she went to unload her weapon and realized she had never handled the handgun without the direct supervision of a firearms instructor.  In a whisper, she asked me to help her unload it.  She knew exactly what she was doing but at that moment, after months of living in a dormitory and constantly being in a pack of troopers in training, the magnitude of her career decision hit her when she was finally home alone.  The first few times she wore her uniform in public, she felt like everyone was staring at her and she was a marked target for the bad guys.  She confessed to me that she didn’t think she could do this job.  But each day, she grew with experience and confidence.  Her level-headedness and steady personality served her well and she has thrived as a first responder.   

Of course her job changed her.  You can’t show up to gruesome and sometimes fatal car accidents day after day without toughening up.  You can’t apprehend an abusive spouse or drunken driver without learning to bark commands.  And while there are times when I really miss that young adult that needed my help or advice, I couldn’t be more proud of her.  Plus, I’m thrilled that she still has her sense of humor.

One year for Christmas, rather than showing up with a red or green package she brought me a gift in a bright pink bag that bore the words “Victoria’s Secret.”  In the bag was a box, that housed another box, and another and eventually there was a tin with a lump of coal.  I’m guessing there was some other gift that year but it’s the tin of coal that is still tucked away in my drawer of mementos. 

These days we are dealing with a different lump, one that was removed from her breast last week.  It was small, found early and confirmed to be cancer.  All early indications are that she will be fine.  But damn this hurts.

I’m sure Kerry is scared, but she doesn’t show it.  I’m sure Kerry is angry, but she doesn’t show it. That damn trooper training has her standing tall, facing hordes of doctors without flinching.  She pours through her medical reports looking for clues as if she is solving a crime.  She keeps us informed but only after she’s had time to process and analyze any news.  There is not even a hairline crack in her armor.

Meanwhile, I’m a blubbery mess.  I’m in awe and proud of how she is handling her situation, but feel so helpless on the sidelines.  With all my heart, I truly believe she will be a survivor but it is times like this that serve as an important reminder of just how important she is to me.