Mistake No. 1: Host a sleepover for a group of preteens at a downtown Omaha hotel to celebrate my daughter’s 12th birthday.
Mistake No. 2: Devour three slices of deep-dish pizza and a hefty chocolate cake while racing to the elevator.
Mistake No. 3: Plead with the hotel shuttle driver to speed us to the nearest Starbucks.
Mistake No. 4: While the girls enjoy their sugary drinks, I sip on a grande cup of Alka-Seltzer.
Mistake No. 5: Once back in our room, they gather around the TV to watch The Theory of Everything. My theory? I need more cake.
Fueled by sugar, I join the girls. As the film reaches its heartbreaking moment when Jane Hawking says, “I did the best I could,” I can’t help but laugh.
“Mom, go to your room,” my daughter, Emma, says, pointing toward the adjoining space. I was quite literally sent to my room.
Our journey hasn’t always been filled with sleepovers and laughter. There were days when I was horrified by the fashion choices marketed to twelve-year-olds, like crop tops and shorts that, as my Jewish mother would have said, wouldn’t cover a tuchus.
When Emma was in utero, she was diagnosed with gastroschisis, a serious condition where the intestines develop outside the body. Our first home was a New York City neonatal intensive care unit where she spent seven months, relying on tube feeds and IV nutrition that kept her alive but threatened her liver.
At the age of three, I discovered Nebraska Medicine’s intestinal rehabilitation program in Omaha. They assured me we’d have a treatment plan in just a week or two. My neighbor, however, was confused when I told her we were heading to Omaha, mistakenly thinking I meant Oklahoma. As a New Yorker, I thought traveling meant a trip upstate. I lived the dream of writing for New York magazines while residing in an apartment building that seemed to have more Jews than all of Nebraska combined.
However, my ultimate dream was to become a mother. Three months after moving to Nebraska, Emma’s liver failed, and she was placed on the transplant list for a small bowel, liver, and pancreas. On July 20, 2006, she received her new organs—her “re-birthday.” At the time, the word “transplant” felt too futuristic for me to even say aloud. But fate has a way of leading us where we need to be. We sold our New York home and bought a place in Omaha, a city I barely knew existed until I looked at a map.
People often express disbelief when they learn we moved from New York to Omaha. “Wasn’t that a culture shock?” Yes, it was. One day, a kid in a loud TransAm drove by, and I braced for a rude gesture, but he just smiled and waved. At Target, the cashier asked if I needed help to my car.
Over time, I’ve come to appreciate the simplicity of life here: children playing outside until dusk, minimal traffic, and an affordable cost of living. I felt like I bought our house with Monopoly money. Ironically, my daughter has even shared the stage with Tony Award winners at the Holland Center, Omaha’s version of Carnegie Hall.
Once frazzled and neurotic, I’ve learned to embrace help and kindness from those around me. I encourage Emma to adapt her mindset and accept new experiences, often reminding her, “Feel the fear, and it will wash through you.” She simply rolls her eyes and quips, “Buddhist.”
Flying into Omaha, I still gaze at the skyline, longing for Manhattan. Yet, I’ve discovered that home is more about an internal state than a physical location. A city girl can truly thrive, as long as she’s surrounded by love—and maybe a little Alka-Seltzer.
For more stories about family and resilience, you might find this piece interesting: Modern Family Blog. Additionally, if you’re considering home insemination, check out Cryobaby for reliable kits. Also, listen to the Cleveland Clinic’s podcast for excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, my journey from New York to Omaha has been a tale of love, resilience, and unexpected joys, reminding us that home is where the heart is, no matter the location.
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