And so it begins.... I never know how Vasus Deathday will present itself. Last year I was working in New York and managed to get a few hours by myself at the end of the day. I confused the handsome bartender by insisting that he surprise me when he asked what I wanted to drink. Then frustrated him more by asking again for a surprise for the second and third. I spent the evening sipping strange fruity cocktails, with tears leaching from my eyes and my heart overflowing with gratitude for them. This year it begins with sleep. Deep and dreamless through the night, my awareness woke first but my eyes refused to open. Now, as I postpone going to work for yet another hour, my eyes are wide but my mind falls into a dreamy haze that says why bother having thoughts. Whats the point of it? I can feel the tears beyond the haze, waiting for chance memory to pop up and give excuses to leak. I do not begrudge them. In fact, I stand my ground, set my boundary, and say to myself with the confidence of one who has seen her own childs death and found it profound... my tears are not broken, nor unwanted. They are here so that I may exist as I am and not as others may need me to be. Today, this is me, and I will not always be this way. Five years ago on this day, I sat with my little man on the bed that he would soon die in. We watched Night At The Museum, and Cars, and Monsters Inc. until he passed out from morphine. I sat beside his sleeping form, pretending that his body was still his and not the obscene shape of tumors that rearranged his organs. When he opened his eyes again, he begged for more morphine, the only calories he had eaten in weeks, and I smiled to hide the thoughts that flashed through my mind and heart... that I wished his dying would just be over. We started up another movie... I dont remember which, probably something with Ben Stiller. He seemed to be in two out of three of the movies we watched (Why was Mr. Stiller in so many childrens movies back then? I wont be able to watch him on film without memory tears streaking my cheeks). I didnt watch this one anyways. I draped my arm over my childs head, let my heart take over my thoughts and once again found myself begging. Only this time it wasnt begging for the miracle of life, but instead I whispered as if I were speaking directly to Vasus body, Please stop working and just let go. It is too much pain for us all. Please die and be done with it. It was another week before his death actually came. A week of begging for it and pretending that it wasnt always looming. I started going for walks a couple of hours each day because even the instinct to mother your own child has its limits. To this day I still beg, now and then, for life to be done. Because when Vasu died his death did not end. Instead, it became a memory that lingers. It makes me tired, a little helpless and hopeless. Now and then it can overwhelm me and I will curl into a ball and wish I had the strength and wisdom to call it quits. That would take a courage I do not have right now. Soon after Vasus death, I chose to honor him and myself by placing all other responsibilities on a lesser shelf. If my sons death needs me, then I will honor it and me by taking time to grieve. Even five year down the line, work and love and survival can wait a few hours while I take time to cry. I miss my little man today, and taste the salt that such longing brings.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 17:35:46 +0000
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