November 25, 2015

His life, his intention, his meaning.

"There is a friend who has lost his daughter. She was fifteen. In the afternoon, in the quiet of his study, (where have all the terribly comforting noises and effort of care-giving gone? The rustle of plastic when opening a new syringe wrapper. The pop of a medicine container, the cling of stirring that medicine in a glass. The distrust in life, the pride at her commitment to renew herself each day) he broke down in tears. How could he live his life, doing justice to all the sacrifices, to honor her short but exquisite life? How could he go on without the meaning that caring for her brought? He realized then, that her sacrifices were not in vain, since she lived a beautiful life. A very difficult one, but filled with laughter, drama and the mundane. Like any other. ‘God I loved her’, he thought. But then the obvious struck him, that he loves her and carries not only those experiences inside of him, but her essence. Yes, she is gone, but her meaning isn’t. His very bones breathe her existence. Despite the appearance of limitation and suffering, he chooses the positive in life, because that’s how they lived it.
His life, his intention, his meaning."

excerpt from 'Before the god of the fields', an upcoming novel.

November 19, 2015

So loud

In a life such as that which my son, Segev, leads, it is often the silence which is the most telling. When seizures happen, which have once again become pressing, you see the issue right in front of you. Maybe there is something you can do, increase the oxygen, suction, support his flailing arms (even though they are tied into elastic bandages to minimize the damage), wipe away the tears. Then comes the quiet. How well will he recover? Is the next one on the way? Or more pertinent, what caused it this time; a build up of neurological tension from frequent, excessive pain? A blockage in his lung? Do I reposition him in his chair or move him to the couch where he can lie more prone?