Tomorrow
it will be five months since my son passed away and I meditate on him
each day.
There are an
endless stream of powerful memories, endless crises but also his smiles and the knowledge that nothing was left undone nor unfinished.
Death, I suppose, was an unwanted house-guest who had stayed with us for so long
already that I bore him no resentment. Except for those times, each
day, when he would tap me on my shoulder and ask, “Is it time?”
He couldn't hide his disappointment when I would softly say, “No.”
It was at those moments that I would be busy working to revive my
son or reduce the damage to his lungs or increase the sedation
flowing into his veins, each remedy according to the nature of its cause. Often,
finally able to catch a few minutes of sleep I would feel his icy
hand on my shoulder, as Death roused me and asked, “Is it time?”
And in a fit I would jump up and go to work; reviving my son or
reducing the damage to his lungs or increase the flow of sedation
into his veins. 'No', I would say, 'It's not time.'
But
after nineteen years Death had become rather bored of our predictable exchange and could often be
seen wandering off. Then, finally, the time had come; we knew that
the monumental purpose that we had given ourselves had come to an
end. There would be no more reviving. We chose together that it was
time to let go of this life, on our
terms: we knew that it was time.
Suddenly
there was a scream from the other room and then death came running
back in. He called out frantically, “Is it time?!”. His fist was
trembling as he raised it, asking, “Is. It. Time?”. I locked my
gaze with his and shook my head.
"You're
too late.” I said. “You're too late.”
How eloquently you have written of your pain, of the daily exchange with death being a house guest that just would not, could not leave... I wept. Virtual Hugs as your grieving process continues.
ReplyDeleteThank you.
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