Yesterday it struck me suddenly that at the end of October Loren would be dead for longer than he was alive.
I look at these words in writing and I cannot fathom why they cause me such pain.
Maybe because at the back of my mind I’d been hoping all along that this period away from him is penance for something. Penance which will come to an eventual end. Maybe I was thinking that if I’m a good girl who doesn’t complain too much God will give him back to us. I tell myself that missing him is forever on this earth, but the full implication somehow does not want to enter my thick skull.
So the dates pass. One hour, one day, a week, a month, six months, a year, eighteen months. He would have been three in November.
Three seemed such a magical age to me. I thought that if we could make it to three, then maybe we had a chance. Not quite sure of what: Healing, life? My mother confessed recently that she felt the same.
I hate that “they” were right. I have the type of personality that does not accept defeat. Not even not accept defeat easily. Accept it, period. I want to kick and scream and claw at people. Especially “them”.
“Them” being anybody who made predictions about my son’s life. Who says it is better this way. Who refused to have hope for him. Who made sweeping statements based on their faulty perceptions of our life.
I heard something fall and with foreboding entered the room. The heavy fireplace surround that was lifted up and placed against the wall for cleaning, had toppled over and one of our new kittens was pinned underneath it, the cast iron laying across its soft furry baby belly. Its mother was standing next to it, helpless. I lifted the heavy piece of iron feeling nauseous and thinking that its back must surely be broken. But it gets up and scuttles off. It makes the noises of an animal in pain. It is too quick for me and goes and hides under a bed. I kneel down and peers under the bed, softly calling it. The kitten remains under the bed. It is in pain. I can only see the reflection of the light in its eyes. I think of its insides, probably crushed and I want to vomit.
We’re on a farm. My parents are busy elsewhere and I feel helpless. By the time they get home it will surely be dark and all vets in town will be closed. If my dad agrees to let us take it to a vet, in the first place. Only animals that can bring in an income are worthy of a vet’s attention and my dad is no cat lover.
So I go and sit next to the bed. I could crawl under, I’m still small enough. But then I would have to grab the cat by its legs and pull and who knows what else I’ll hurt. Besides, it would probably claw at me. Cats do that. Even if I can get a hold of it, what will I do? So we sit there, the kitten and I. Later I get up to go to the toilet and when I get back, the kitten is gone.
Panicky I search the house. And then I see.
The kitten is lying entwined with its siblings. The kitten seems asleep, but I see it vibrating. I realize that it is purring, probably in pain. And its brothers and sister are purring too. They, normally so active, are awake but absolutely still. Soft furry bodies cushioning their brother. The mother cats jumps up and curls her body around her kittens. She closes her eyes, goes to sleep. For hours they stay like that. By the next day the kitten starts eating again. And a week later it runs around as if nothing has happened.
I heard of a family nearby with four kids, one of whom has CP. I’m told that they are stretched beyond their abilities. There’s judgement too, in the voices of some of the people who tell me about them. For having another baby when they cannot cope already. I would have gone to meet them last Friday, but they cancelled due to circumstances. I just want to tell them that I’m here if they want me or need me. That I know.
And I think of the cats, who claw when they are in pain. And yet are wise enough to know that healing lies in being still and being together.
