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Like riding a small jerky rollercoaster in the dark, life here in Madison has been exciting and scary. We have been emotionally bruised lately and physically taxed as well. But … and all hail the but … we have been together and in fairly good spirits.
Three weeks ago Ian and I went to MN to see my brother Linn who has been fighting colon cancer for over 3 years. We sat together with his wife, Sheryl, and had a marvolous conversation. We discussed at length the benefits and the problems with child protective services. We argued a great deal. We were all animated and tended to get excited to the point of talking over one another. Sheryl and I teamed up against Linn and Ian. It felt so good. We all went at it with passion and abandon for over 2 hours. I held my brother’s hand at times, I told him he was wrong at times, and when we left I kissed him good-bye and whispered ”I love you, big brother.”
Ian and I walked out and once I was in the safety of our car I cried a bitter-sweet cry. It was the best night I had had with Linn in so very long. We actually got miffed with one another, even a touch angry with the other’s self-righteousness. That is how I know my brother best. To have that again, for just a moment, felt so good. I didn’t want to say good-bye.
One week later I found myself sitting alongside Linn’s Hospice bed holding his hand, gently rubbing his head, placing cold cloths on his forehead. Finally out of pain he was medicated so heavily that he was unable to talk. Before I left on Monday he was no longer able to squeeze my hand. But my big brother was no longer in pain. I didn’t want to say good-bye again, but it was time.
I sat by the side of his bed, tears streaming down my face. I told him that I would look for his star in the sky and show Oscar and Alban. I wispered, “I will tell them that you are looking down on us, protecting us, lighting our way with strength, optimism and generosity, just like you did here on earth.” I squeezed his hand, kissed his forehead and said good-bye. I went home to Madison to be with my family. 8 days later he was gone.
Five days before my brother died, Oscar had a serious injury. Around 5 p.m. his little brother slammed the door shut on his left index finger. The door closed and Oscar’s finger was trapped on the hinge side of the door. The pain in his eyes and the sound of his agony almost ripped me apart. We bundled up his hand and headed off to Urgent Care. We waited, and waited.
When we finally saw a Dr. she performed a carpal block on his hand that did not numb his finger. She tried to push his nail in place and stitch it down while he sat on my lap screaming, “Mama! Make it stop! Stop it now!” She gave him another shot, but it did not help. I asked for oral pain medication, to leave and have him put under general anesthesia. She finally said she would need to refer us to a hand specialist. I told her to call U.W. E.R. and ask for Dr. Walters. If he was on staff I wanted her to tell him that we were coming in and wanted to see him. She did.
We arrived at U.W. and the receptionist called Dr. Walters right away. Mike got us into a room without going to triage. A volunteer arrived with a T.V. and a DVD player. Oscar was lounging on a bed watching Scooby Do when Mike came in and explained to all of us what had to be done. He is a good friend and an even better physician. He did a digital block on Oscar’s little finger, took off his nail, put in 8 stitches, put his fingernail back on and put in 4 more stitches. 12 stitches in one little index finger. And Oscar did not feel a thing. We were home around midnight.
Oscar is doing great. He has adapted with the speed of a 5-year-old to his newly injured and heavily bandaged hand. He helps us pack for our move in 7 days, and marvels at his ability to do more and more with one hand. His brother is curious, cautious and loving (at times) to his big brother.
We’re all moving along, bumping into one another in the dark, feeling excitement, fear, anxiety and sadness all at once. But at night we hold one another, listen closely to the steady breath of our children. I kiss them and gently rub their heads. I tell them that they are my little stars on earth. I tell them that our path is brighter having known Linn, and that he is now a star in the sky forever lighting our way.
Tonight I watched my boys with my husband out in the backyard. Alban and Oscar were running back and forth in the yard kicking a soccer ball. Alban made a goal and came running into the house all excited, to tell me about his goal. As he flung his arms around my neck I hoped that I would always remember the way he ran to me, the way he held my face, the way his eyes danced, the ways his words tripped over one another. So proud, my little boy. So proud and getting so big before my very eyes.
Many times as a parent I have wondered if I would remember important or seemingly mundane but emotional moments exactly as they occured. If I would remember the way Oscar looked up at me when nursing, or the way Alban holds my face close to his face with both hands at night in order to fall asleep. Will I always remember the way each boy felt on my chest, fast asleep, skin to skin for the first time?
Will I remember Oscar’s first soccer goal and the way he turned to us and smiled, brightness and light, proud of his accomplishment? Will I remember Alban’s silly infant face he would make for no apparent reason? Or the first time they made each other laugh and how that laugh rang in my ears for days on end, so proud we had two boys.
Will I remember their faces as they were placed on my stomach for the first time – out instead of in – Oscar looking up at me, Alban with his eyes closed hard and determined? Will I remember how I felt when Ian cut their umbilical chord and they were taken from me, miles it seemed, to be cleaned and checked, returned to my arms seperate from me, yet so dependent? Will I always remember the excruciating pain and physical reaction I had to their crying when first born? Or how that pain didn’t necesarily lessen, but it faded, turned into more worry than fear, more matter-of-fact than overwhelmed.
And what will I remember about tonight? The night that my Oscar graduates from pre-school. Silly, I know, but it will be extremely emotional for me. This is a big step, a right of passage that even Oscar is beginning to understand. He is big now, he has responsibilities, he is going to public school into kindegarten and his world will be even more private than it is now. He knows this, I know this, he will be the same boy tomorrow as he is today day, yet I know that in the fall I give him up for hours on end to others: other kids, teachers, parents, an entire school system.
For now I will concentrate on holding Oscar, playing with him and looking into his eyes as much as I can. That is what I never want to forget: the light, the brightness and wonder in those big brown eyes. Those eyes could navigate ships on the darkest of nights. That I will take with me forever.
Alban was sitting on the floor tonight struggling with putting on his sandals. He looked at me and said, rather indignantly, “Mommy. Say dod damn it.”
“Excuse me?” I stammered, “Did you just ask me to say ‘god damn it’”?
“Yes” he replied rather condescendingly. “I tan’t det my sandals on. Say dod damn it!”
Smart boy. If he can’t say it because it was proclaimed a “mommy and daddy only word” then why should I not be his swearing goy?
Now that is intelligent disobedience.
