Archive for December, 2010

Shiny happy people

There have been so many changes in the last 4 months. New town, new home, new jobs, new lives… People have been happy for us – we were starting anew and moving on with our lives. There a lot of truth to it – being shaken out of your usual routine and dropped in a new environment does force you to live in the moment and even start planning for the future.

Kiran is still a central part of our lives. Tricia and I think and talk about him all the time. What would he think of our new digs? What would our big boy be doing now? Every time we go into a store we think about what he would need now – what would we be buying him. For the most part the sadness is more wistful than overwhelming these days, though there are still nights I curl up into a ball and cry.

The strangest thing about this move is that very few people here know about Kiran. Even those who do – only know him as the son who died – nothing more, and no one brings him up in conversation. No one knows about his wicked sense of humor, his sense of fun, or what a joy he was in our lives. I’ve become quite good at saying “We had one.” when people ask me how many children we have. I explain that Kiran died almost two years ago, and then the conversation moves on to other less depressing topics. There seems to be such a disconnect between past and present. I think it’s time to put up some photos in my office.

Its been 5 months since I last wrote. I still think about writing every week – but I can’t seem to find the focus to sit down and write. Let me take that back. Its easy to write – to put down the raw feelings and thoughts that swirl around my head – not so easy to filter and think about your writing. I’m always conscious that once I publish something – its out there and I can’t take it back. And so my inner demon edits and paraphrases and sanitizes.

Bad Intuition

Kiran was dying and I didn’t know it.

I hate thinking about his last days, his last conscious hours.  Maybe it is because I didn’t know they would be his last conscious hours.  If I knew I would have done something differently.  Now I have the remainder of my life to review those days and hours and wonder which choice I could have made which would alter the outcome.

I should have known.  I am his mother.  I should know more than his doctor, nurses, and even his father.  At three I indulged myself in thinking he was still like an extension of me, my own body.  I should just feel the change in him.

My last memory of his being awake with me is still too personal to share.  It happened late in the evening the night before he died.  I relive it over and over wondering if he was scared.  I hope he understood that his mama was there, trying to take care of his needs, even when I had to leave his side to let the nurses do their jobs.

It was very soon thereafter.  I don’t even know the moment he slipped into sleep, never to wake again.  It would be at least twelve hours before I understood I missed the moment.