I'm feeling שבירה ושבורה -- fragile and broken. I woke up this morning to the news that a true hero, Superman Sam, had died of leukemia. He was 8 years old.
When I posted about how I felt obligated to read Phyllis' blog, even though it was devastating, Crystal commented that she "couldn't bear it" if she lost her son. That's exactly right. I could not bear it. I don't know how one bears that.
When I told Guy that I was feeling fragile and broken, he said, "I guess I'm a cold person."
"Funny,"I said, "because you always say that I have no heart."
"I have a heart," he said. "But I'm saving it. For Yoni and Amit. And Adi. And Lior and Shir."
Meanwhile, I have neither the patience nor the energy to deal with non-leukemia related issues in any of my children. There is a gaping hole in the middle of my living room, my daughter's room leaked water from the electrical outlets all through Shabbat, and I'm trying to care. I really am. But I can't. I just don't care.
Because if it were my son, I would want the whole world to stop. My whole world would stop. I would want everyone to feel the crushing grief I felt. I would want everyone to remember my little boy.
He was 8 years old. And I am broken.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Fragile and Broken
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2 comments:
Frankie had that precise reaction and I wondered if Guy was reacting similarly. They're just wired differently, I guess.
The grief must be crushing. Because removed and remote, I feel it hard to breathe today.
Thinking of you and Adi (and Guy and Lior and Shir and Amit and Yoni) more than ever today.
xxoo
Both my husband and I were crying for Sam last night. And for us. Their story could easily be ours. Might be some day, as much as it pains me to think that way. There is no predicting which way our story will go. And Sam's death came at a particularly sensitive time for us - when Jack's chemo has been stopped for the third time and then restarted but with the dose cut to almost nothing...making relapse more of a danger. And there are no answers or explanations or specific predictions as to what will happen in OUR case. Just "most kids beat this" and "some don't." It's horrific.
Last year when the Sandy Hook massacre happened and someone I knew lost a family member, I kept thinking "I can't care." I wanted to but it's like cancer sucked up all of my caring. I've been fixated. I guess this is why they say so many parents of kids with cancer get PTSD - you replay it all in your mind over and over. Everything else seems so far removed.
When Jack was first diagnosed, my husband said his worst fear was that I would fade if Jack did. He would lose both of us. I think about that all the time.
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