August, 2010

My son died in May. He was the youngest and the biggest, my father’s height – 6 ft 5 in – but blonde like his father, with my hazel eyes. I have wanted to write about it since that cloudy day, but found myself practically unable to think for several weeks; reading was impossible, all I could do was knit for hours at a time. Crying still happens in spurts and at the most unexpected times. I went to a poetry reading today and when one woman talked about her son surviving 4 tours in Iraq the tears just started to spill. I let them fall then quietly wiped them away. I don’t think anyone saw. I certainly didn’t want to explain them; didn’t want to steal her joy and cover it with vituperative sorrow, you know, “Why mine and not hers?” I don’t like crowds anymore. Never knew I did, actually, but now when I find myself in a large group, particularly of happy people, I just quietly leave. I am not known for quietness. Last night we went to a live symphony, and I realize now that for the first time I didn’t mind being among so many people. Of course, Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto would soothe any soul, particularly when so brilliantly played.

It’s time to write.

When George was born in January of 1986, I spoke with the midwife and doula about the broad stairway linking us to heaven, with souls travelling up and down. My child was coming down, and someone else’s loved one was climbing back up. The midwife’s grandfather died that very day. George was a large baby; three weeks early and still a hearty 9 lbs 11 oz. His head didn’t mold as it was supposed to so it was a bit tricky getting him here, but he made it. A few days later he started to show signs of jaundice and would have had to go to the hospital unless we could get some sunlight on him. We put his crib by the window and, lo and behold, we had several days of clear skies that allowed the winter sun to bath away the yellow pigment as his body finally took up its new responsibilities.

We had already decided to call him George; my mother, who was also there at his birth, said she never knew a George who wasn’t lucky. His middle name was to be Raymond, his father’s grandfather’s name. Being huge Beatles fans, his father and I also read a biography of the group that stated of George Harrison, “George, the youngest of four, was the family favorite.” That settled it; we were sure he would be our last child and he was – for 2 more years.

His early childhood was unremarkable. We moved from Utah to Oregon when he was six months old and he fit in happily as the baby, then the youngest boy when his little sister came along. His older sister, the first-born, became a second mother to him as my workload increased. We all worked together to be happy and united until his father and I ended our marriage and he was taken back to Utah. I only saw him on holidays and in the summer from then on, except for the one delightful year when his dad was unemployed and I got to have him with me for 3rd Grade. I remarried that year and my father died, over in England. I remember him putting his arms around my waist while I cried. I also remember my mother being with us for a time and coming home one day to a furious little tow-head, hands on hips, firmly declaring, “Mom, grandma is turning us into SLAVES!”

Somewhere in High School he grew past his older brothers into a large, warm-hearted young man. It wasn’t really a surprise as his pediatrician had told me when he was two, “Helen, you don’t need to be an MD to know George is going to be tall.” He wasn’t athletic, though I’m sure someone at his school watched & hoped. He was quiet and gentle, shy and introspective. He enjoyed a private and eclectic taste in music – his big sister has his iPod now and she is constantly surprised at the selection. The only games he enjoyed were video games and, with an inherited tendency to clinical depression, he had few friends and never dated. Despite this, he was a Very Funny Man! His quick mind and verbal acuity easily brought quips to his lips that had those around him in stitches. It’s a family thing, but he was the best at it. We managed to gather the brood for two or three group portraits, but the last real photo we have of him is his High School Senior picture. It sits in my living room now.

After High School, George and Olivia came to live with me while their father took a job in Europe. Olivia was a Sophomore and spent the rest of her High School years with me. George took a job at Subway and worked hard to be the best. He had been troubled with migraines for several years and occasionally staggered under severe episodes of déjà vu that left him disoriented and nauseous. When we took him to a doctor to renew his depression medication, the visual aspect of these events concerned him and he suggested we get an MRI as soon as possible. He made the appointment himself. We had the picture taken and the neurologist said he would get back to us in about a week. Two days later he called and asked us to come in at 4pm the following day. When we arrived I chose to stay in the reception area as I had a bad cold, but the receptionist soon called me over and said the doctor wanted me in the room. He turned his laptop around and showed us what he had found. A large area of George’s right temporal lobe was a different shade of grey from the rest of the image and he told us it was a tumor about 6 centimeters across. We would need to consult a neurosurgeon about a biopsy, so we could see what we were dealing with. He said Dr. Belza was about to leave on a one-week vacation to Poland with his father, but he would be happy to cancel the trip if we wanted the surgery done the next day. George and I decided we needed time to absorb what was happening and we planned for the following week.

astrocytoma : n a primary tumor of the brain composed of astrocytes and charterized by slow growth . . .

It had been growing for years, possibly even since birth. The hospital’s cancer board felt targeted radiation was the best option, as the tumor was growing too slowly for chemotherapy and this treatment was designed to damage the cells’ DNA without killing the cells themselves, unless they divided. After six weeks of treatment, the mass had shrunk 25%, indicating we had just caught it on the verge of a growth spurt. We were assured this should take care of the problem, and it did – for a while. George returned to Utah a few months later and continued under observation for three more years, when the tumor started growing again and it was decided to attempt to remove it. They got as much as they could but some was now in the brain stem and couldn’t be reached. Since the growth rate was now fast enough to respond to chemotherapy he was given oral treatments that should have worked, but it seemed we had woken a sleeping giant, and just ten months after the surgery the worst thing happened. From an initial diagnosis of Grade 2 to the more rapid Grade 3, in April 2010 it became Grade 4 – and now I see the rest of the definition cited above:

. . . often followed by the development of a highly malignant glioblastoma within the primary tumor mass.

The doctors said they had never seen any tumor this aggressive. He was scheduled for radiation treatment to augment the chemotherapy but he collapsed at home on the day he was supposed to start the regime and was admitted to the hospital, where he died four days later. We were all there except his oldest brother, who arrived with his new bride early the next morning. We all had jobs to get back to so we buried him three days later and then came home.

These are the facts. The feelings are almost indescribable. One of the most surprising is the feeling that no-one has this grief. As I said to my brother-in-law, I know I’m not the only mother to have lost a son, but I sure feel like it. He pointed out that I’m the only mother who has lost George; that no one can experience my grief, anymore than I can experience theirs. I also learned that the stages of grief are misnamed; they are really a cycle that goes around and around. I even catch myself in the so-called First Stage, Shock, followed by Denial. You would think those would go away, but they don’t. Anger comes and goes and varies in its target from the doctors to God to George himself for not telling us what he knew was happening. I don’t really understand Bargaining; seems kind-of pointless to me, since nothing will bring him back. Depression is obvious and fortunately, for me, tends to yield to sleep. Acceptance? There is more and more of it as time goes by, but it’s still rather soon, I’m told. The thing I battle the most probably belongs under Depression and is tied in with my religious beliefs. If Heaven is so good that my Georgie is happy and useful there, why do I have to stay behind? Why can’t I be allowed to join him? My children are raised, there may be good I can do, but I honestly struggle to find value in this life for myself. Frankly, I just don’t want to be here anymore. See any anger there? Maybe some Bargaining? My life for his or, since that can’t happen, couldn’t we just end this excruciating separation?

My friend, Jai, whose late wife was my dearest friend, put it clearly when he said, “Grief is a very selfish thing. It’s not about anyone but ourselves.” He’s right, but I’m still mad!

There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were.

Dwight D. Eisenhower