A Child is Dying - The Universe Turned Up Side Down
Dave Muskera, M.A.
February 15, 2008
Youīre born, grow to adulthood, you age and then die. Thatīs the way itīs supposed to be. Thatīs when the universe is right side up. Thatīs when the rules are followed. Donīt ask who wrote the rules. Maybe no one. Babies are not supposed to die. Eight month old infants are supposed to make it to nine months, then ten and onward. Not wind down and be forgotten like some misplaced toy lost under clutter on a closet floor.
My grandson is home and busy dying. After 36 hours of near miraculous brain surgery, the removal of a tumor, the loss of one kidney to another tumor and months of toxic drugs called chemotherapy, he is still going to die. "There is nothing more we can do" So say the doctors. His tumors are back with a vengeance. Laughing with disdain at the chemo drugs and pushing their way into critical brain structures. Growing fast. How much time? A week? A month?
How do you sit and rock your child, your grandchild, look into his trusting eyes and know that he will never talk. That he wonīt see the coming spring burst forth on the mountain. That heīll never throw a baseball or play catch with his dad. That heīll never sit beside his dad and pound out chopsticks on the family piano. That heīll never get to meet Santa Clause or wish upon a star. That you will never have to worry about his first prom date. How do you deal with knowing that soon, all too soon, he will just go to sleep and not wake up? Thatīs what the doctors assure .that his tumors will cause no pain, only increasing loss of alertness and increasing sleep till he shuts down and is gone. Gone where? Oh God, gone where?
What do I say to my son? His wife? How do you consol when you yourself are beyond consoling? How do you talk of the future? Not now. Maybe later. How do you sit in the house of a dying infant hour after hour, chatting casually with friends and family dropping by as if only to visit for a time? There is an elephant in the room and its name is death. Its name is lost and gone for a memory. And my beautiful grandson will cease to be. We will have only fading pictures and a remembrance of how his soft little fingers reached out and touched our souls. His faint baby smell will be left on once worn clothing. Slowly to fade and be gone as well. The universe sucks! I want to scream from on top the highest mountain. To rant and rave against a world gone mad.
It is he that should morn my passing, not me his. This is backwards. Can someone please set it right?
My grandson is home and busy dying. After 36 hours of near miraculous brain surgery, the removal of a tumor, the loss of one kidney to another tumor and months of toxic drugs called chemotherapy, he is still going to die. "There is nothing more we can do" So say the doctors. His tumors are back with a vengeance. Laughing with disdain at the chemo drugs and pushing their way into critical brain structures. Growing fast. How much time? A week? A month?
How do you sit and rock your child, your grandchild, look into his trusting eyes and know that he will never talk. That he wonīt see the coming spring burst forth on the mountain. That heīll never throw a baseball or play catch with his dad. That heīll never sit beside his dad and pound out chopsticks on the family piano. That heīll never get to meet Santa Clause or wish upon a star. That you will never have to worry about his first prom date. How do you deal with knowing that soon, all too soon, he will just go to sleep and not wake up? Thatīs what the doctors assure .that his tumors will cause no pain, only increasing loss of alertness and increasing sleep till he shuts down and is gone. Gone where? Oh God, gone where?
What do I say to my son? His wife? How do you consol when you yourself are beyond consoling? How do you talk of the future? Not now. Maybe later. How do you sit in the house of a dying infant hour after hour, chatting casually with friends and family dropping by as if only to visit for a time? There is an elephant in the room and its name is death. Its name is lost and gone for a memory. And my beautiful grandson will cease to be. We will have only fading pictures and a remembrance of how his soft little fingers reached out and touched our souls. His faint baby smell will be left on once worn clothing. Slowly to fade and be gone as well. The universe sucks! I want to scream from on top the highest mountain. To rant and rave against a world gone mad.
It is he that should morn my passing, not me his. This is backwards. Can someone please set it right?
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