It's been two years since that last week of my son's life. I've been trying not to think about it; you can imagine how that works. My nephew, who never seemed to be the empathetic type, knows how much I love kids and is driving here for the weekend so I can immerse myself in playing with my great nephew instead of mentally pacing the distance between Sloan Kettering and the 6 train again and again, praying to a god I don't even believe in for an outcome that can't be provided.
I think about the dead. That's my abstraction. My defense. To move from the loss of Jesse to the general. The rules would apply, right? If the dead aren't really dead, as Fritz once told me, what are they? Do they hear us whisper? Think? Do they finally understand and forgive? Do they want our forgiveness? Or are they truly gone? Not elsewhere, not on another plane of existence. Just gone. And would that be easier than if you had to confront them one day with your faithlessness--yes you were faithless. You had your doubts. Don't lie to the dead.
Today is the 3rd. He was already in the coma. The pressure in his brain rose and fell, measured on the monitor where you might see a heart rate, blood pressure, pulse, blood gases. 65 mm/Hg. You, your intracranial pressure is probably somewhere between a negative number and say, 10. You see what I'm saying? His head exploded. So stop using that expression as a joke. As if I have any control over what people find funny.
Sorry. It's not you, it's me.