Friday, May 30, 2003
Over the past two months, I've been in two situations where I've had to counsel others about grief. Grief is certainly an individual reaction - for example not everyone wants to live out their emotions on a public webpage like this, but for me a public declaration of love - which is what this is in part - has helped me get over a large hump of the grieving. It's still going to be a bumpy ride.
I must say that the wound within me ached strongly in sympathy with the mother who had just lost her child to drowning, and the parents who had just been told their child had muscular dystrophy. I wanted to - I did- tell them I knew what it felt like, that I knew the world had just fallen away beneath their feet and NOTHING mattered any more. That no one could get through, and that friends could cushion, but not take away the pain. I wanted to tell them that the microseconds in between the agony, when you could function almost normally and not feel the huge void, do get longer with time, though you would never believe it at first.
The other thing that these families and others have taught me over the past few months is that others have been far less lucky than Casey. It would be hard to accept this homily from others - sounds a bit too trite doesn't it. But Casey was born with an intact brain (I can testify that not only was it intact, but very fast and hazardous to play with at times). He grew up in a loving family environment and was sure of his education, the stability of his home and the quality of his friends. He lived in the best country on earth and enjoyed its resources to the max. He was confident of his health until the moment he collapsed - 30 long and joyful years. All this made him a positive person that many loved deeply. In effect he had 30 uninterrupted years to pass on who he was to others, in whom he now lives on.
On that note, a poem I wrote about one of the many things he taught me.
Legacy
Your hands vibrate, a maestro
of hand-eye coordination:
mouse moving masterfully
to control destiny.
Soon-to-be shogun
or killer of mutant half-aliens,
you always liked to play god.
A beer half-full
squats expectantly,
tail almost wagging.
Late morning sun
wanders in, pausing to sniff
at lingering bacon and coffee.
Later you will shift
to the purple-flower beanbag
made expressly for your worship:
bestowing gracious attention on book and TV alike.
(you bat at my feet
as they scurry past)
This then, your legacy:
my mind set free to play.
BH, 22/4/03
I guess one of his other parting gifts to me was the return of my art in poetry, which I had abandoned when I began medical school. As you can see, I cling to this gift now.
Piokiwi 7:09 pm
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