Some Dates Are Forever Changed

Two Years Ago

August 25, 2014. David is admitted to the MGH leukemia unit, for high-dose cytarabine. He receives 2 grams of the chemo drug every 12 hours for 6 days. At that high a dose, there is a risk of cerebellum damage: loss of fine motor movement, balance, and the ability to walk and control posture. I’m torn between the hope of a cure and the terror of the dangers. My son might never be able to walk again. For four days he is very sick, unable to eat, and just lies in a fetal position on the bed.

September 3, 2014. David insists on leaving the hospital. The nurse practitioner urges him to stay. With his extremely low immunity, she wants him in the hospital with immediate access to IV antibiotics. She is confident he’ll be back, stating that cleanliness won’t abate the greatest threat: bacteria in his own gut.
I beam with pride as I follow David; he strides out of the unit, determined to live his own life and go home.

I write in my blog that day:

            For my part, I thoroughly cleaned the house. It may not matter much, but it is the one thing I have control of. Annie told me of a very difficult time on her Taiwan mission. Everything was hard. So, she stood by her air conditioning thermostat and switched it on and off. On and off. She could control that: on and off. For me it’s cleaning and food safety. I can do that.

Two Years Later

We have observed David’s death anniversary, August 12, visiting his gravesite and then peacefully working on our computers in Jim’s air conditioned office, with an amusing distraction from a skunk trying to take up residence under our kitchen porch.

Now, in early September, I find myself occasionally doubled over in emotional pain when I’m alone. Every time I listen to “It’s Quiet Uptown”, a song of intense grief in the musical Hamilton,  I have to sit down and sob. Once I start to cry just hearing the opening bars of the musical.
It’s not all dreariness. To an observer I’m sure I look normal; I’m high functioning; I laugh; I enjoy things. But my identity as a grieving mother lurks just below the surface, even a year later. It always will.

All through September the anniversary of David’s burial, a year ago on September 12, looms large for me. We had expected the UMass Medical School to keep David’s body for many months, up to two years, and were stunned and unprepared when we received a phone call on August 31, saying that they had finished the research and were ready to return his body. Arranging a burial date and choosing a coffin was very hard.


This year, on Monday, September 12, I spend the day alone, puttering around the house, dusting and sweeping, photographing Peter and Xiomara’s car for their eBay sale, practicing the piano for the first time in nearly two months, and writing. As with the death anniversary, the actual day is less painful than the anticipation, but plenty painful nonetheless.