Ambushed by Grief

Two years ago

            Jim, David, and I sit in a small windowless room.Dr. Fathi says there is no known treatment likely to cure the leukemia: David’s chances of survival are “infinitesimal”. He speaks of keeping patients alive for a certain event: a child’s graduation or a wedding, for example.

A few days later David sends an email to our families:

            “You should probably sit down again. My doctor concludes that my chances of recovering from leukemia are extremely low. I probably have on the order of a few months left to live. I am unsure what to think of this. I definitely haven't been overwhelmed by negative thoughts at this news, which is good.
I love you all
David”

Mid-October 2016

Disclaimer: I want to emphasize that what I write here is not the majority of my experience. 95% of the time I function well. I laugh; I learn; I enjoy beauty. I go for walks; I brush my teeth. The grief attacks are short-lived, but brutal.

I walk down the sidewalk, away from my writing coach's apartment, enjoying the perfectly blue October sky, sunshine on my hair and face. In the sky to the north, I hear the faint beat of helicopter blades. In a quarter of a microsecond, several memories flood in. Last week, as I researched for my blog post, I had watched a YouTube video of a short section of Mr. Holland’s Opus. As Mr. Holland describes Beethoven’s experience as a deaf composer to his music appreciation class, the second movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony  plays on the phonograph. Mr. Holland is silently processing the recent news that his own young son is deaf and will never be able to hear music.
          In the last few seconds of this YouTube selection, the sound of beating helicopter blades is heard. I know the movie well: the beats segue into scenes of the raging Vietnam war and then the military funeral of a former student. I hadn’t thought about this scene for years. Since then, I’ve been in a cemetery with a flag-draped coffin. Two cemeteries. Three coffins: my Navy veteran mom in 2013, my Navy veteran dad in 2014, and of course David in 2015. I’ve heard taps, played in a rain-soaked cemetery in December, wafting through a September fog; I’ve watched earnest young men in uniform fold the coffin-sized flag. I’ve been handed a flag for safekeeping by an earnest Army sergeant, so moved he couldn’t express himself.

So, here I am in Arlington, ambushed by grief. Again.