There were words spoken that I should never had said to my wife. They started a conflict that would take many years to resolve. And maybe it’s still not completely overcome. My wife and I could raise children and build houses together, but somewhere in there, at the last hours of an evening we would find ourselves in separate rooms.
Looking back it was no one’s fault. But I blamed her for things that I shouldn’t have. And so my words fanned the fire of conflict which born confusion and anger.
There was a time I blamed others for my son’s death, but I was wrong. When a small vial of heparin appeared it shook me from a dream. For Matt was on it during that last night before all things changed.
I wanted things to be different, but they weren’t and so anger engaged and raged inside, and then came forth the words that I should not have said. Other words would follow in the years to come, but now they are no more. There was no one to blame, no one to be angry with. Just because I thought certain thoughts and made judgments I came to believe were true, did not make them so.
There are people I have hurt, for this I am deeply sorry. Maybe there are words that could justify it, but I will not try to find them. Maybe it is to honor the past and learn from it, but to not live in it. But also to remember how I still love the ones I have loved before. It seems because a relationship ends and communication ceases we forget. But I would not be here in this time and place if it wasn’t for them.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
There is a opera house in Paris. Walking through its’ doors there are steps that lead you into the past. Within its corridors are the voices of long since gone. There are the seats of dignitaries and the aristocrats. How many generations have taken their seats, how many governments have come and gone. How many performers have brought smiles and tears. How many have come before us. How many more will come again.
There are small circular rooms at the end of some corridors. They transition the corridors at ninety-degree angles. Mounted on its’ curved walls are four straight flat mirrors two each opposite the other. When standing in the center the reflection as it almost disappears into infinity seems to distort time and place.
A few days before in Amsterdam I watched in amazement and wonderment when the first violinist become one with his instrument. There were a few around him struggling to keep up. You could see it on their faces, but on his was a smile. The intricate movements of his fingers and hands seemed simple and delicate. His body moved with the violin in a way that it was difficult to see where the two ended and where they begun.
It was staring at van Gogh self-portrait; I could feel my skin tingling. Somehow he had entered into the paint and became one with it. His intensity radiated out and penetrated my being.
All these things and many others I glazed upon wondering how life was so different now. The transition was still taking place and would continue even to the present moment.
It had started when my son stopped breathing. It was then I began to understand the impact it would have. For all the choices and decisions were made for what was best for him and no one else. In those following hours and days I could feel my life dissolving. It was a new feeling, as if watching from a distance of a world changing. Maybe it would have been possible to stop it back then, but I chose not to, unable to lie to myself any longer.
It would take many years to have some sort of normal life again, but even this is mostly seen from the outside. For the transition is ever changing. It quietly shows a continuing different way of looking on and understanding the world. It has taken many steps so far and after awhile you forget some of the ones taken. It is only when something happens and a memory comes back of how you use to respond, do you understand what has been learned.
The feeling that was once new and the discomfort that it brought has seemed to fade away. But I know it has become a part of me now and flows through my veins with every breath.
There are small circular rooms at the end of some corridors. They transition the corridors at ninety-degree angles. Mounted on its’ curved walls are four straight flat mirrors two each opposite the other. When standing in the center the reflection as it almost disappears into infinity seems to distort time and place.
A few days before in Amsterdam I watched in amazement and wonderment when the first violinist become one with his instrument. There were a few around him struggling to keep up. You could see it on their faces, but on his was a smile. The intricate movements of his fingers and hands seemed simple and delicate. His body moved with the violin in a way that it was difficult to see where the two ended and where they begun.
It was staring at van Gogh self-portrait; I could feel my skin tingling. Somehow he had entered into the paint and became one with it. His intensity radiated out and penetrated my being.
All these things and many others I glazed upon wondering how life was so different now. The transition was still taking place and would continue even to the present moment.
It had started when my son stopped breathing. It was then I began to understand the impact it would have. For all the choices and decisions were made for what was best for him and no one else. In those following hours and days I could feel my life dissolving. It was a new feeling, as if watching from a distance of a world changing. Maybe it would have been possible to stop it back then, but I chose not to, unable to lie to myself any longer.
It would take many years to have some sort of normal life again, but even this is mostly seen from the outside. For the transition is ever changing. It quietly shows a continuing different way of looking on and understanding the world. It has taken many steps so far and after awhile you forget some of the ones taken. It is only when something happens and a memory comes back of how you use to respond, do you understand what has been learned.
The feeling that was once new and the discomfort that it brought has seemed to fade away. But I know it has become a part of me now and flows through my veins with every breath.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Ron was driving his old ford van as we headed south. It was a desolate road on the western end of Wyoming that hugged the Rockies. A few days earlier we stood on the very top of Rainier. It was the climax of five days of learning how to climb and respect mountains. Rainier is the highest elevation in the lower 48 some practice for Everest there.
Our guide started by teaching us how to walk and breath. One step forward, one breath, lock the knee and rest for a second, then the next breath and foot, lock and rest. Slow but with it you could climb great heights in a days’ time. We tied on our crampons and started at 6,000 feet. He told us to look up and all around, to see and witness the beauty of the mountain above tree line. Slowly the climbing turned into a rhythm, as our eyes were bathed in white and wonder. By days end we were at 10,000 feet, Camp Muir.
The following days were filled learning how to stop if falling down the steep grade, building ice caves for survival and climbing vertical ice walls. But most important was learning how to climb in teams of six or seven. Roped together about 15 feet apart the six or seven became one. We learned how to scream “falling” if we were, so the remaining would drop and slam their ice axes deep, into the ice and snow, bringing all to a stop. For if the last one fell and said nothing there was a good chance a domino effect would rapidly begin and they could end up in a crevice. Some of which we saw were 100’s of feet deep.
There were a couple of times at the end of the day; I would sit with the guide. We would face west to the Pacific Ocean down below and talk. One evening the others were in the cabins and the sun was setting. I told him that I didn’t understand why when a small group of people forms there seems to be some sort of jostling for social hierarchy. It seemed he didn’t understand either. But something happen the next day for the jostling faded away. We all seem to became one.
The guide would walk us over distance and crevices. He would poke his ice axe in front of him making sure it was just not a thin covering and we would follow.
The last night before the 4,400’ vertical rise to the top we talked again. He told me how the clouds and skies we had for the past days were most unusual. Rainier has the most snowfall in the lower states, but yet the skies had been crystal clear. He then told me I had what it takes to be a guide. It was a most wonderful thought. We watched the skies begin to darken and then he said; there would come a time when the mountain will drop you to your knees. Then in all the sorrow and sadness it would be up you to rise again, to change and live on with the experience or stay on your knees and dwell in depression.
We rose at 2:30 am. With headlights we started in the darkness. The rhythm followed. Looking up the steep incline my fellow men and women climbing were high above me. We watched the sun rise around 12,000 feet. It came across the ice lighting our faces. And we looked higher.
That day every one made it to the top. Ron and I walked across the crater, to the tiny peak. There was nothing above us but sky. Everything else was below. We saw into Canada, the Pacific Ocean, south to Oregon, and east toward Idaho. Ron & I hugged each other and had our picture taken.
All these things were in our minds traveling south in the old ford van. The evening had turned to night when looking out the windshield a very large brilliant star raced across the dark sky, splitting in two it traveled in different directions, seconds later, gravity landed both on the face of the earth.
We looked at each other and said nothing. There was a wonderful smile on Ron’s face. And then in the silence we looked back to the road again.
Our guide started by teaching us how to walk and breath. One step forward, one breath, lock the knee and rest for a second, then the next breath and foot, lock and rest. Slow but with it you could climb great heights in a days’ time. We tied on our crampons and started at 6,000 feet. He told us to look up and all around, to see and witness the beauty of the mountain above tree line. Slowly the climbing turned into a rhythm, as our eyes were bathed in white and wonder. By days end we were at 10,000 feet, Camp Muir.
The following days were filled learning how to stop if falling down the steep grade, building ice caves for survival and climbing vertical ice walls. But most important was learning how to climb in teams of six or seven. Roped together about 15 feet apart the six or seven became one. We learned how to scream “falling” if we were, so the remaining would drop and slam their ice axes deep, into the ice and snow, bringing all to a stop. For if the last one fell and said nothing there was a good chance a domino effect would rapidly begin and they could end up in a crevice. Some of which we saw were 100’s of feet deep.
There were a couple of times at the end of the day; I would sit with the guide. We would face west to the Pacific Ocean down below and talk. One evening the others were in the cabins and the sun was setting. I told him that I didn’t understand why when a small group of people forms there seems to be some sort of jostling for social hierarchy. It seemed he didn’t understand either. But something happen the next day for the jostling faded away. We all seem to became one.
The guide would walk us over distance and crevices. He would poke his ice axe in front of him making sure it was just not a thin covering and we would follow.
The last night before the 4,400’ vertical rise to the top we talked again. He told me how the clouds and skies we had for the past days were most unusual. Rainier has the most snowfall in the lower states, but yet the skies had been crystal clear. He then told me I had what it takes to be a guide. It was a most wonderful thought. We watched the skies begin to darken and then he said; there would come a time when the mountain will drop you to your knees. Then in all the sorrow and sadness it would be up you to rise again, to change and live on with the experience or stay on your knees and dwell in depression.
We rose at 2:30 am. With headlights we started in the darkness. The rhythm followed. Looking up the steep incline my fellow men and women climbing were high above me. We watched the sun rise around 12,000 feet. It came across the ice lighting our faces. And we looked higher.
That day every one made it to the top. Ron and I walked across the crater, to the tiny peak. There was nothing above us but sky. Everything else was below. We saw into Canada, the Pacific Ocean, south to Oregon, and east toward Idaho. Ron & I hugged each other and had our picture taken.
All these things were in our minds traveling south in the old ford van. The evening had turned to night when looking out the windshield a very large brilliant star raced across the dark sky, splitting in two it traveled in different directions, seconds later, gravity landed both on the face of the earth.
We looked at each other and said nothing. There was a wonderful smile on Ron’s face. And then in the silence we looked back to the road again.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
When the hatched closed the engines fired. The small Lear jet was packed. Two pilots, a doctor, nurse, but the respiratory therapist was the most nervous. I sat in a small chair next to my son lying on a stretcher.
It had been almost a month since the incidence. Paul had helped me through the reality of what had happened. We first knew him as Doctor, but as the years went on, we came to call him Paul. From the beginning he was very clear and recommended giving Matt back. He told us we had no idea what was to come and looking back he was right, for if we did maybe we would have changed our minds. We did not like him then, but that was to change and fade away, for without Paul we would not have been able to give our son the life he had. That first visit at UCSF Paul shocked us and made us cry, he held back nothing. It was only when I asked him what were the chances Matt would live to be 20? When he said 50/50, I found the baseline I could live with.
Maybe I was blind, maybe I was only looking for some sort of an answer I could live with, because I knew deep inside of me, I could never give back my son. There was nothing that could or would stand in my way, there was no comprise in this.
-----------------------
The movement of the bike was calming. It kept me sane.
There was a place when the road was threatening rain, the bike stopped.
Inside was a mom and pop gas station/restaurant, but this time it was a young couple. He worked in the back on car repairs and other things of men. She took the orders, cooked and served the food. He had grease and oil on his hands and arms. She talked to the people coming in and going out, he talked to ones in the back room. She ran the register and collected the money. He would look on her from time to time thinking she did not see him. It was as I was leaving, we talked about the weather, it was then she paused and looked out across the counter through the large plate glass window into the storm that may come, and I can still see her eyes when she said, “but aren’t the clouds beautiful”.
-------------------------
The small door to the cockpit was open as we flew westward. You could see out the front windows into the clouds and sky. My left hand rested on Matt and he was calm. There was something soothing with the vibrations of the engines. The space inside was full, no room for anything else. The thoughts inside my mind were going over what was to come and things that I would do.
We landed at SFO and taxied to a remote place were an ambulance waited. The respiratory therapist hurried the transfer. I asked the doctor to come. Somewhere along the way the RT asked the driver to hit the lights. The elevator took us to the floor and the room in the ICU was waiting.
I stood there watching as they took Matt in, it was then a young doctor came to me and asked something, the words I didn’t hear as tears filled my eyes, there were no words I could have said, for there was nothing left to do, for now.
It had been almost a month since the incidence. Paul had helped me through the reality of what had happened. We first knew him as Doctor, but as the years went on, we came to call him Paul. From the beginning he was very clear and recommended giving Matt back. He told us we had no idea what was to come and looking back he was right, for if we did maybe we would have changed our minds. We did not like him then, but that was to change and fade away, for without Paul we would not have been able to give our son the life he had. That first visit at UCSF Paul shocked us and made us cry, he held back nothing. It was only when I asked him what were the chances Matt would live to be 20? When he said 50/50, I found the baseline I could live with.
Maybe I was blind, maybe I was only looking for some sort of an answer I could live with, because I knew deep inside of me, I could never give back my son. There was nothing that could or would stand in my way, there was no comprise in this.
-----------------------
The movement of the bike was calming. It kept me sane.
There was a place when the road was threatening rain, the bike stopped.
Inside was a mom and pop gas station/restaurant, but this time it was a young couple. He worked in the back on car repairs and other things of men. She took the orders, cooked and served the food. He had grease and oil on his hands and arms. She talked to the people coming in and going out, he talked to ones in the back room. She ran the register and collected the money. He would look on her from time to time thinking she did not see him. It was as I was leaving, we talked about the weather, it was then she paused and looked out across the counter through the large plate glass window into the storm that may come, and I can still see her eyes when she said, “but aren’t the clouds beautiful”.
-------------------------
The small door to the cockpit was open as we flew westward. You could see out the front windows into the clouds and sky. My left hand rested on Matt and he was calm. There was something soothing with the vibrations of the engines. The space inside was full, no room for anything else. The thoughts inside my mind were going over what was to come and things that I would do.
We landed at SFO and taxied to a remote place were an ambulance waited. The respiratory therapist hurried the transfer. I asked the doctor to come. Somewhere along the way the RT asked the driver to hit the lights. The elevator took us to the floor and the room in the ICU was waiting.
I stood there watching as they took Matt in, it was then a young doctor came to me and asked something, the words I didn’t hear as tears filled my eyes, there were no words I could have said, for there was nothing left to do, for now.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Many years ago one of my brothers once asked, "what happened in the room". The room of Matt's last days he was talking about. For a change had occurred, but it wasn’t until years later I realized what it was. It seems it began a month before the last days. Two months earlier, just after Christmas of 1990, Matt was admitted with a lung infection. That night I watched as the situation deteriorated and the next day he was put on a vent. (A tube down his throat that breathed for him.) A few days later he was making headway on the infection, when he came very close to coding, something, with the all surgeries and months of hospital stays, he had never done before. His kidneys started shutting down and we would have to wait it out, until they started up again.
There is a room down the hall from the ICU where parents sleep. Sometimes in the middle of the night a nurse would come in searching for someone who’s child had taken a turn not expected. I would always hear the handle turn and the door open and then wait and hope they weren’t looking for us.
Two months had past, his infection had been gone for a while and the kidneys were working fine now. There was joy late that night; the vent will be pulled tomorrow and so we went to bed.
Later that night the knob slowly turned and the door open, she came to us.
Tests confirmed the greatest of fears; a massive bleed, a stroke, it didn’t matter what it was called. Looking at the MRI there was much more black and very little brain left. It had destroyed his ability to move, talk or see, maybe he was able to hear we did not know. The only reason he was alive was the vent. But he was still there; I could feel him, inside his useless body. The monitor would show from time to time his blood pressure rising. I would hold and talk to him and the pressure would come down. This boy of almost nine trusted me with his life. The thought had never occurred to me---- we had spent, since the first time our eyes laid on him, giving him the best life he could have.
It would have been easier to keep him in his room playing with his toys. But we bought him a bike. I wanted him to feel the air flowing through his hair as I did many years before. I would carry him on my back down to the beach. For Halloween we would transport him from house to house in the wheelbarrow. He would get upset coming home from school and finding the clues that Kim had played in his closet with his toys. There was a time he was angry with Kim because she didn’t have a heart like his. With the four of us there, I told him it wasn’t Kim fault, nor his fault or his mothers’ or mine. But we were all a part of it and we would all get through it together.
In the middle of the night, he would sometime crawl into bed with us. I remember lying there with my arm around him. At the end of each day I would recite The Night Before Christmas. Kim would be on my left Matt on the right as we lay in bed. There was once a time in the wee hours of a morning I was feeding Kim her bottle, the wood stove dimly lite the room, there was a peaceful feeling. Matt came from his room and climbed upon my lap and slept. And so I rocked and rocked the two of them, I would like to be there now.
The thought and realization of my son being trapped inside a worn out body and the fear he would have, was unbearable. Then came the thought never before thought of. In the mist of it all I found myself in a place and time sitting in silence, as all things seemed to moving around me without the feeling of time or understanding. Looking, staring at my son’s body lying on a bed, as a machine breathed for him, tears came from my eyes in the hidden darken spaces I had found, in the hallways of hospitals and ICU’s.
It seems now that it was a physical change that took place inside the molecular makeup of my being when my purpose changed from that of giving Matt the highest and greatest quality of life to that of ending it.
There is a room down the hall from the ICU where parents sleep. Sometimes in the middle of the night a nurse would come in searching for someone who’s child had taken a turn not expected. I would always hear the handle turn and the door open and then wait and hope they weren’t looking for us.
Two months had past, his infection had been gone for a while and the kidneys were working fine now. There was joy late that night; the vent will be pulled tomorrow and so we went to bed.
Later that night the knob slowly turned and the door open, she came to us.
Tests confirmed the greatest of fears; a massive bleed, a stroke, it didn’t matter what it was called. Looking at the MRI there was much more black and very little brain left. It had destroyed his ability to move, talk or see, maybe he was able to hear we did not know. The only reason he was alive was the vent. But he was still there; I could feel him, inside his useless body. The monitor would show from time to time his blood pressure rising. I would hold and talk to him and the pressure would come down. This boy of almost nine trusted me with his life. The thought had never occurred to me---- we had spent, since the first time our eyes laid on him, giving him the best life he could have.
It would have been easier to keep him in his room playing with his toys. But we bought him a bike. I wanted him to feel the air flowing through his hair as I did many years before. I would carry him on my back down to the beach. For Halloween we would transport him from house to house in the wheelbarrow. He would get upset coming home from school and finding the clues that Kim had played in his closet with his toys. There was a time he was angry with Kim because she didn’t have a heart like his. With the four of us there, I told him it wasn’t Kim fault, nor his fault or his mothers’ or mine. But we were all a part of it and we would all get through it together.
In the middle of the night, he would sometime crawl into bed with us. I remember lying there with my arm around him. At the end of each day I would recite The Night Before Christmas. Kim would be on my left Matt on the right as we lay in bed. There was once a time in the wee hours of a morning I was feeding Kim her bottle, the wood stove dimly lite the room, there was a peaceful feeling. Matt came from his room and climbed upon my lap and slept. And so I rocked and rocked the two of them, I would like to be there now.
The thought and realization of my son being trapped inside a worn out body and the fear he would have, was unbearable. Then came the thought never before thought of. In the mist of it all I found myself in a place and time sitting in silence, as all things seemed to moving around me without the feeling of time or understanding. Looking, staring at my son’s body lying on a bed, as a machine breathed for him, tears came from my eyes in the hidden darken spaces I had found, in the hallways of hospitals and ICU’s.
It seems now that it was a physical change that took place inside the molecular makeup of my being when my purpose changed from that of giving Matt the highest and greatest quality of life to that of ending it.
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