Gabe’s Alive

Quiet Time

Dear Friends and Supporters ~

I just haven’t been able to post here for weeks and weeks. I came to a place in this journey thru Gabe’s recovery where I truly could not express a fraction of what might want to be said. I have looked into this blog screen many times, and typed quite a lot, actually, but couldn’t come to any point.  I couldn’t identify what was going on, what was the bottom line, what there was, exactly, to say. I suppose I could have posted a note saying, “Work in Progress.” But I wasn’t even that clear until now.

The stages to this process must parallel what happens when losing one’s home to fire. Discovering the house on fire, there is the moment of shock-induced paralysis, followed by a surge of adrenaline as you watch yourself effortlessly transform into the ‘incredible Hulk’, dig wells, draw water, put out the flames, rescue the loved ones and snatch up the valuables. It’s hard to miss the roar and heat as enormous, crackling flames fill the sky: the whole neighborhood comes out to pitch in.

As the flames diminish and the losses are clear, there are offers of places to stay, and help with basics like finding a rental and fitting it with basic furniture, dishes, towels, sheets. People bring cassaroles and ask with kind concern, ‘How are you doing? You’re so strong, you’re going to be just fine.’ And you know you are strong, and you will be fine. You feel a little impressed with how courageous you were for your loved ones in the face of the fire and it’s hunger for lives.

Well, the flames are out now. Gabe’s survival is no longer in danger. He’s adjusted to the basics of moving through the day, to school, even across the country to rejoin his pals in New Jersey for a good chunk of the summer.

I had planned to help Gabe face his next surgery around this time, doing whatever a mom can do to comfort and cajole. But Gabe wasn’t interested in seeing his body or his summer interrupted by another hospital stay, and his next surgery will wait until Fall.

So I’ve found myself here in this town in which I don’t have much reason to be, in the lone quiet. I’m sitting on the curb in the neighborhood of what life was, staring at where the house once stood and still trying to take in the transformation. The loss is very intense, of course. But the disorientation is the craziest, hardest part. Where are the legs? Not there. Where is my tall son who would carry moving boxes with a grudge, wrap his arms around me from above and run like a deer? Who literally frolicked on the basketball court?

Not there, exactly. His form is changed. And everything is changed.

For all these months, I was busy. I was on the job. I was there for Gabe physically and emotionally in the hospital. Then in rehab. I had to make a lot of difficult decisions along the way, but I made them and we pressed on. I moved Gabe across the country to California where we both thought he might belong – the weather, family, so many reasons. We stayed for three months with a friend who was facing a medical emergency in her own family, while we found a surgeon, a prosthetist. Bought Gabe a car and had it adapted for hand-control driving. Got Gabe started  in school.

I searched for accessible housing, found a place near Gabe’s school and rented it. I returned to India for a month to keep our beautiful work  going there and I actually rested a little. (I read an entire book!) Then flew back to the New Jersey winter to pack a moving truck. Then flew back to California, met the truck, unpacked and set up a house for Gabe. Had a ramp installed. Threw Gabe a birthday party. Took him sea-kayaking and shopping in San Francisco. Then I hugged my boy and returned to India again for two months of work, and bounced right back to be with him for the surgery, which has been postponed.

Pretty much all year long, I could not find my keys near the door, my car in the lot. I couldn’t really even see what was on my desk or in the refrigerator. Business decisions? Right… I asked people to repeat simple sentences. I could hardly keep my hand steady to write a check without searching for reference points to cling to. Because everything had changed and maybe everything really did change.

The mind has to search and scan and repeat, even though I already know. I already made myself accept everything. And I made my mind insist to itself that things happen for a reason. I believed and manufactured belief in silver linings. Whatever happens in this life is a gift. It has to be a gift, ’cause it was given. This is the way forward. But was I really getting anywhere?

For the first time since the trauma happened last May, life slowed down enough in the last two months that I could slow down too. The pace has been glacial. The permitted actions were only these: 1) Sit; 2) Sweep gaze slowly from left to right, eyes locked on the blackened foundation where the house once stood; 3) Breathe if you can and drop into your heart; 4) Let everything else be. Larger, more grandiose gestures would’ve been forced and false because some soft animal parts in me were determined to do whatever had to be done to reconcile –truly realize, digest, accept, be neutral and become relaxed with–what is. What is now, and will always be.

So I’ve sat on this curb for weeks, and it’s OK. I’ve felt the chill of the darkening sky on my shoulders and heard my voice say, “It’s time to get up, time to go.” But the warm concrete beneath me feels real and I stay sitting. I’m in the old neighborhood, but the house is just gone. There’s no way to go home. Nowhere to go home. I am home.

It’s amazing how the heart can expand to hold both enormous gratitude and heartache–in the same breath! While I digest this loss in solitude now, my heart is also filled with a vision of the great bouquet of loving blossoms offered by so many. It’s been a deep blessing to receive sweet support through the months from different kinds of people, and in a beautiful variety of ways. It must be through the participation of you generous spirits that the field of love has held Gabe and I, and created a kind of sacred space for transforming–metabolizing–raw sadness into this rich sorrow.

The rigorous cognitive dissonance, the heat and noise of shock and loss pounding my brain, is quieting down. The sharp compulsion to take a stance of hopelessness or heroism is softening. The cool stream of sorrow is flowing freely through my heart. This makes my cry, but that’s OK. It’s an honest response to the fullness of human experience. Sorrow, I should be able to live with.

Thank God and all the gods–I’m thinking clear thoughts, finding my keys and pulling back out into the current of life.

•••

In brighter news, I talked to Gabe by phone this morning. He tells me  he entered the surf on the Jersey Shore yesterday with the help of a special beach wheelchair on loan to him. He got knocked around by the waves, and bruised a bit, but he actually managed a bit of boogie-boarding! He also walked up a double flight of stairs in his prosthetic legs last week. He misses his legs fiercely and can’t believe how much effort walking takes in manufactured legs,  but he’s very grateful to be able to stand up straight some of the time.

•••

We had a beautiful meeting with Dave Kruppa, the stunningly kind man who gave Gabe his legs. Within a few days, I’ll post the story and lovely photos too.

With love,

Niika