“How are you? What will you do tomorrow?”, the short text message read. Tomorrow? Why tomorrow? What is tomorrow? But… Of course. How couldn’t I?
I couldn’t, for I was suffering from short term memory loss. I wasn’t able to remember him, neither the pain, the void (which was good), nor the happy moments, the laughter (which was terribly bad). Our family doctor was stating the obvious when he told me that I had PTSD, or post traumatic stress disorder – the obvious that had been escaping me for months now, probably because I could not bring myself to admit it. I was trying to move on, not to a future without him, but to be able to create a future with him. How vain, how foolish… Surely, Max Porter knew better.
“Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project. I refuse to rush. The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix.” (Grief is the Thing with Feathers).
“Sh.t, I forgot”, I replied. “I was feeling somewhat off for the last couple of days but didn’t know why. Did you plan anything?”
“I will just write something on my blog I think. I want to be able to celebrate, but I don’t know how. Just eat some cake. There are so many sad days, so many days I mourn, and I wish tomorrow could be a day for all the happy memories.. The day he was born was such a happy day.”
It was. We had been at hospital for several hours. He had been taking his time, and, well, who could blame him? Who would want to leave the comfort of the “inside” and step into the cold, cruel outside? Maybe he knew what life had in store for him. But we convinced him to come out. We promised him we will love him, so much so that he would never miss the inside and he would never feel lonely.
I saw him, the moment the doctors took him out. I was the first to see his eyes. My eyes in his eyes, for his eyes were my eyes (no, mamma won’t be offended, she was the first to notice it). The eyes which would turn from blue to green, from green to honey brown. I was the first to see him, but mamma was the first to hold him. He stopped crying the moment he felt his mamma’s warmth. He was calm, peaceful, not regretting he was out. For mamma was caressing him. For his tiny hand was tightly gripping mamma’s finger. A tear drop slipped out of the corner of her right eye – I am not making it up; it was one tear drop and it was her right eye. She was happy, he was happy. I was happy.
Happy birthday oğlum.