Five Hours

by Lucinda Weatherby

  “Mom, can you put all of this guy’s CDs on my iPod?” Kevin asks.

  “Of course,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling secretly thrilled.

  “I want them too,” Jasper chimes in. “But not till I’m nine.”

  “Okey-dokey.”

  *

  I am nervous all day, similar to the way I felt at our wedding. Numb, jittery, out of my body. The clock moves slowly, the anticipation growing. Finally, we are at the half-hour-before mark, and people are streaming in. I am grateful beyond words as a friend makes sure the sound system works. Nicoya puts together a beautiful altar with flowers and blown-up photographs of Theo. Nancy sets up her video recorder on a tripod. As I watch each face that comes through the door to the sanctuary, I am touched in a different way. Many people from our retreat group show up, and two of the nurses from Ashland Hospital.

  While we wait to start, the children stay in the outdoor area out front, with its green grass and lily pad pond. Angie has arranged for a babysitter to play games with the kids. I can hear their screams of delight. Beams of sunlight and a light breeze caress them all. I feel tears coming, but I am afraid to let the floodgates open.

  After fifty or more people have gathered in the room, including many of the children, Courtney begins the ceremony by welcoming everyone. Her courage, and her ability to speak as tears form in her eyes and her voice breaks, impress and move me. Mom, Jasper, and Grace stand in front of the group and sing “The Rabbit Song,” the one Grace sang to me in the hospital room the morning Theo died. These colors green and tall must go the way of all, and winter comes too soon.

  Dicken stands tall in his dark suit and reads some passages of the poet Rilke’s I chose. His voice is strong; I can tell he’s trying to be stoic. I almost swoon at the beauty and truth I hear in the words: We need, in love, only to practice this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

  Maud and Andrew play a song, the readers we’ve chosen read a selection of quotes from the condolence cards and letters and e-mails, and then we watch the video Gabriella made. Tears, tears, and more tears.

  After the video ends, Dicken holds me in his arms, and people flock around us. They tell me:

  “You are so beautiful.”

  “You’re so precious.”

  “Thank you for sharing so much.”

  “I’ve never been so moved.”

  “I will never forget this.”

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Mom says, “I couldn’t help thinking of the Pietà.”

  *

  The next morning, I feel exhausted in a relaxed, emptied-out kind of way, and lie in bed a long time, replaying the ceremony over and over in my mind. I’m mostly relieved, because more than anything I’ve been afraid that people wouldn’t get it, that how we tried to portray the experience just wouldn’t come across right—too intimate, too wordy, too mysterious. But they did get it, all of it. The depth, the beauty, the wonder.

  Cecily phones from Boston. “I know it was stunning,” she says in her amazed, uplifting voice. “Anne just called me and said it was so beautiful she couldn’t speak about it without crying.”

  Theo has inspired more love. We did it, I want to tell him.

  June 14

  It has been five moons. Almost five months. Paul asks if he can record us talking about Theo, so we spend a few hours with him and Patty. Paul says we are incredibly lucky: Theo was a rare being. His questions are unusual; they bring out things I’ve never even articulated to myself.

  He asks how I feel I’ve changed. That evokes much pondering, and a few insights, some of which don’t occur to me until we are driving home. Here’s what seems true: I am more baffled by the existence I find myself in. I don’t feel as attracted to drama for drama’s sake. I don’t feel the need to hear of others’ misfortunes to get a vicarious emotional experience. I’m not looking for more openness or motion. I’m not bored and wishing time would pass so something exciting will come sooner. No yearning to travel. I avoid parties. I feel uncomfortable more often. I notice that decisions large and small seem overwhelming. I have a harder time sleeping. I’m clingy toward Dicken and obsessed with his forearm. I enjoy cleaning and organizing. I can’t stand accumulating clutter, trash. I think I’m more tolerant of foibles in others. I feel less of a need to seek spiritual answers. I pay closer attention to children and animals. I feel more humble. I cherish my parents more. I’m not obsessed with death—it’s only another transition. My heart hurts a lot.

  July 5

  Today, I rationalize having a baby by arguing that the morning sickness would cure me of my attachments, including my extreme dependence on Dicken. When I was sick last year, I hardly noticed when he was away for ten days, and those were long days.

  I’m terrified about my trip to Costa Rica with Kevin. We leave in three weeks. Two and a half weeks apart from Dix—it feels like suicide. Luckily I’ll have Jabu, and Mom’s help, and lots of sleeping herbs, pills, and tea. But the days will probably seem very long, the nights longer.

  Right now, I feel paralyzed by life. I’m not sure what to do that has meaning, not sure which path to take. I want truth. I want needless suffering to end. I hate thinking that life is a banquet (as Tony de Mello says) and that I’m missing all the fun. Yet others say this is a hell realm, in which case I want out.

  I’m terrified of losing my reality, my love with Dix—it couldn’t just be a mirage, could it? Am I only projecting onto him? When he and I are parted, I wait to be reunited, for life to be sweet and relaxing again. Yet sometimes we’re together and there’s nothing to say; I watch him give so much of his energy to his computer and his work, and I can’t relate. Then when I tune into my heart, he’s all there. His devotion floors me. He loves his work but does it so he can support us. And he only goes to Paul because of me. He says he’d never do any “seeking” if it weren’t for me.

  July 22–23

  I tell my therapist, “I’m struggling quite a bit—very in touch with my bewilderment at existence. Also my dependency on Dix, and my inferiority. I often feel unsettled, not at home in my body, not wanting to get out of bed, not knowing what do with myself. And I still can’t sleep most nights, not well, anyway.”

  “Is it getting to sleep that’s hard, or staying asleep?”

  “Both. I close my eyes and everything seems to spin, and I get hot, especially my hands.”

  “It must be hard to relax. You’re waiting for the next shock, afraid that if you relax, something terrible will happen.”

  I nod.

  “Theo died at night, so you’re more likely to be activated at nighttime.”

  “I think I’ve always been more restless and anxious at night. But it’s really bad now. Is there anything I can do about it? I’d like to be able to sleep. I forgot how long the nights can be.”

  “You might want to try some compassionate statements, talking gently to the part of you that’s scared. It’s a way of witnessing what’s happening, softening it. You might also try grounding breaths. When you’re horizontal, you lose connection to the earth, and that can be unsettling.”

  “It also takes me back to lying on that operating table,” I say.

  Later in the session, I bring up the question of another baby, and immediately start sobbing.

  “What comes up for you when you think about this?” my therapist asks.

  “So much fear, so much pushing away the world, the pain of existence. At night, I think of all the pain and vow to never bring another poor soul to life. And yet I don’t know how I’ll ever stop yearning for another baby. I want one so badly, but I can’t figure out if it’s the right thing.”

  “The question is, is it your dharma to have another baby? And to get any insight on that, first you have to come to terms with what you want, what you think having a baby will get you.”

  “Well, right now I don’t have anything else to fill my time. Of all the things I could
throw myself into, it’s a baby that appeals the most. And it seems like a good idea because Dicken and I enjoy the adventure of childrearing. Plus, it would mean so much more to me now after losing Theo.”

  “Be careful, that could be a real setup,” my therapist says. “You’ll have ambivalence and doubts with another baby like every mother does, and you shouldn’t expect more of yourself. What I’d be more curious about is the question of your life now and the issue of that not being enough. What are you expecting a baby to bring you that you don’t have already?”

  I shrug and feel blank.

  *

  This afternoon, we join some friends by the river in a nearby park. No one says much to me. I think most people know I’m not interested in small talk these days, and this isn’t the environment for a deep discussion. Dicken is down in the shallow water, helping the kids find crawdads. I can hear Sam squealing.

  Suddenly, I feel a strange agitation growing in my chest. I close my eyes and begin to see a flurry of images: everything speeded up, the kids outgrowing the river and the valley and Dicken growing old and dying. I see police chaplains showing up at doors in the middle of the night and telling grim news. All of these images seem to be flashing in my mind simultaneously. My breath speeds up, the sips of air getting shallow, like the river.

  What are we doing, relaxing by the river, as if we don’t know we’re all going to be dead? We will lose everyone, everything we love, all this! How can anyone enjoy a single moment of life when this is the truth? And why is no one talking about it? What’s going on? Are they all crazy? This stupid, pointless gathering by the river? It’s a lie!

  Gabriella, next to me, shades her eyes with her hand and asks, “You okay?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, sweetie, what can I do?”

  “Can you get Dicken?”

  She’s off, and in a flash Dicken is standing by me, his face creased in concern.

  “Will you drive me home?” I say as calmly as I can.

  “Of course. Come on.”

  I start to gather belongings.

  “Leave those,” Dicken says. “Maud will bring them.”

  He holds my arm and steers me toward the parking lot. I can hear Jasper protesting that Dicken is leaving: “I just saw the hugest one ever, and I need you to catch him, Daddy!”

  Dicken doesn’t look back. He drives home faster than usual, eyeing me every few moments but saying nothing as I stare blankly ahead.

  We get home and Dicken leads me to bed. He holds me as I begin to shake. Then I am in a rage, screaming, “I don’t want to lose you and I’m going to! I can’t pretend to sit by the river and enjoy it knowing that that’s looming over me!”

  Dix just holds me and talks to me soothingly; then we make love, then fall asleep together. From this quiet place, I look at our speeded-up life and think, What’s it all for? Why are we here? What are we doing in these bodies and what does it all mean? We should be clinging to each other all the time. I feel like a small baby, merged with my mother, held, vulnerable, unknowing.

  I see that the upcoming separation from Dix is bringing this up. Two and a half weeks without my lifeline. I feel sandwiched between that and Theo. Pressed up against the void with nowhere to run. I’ve lost a lot, I realize. Not just Theo and the expectations associated with raising him.

  Thinking about the trip, I wonder if it will be good for me to get away, to break out of this downward spiral. Or will it freak me out? Can I hold it together?

  *

  Today I reflect on how Theo is always on my mind, never far away, and I apply that to me and Dix being separated. I’ll just have to reach deeper to find my connection with Dix, not relying on the physical. I’m trying to minimize the time we’ll be apart by thinking of soldiers who leave their partners for months and years at a time. I wish I could go now and get it over with. The anticipation is probably worse than the reality will be.

  I try on an old bathing suit, look in the mirror and see dimples of cellulite on my thighs. Panic begins to rise: the familiar fear of aging and the energy I’ll have to mobilize to fight the tsunami of decay bearing down on me. But quickly I let it pass through me and it’s gone, like I’ve just done some swift and effective defensive martial arts move. I don’t actually think this, but there’s a knowing in me that radiates, There is nothing frightening about cellulite, or aging. You’ve faced death and come through the other side. This is easy.

  July 25

  In a dream, I am holding a baby, pulling it close to me. As I wake, I become aware that I am holding Dicken’s arm, and only then do I make the connection between the size of Dicken’s arm and the size of a newborn. No wonder I’ve been literally obsessed! It reminds me of a story I read in the paper when I was young, about the panda in the Washington zoo whose cub died, how for weeks afterward she would take the butter stick from her food tray and hold it and stroke it. That image struck me so hard, it has stayed with me for more than twenty years.

  CHAPTER 22

  July 26

  Mom and I drive the boys to Portland for the flight to Costa Rica. On the way, Jasper sees signs for the amusement park outside of Salem and begs us to stop.

  “We have plenty of time,” Mom says.

  I think my mom is a bit of a pushover, but I don’t say anything.

  “Mom, come on the roller coaster with me!” Jasper shrieks.

  I look up at the large wooden structure, not enthused at all.

  “C’mon, Mom! You said you used to love rides.”

  “Okay,” I say, and we get tickets and stand in the short line.

  I am filled with dread and remorse as the car labors up the steep first hill. This is fun, I tell myself. I love roller coasters, remember? As we start to drop hundreds of feet at almost ninety degrees, I close my eyes and grip the handle bars with white fists. What was I thinking? This falling sensation is way too familiar and not something I need to inflict on myself for kicks.

  The ride is mercifully short. I feel a twinging sensation in my back as I step out of the cart onto wobbly legs.

  In the car again, Mom says, “You look like you’re in pain.”

  “I think I tweaked a muscle in my back.” I turn to make sure Jasper has his headphones on so he doesn’t hear me add, “I never should have gone on that roller coaster.”

  “You loved them when you were young,” Mom says, smiling. “You were such a gutsy kid.”

  “I know. I used to love a lot of things. And now I’d rather be in my bedroom than almost anywhere in the world. I feel like I’m turning into a curmudgeonly recluse. I guess I’m a lot like your mom, with her agoraphobia and dislike of most people. I think she and I were both too sensitive for this world.”

  “You’re not like that. You’re just fragile right now.”

  My eyes prick with tears. “I’m dreading this trip.”

  “We’ll have fun,” Mom says, reaching her hand across to touch mine.

  “You’re right.” I force a quick smile. Inside, I am bracing myself each mile we travel farther from home and from Dicken, my home in this world.

  *

  In the airport in Costa Rica, Jasper insists on carrying my suitcase. He keeps hugging me, deferring to me.

  “You really think we should take buses and not rent a car?” Mom asks me.

  “Nana, my mom has been here more than anyone else,” Jasper says sternly. “We should do what she says.”

  Kevin drags his big duffle bag across the airport. It’s bursting with gifts he bought for his brothers and cousins.

  It’s dark when we get in a taxi. I tell the driver to take us to my favorite hotel in San Jose, where we’ll spend the night before heading down to the Caribbean coast. After a ten-minute drive to the city, the driver pulls up at a different hotel. I tell him this is the wrong place. He says the one I wanted is full. We both know that he has no idea if the other hotel is full, that he’s brought us here because he gets a kickback. I explain what’s happening to my mom, and she
begins to argue with him in her fluent Spanish. The man raises his voice. Jasper starts to cry.

  “Mom, let’s just stay here,” I say.

  Unlike the hotel I wanted, this one is right on a busy street and has no security guard on duty. Jasper is still upset as we check in and make our way to our large room with three beds.

  “I miss Daddy!” he wails.

  “It’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Let’s just go to sleep, and when we wake up we’ll get the bus and go see Liliana and everyone.”

  As I secure the door to our room, I note how flimsy the lock is. I hear the traffic outside the thin windows, hear voices on the street below.

  Just as I’m imagining we’ll be robbed or worse, Jasper says, “Mom, what if someone breaks in and steals our things? ’Member when someone stole Nana’s wallet? And Daddy’s computer?”

  “Oh, Jasper, stop it,” Mom says. “Everything’s fine.”

  “But I’m scared!” Jasper cries. “I don’t like it here.”

  I take a deep breath, wishing like crazy Dicken were here. “We’ll be fine,” I say. “We’ve never been robbed in San Jose. And the door is locked.”

  “But I don’t feel safe. I just want Daddy!”

  He must be picking up on my fear, I think, amazed at how he’s articulating my own thoughts.

  Jasper presses up close to me in bed, his body stiff and tense, and we turn off the light. I lie in the dark, listening to the traffic noises, seeing lights from cars and trucks flashing across the walls of our room. I know I will not sleep.

  July 28

  We survive San Jose and the long, winding bus ride to the coast the next day. I’m exhausted from no sleep and spend the afternoon holed up in our cramped room. The air conditioner is humming loudly and dripping water every other second—splat, splat, splat. I feel like I’m going crazy, like I’m a prisoner in this room, the dripping sound a Central American version of Chinese water torture.