This week one of my friends was telling me about a relative who was in the hospital. This patient had a tremendous fear of needles. She went into detail about some of the life saving procedures this person did not want done. His Dad was hoping things were not as bad as had been told to him. His Dad was hoping for one more talk. I felt so sad for them, as they were trying to prepare for the worst. I know for myself, the months Shawn was in hospital I just wanted to hear his voice, just one more time. Today, I would very much welcome one of Shawn’s sardine burps. The things we miss when a dear one is no longer living.
As my friend was talking, my mind flew to the many times Shawn had to have the line in his carotid artery moved or replaced. He became very stressed. Mind you, he could not speak, so it must have been extra frustrating, for Shawn. Needles and tubing being inserted in one’s neck…it is totally understandable why Shawn did not like that procedure. Shawn had much agitation when it came to having his wraps changed, daily. I, also, have one video of Shawn lying flat, waiting for a procedure to be completed, his face turned red and he was very upset.
My friend was telling me about the frustration of not being able to help or even visit the relative. There were a lot of unsurities regarding the communications and what and who would have say. Or how much to do or not do.
Again, my mind wondered. Yes, I heard her every word, but being visual, my mind was replaying some of the difficulties, during Shawn’s situation. Then, I started accusing myself of: being too Mom-hovering, talking for Shawn too much, wanting to know and have say in Shawn’s issues. BUT, my child could not speak, could not move, was in excruciating pain, what does a parent do or not do ? Oh how I wish Shawn and I could have one more talk…
My friend had finished and it was time for my Kindy run. I was somehow reminded a situation that happened. In fact, this happening would not leave my mind. It was March 18, 2015, about 11:36 AM. Just before my second Kindy stop. To my right was a guy built like Shawn. He had Shawn’s walk. He had a skateboard. As I passed him and looked in my crossview mirror I swear it was Shawn. He had both arms, no burn marks, no missing cartilage from nose and all his hair. I slowed the bus, gulped, I was sure it was Shawn. I put my bus driverness back on. I allowed myself to cry, hard, inside. I yelled at the top of my hearts cry, “Shawn, it’s Mom, can’t we just have one more talk ?” Is that how it is, when death ends a relationship, one wants to say the unsaids, mend the wrongs, just have one more get together—knowing it is impossible ? Such torment. Such pain. Such longing. It is certainly strange how a conversation can pull one in such directions.
This is all I can muster, today.