Closing Up

I remember the feeling. One minute your life is sailing along fairly well, the next minute your whole world jolts to a stop without warning. Even worse when you didn't have any hint of trouble, couldn't see it coming. That's how it was for one of the librarians here. Last Friday he was knee deep in unbound journals, combining two collections into one, when the call came.

His teenage son was riding a bicycle and got hit by a car. They airlifted him to the Golisano Children's Hospital at Strong Memorial. I have never seen my colleague move so fast, face pale white, his eyes frightened, his fear barely held in check. We knew little for days. The ICU kept his son sedated until they felt they could run tests and see what might be at stake. The family camped out at McDonald House - though really I don't think they even left the hospital.

The whole community responded immediately, overwhelmingly. We all hold our breath, praying, hoping. One week has passed. We fear this one is for the long haul unless there is a miracle. It could happen. Surely it will happen. We all want to do something to help, something practical. Bring food? They have more than they need. Visit? They have asked people not to come they've had so many already. Certainly we all pray.

Me? I look around at the library to see what it is that he would be doing here and do it. And the whole time, I remember. Perhaps it is on my mind because I just visited my own son's grave. He has been gone 21 years now, but you don't forget. Whenever I am in Ballston Spa, I visit Powell Wiswall Cemetery, allow myself to touch a part of my heart that will always remain tender.

I have some inkling what my friend might be going through, agonizing over the injury of a child. I remember that horrible night when Michael fussed about walking to the car after Wednesday night church, said he didn't feel well. We had been down this road so many times during his illness. I felt his forehead, no fever. I got down on my knees, holding the baby in my arms and gently encouraged him to stop crying and just concentrate on getting to the car. I couldn't carry him and the baby, but I could walk beside him slowly.

He quieted down and took ahold of my pantleg. We worked our way carefully down the dimly lighted hallway and out the front door. He moved like a ninety year old man, bent and in pain. I soothed him into place in the car and got us all home as quickly as I could. After the other kids were settled in for the night, I carried Michael into the bathroom and slid him into a tub of warm water just deep enough to cover him as he lay there, massaging his tired muscles with a washcloth. It turned out to be a special time for both of us.

I think he knew our time together was limited. I didn't sense that. How often had I seen this child in dire physical shape - much worse than that night - and he pulled out of it. But that night it was for us as if time stopped and we were just together. We did not speak. He closed his eyes. The only sound was the lapping of the warm water as I moved the washcloth over his shoulders, down his tanned arms and out his stubby fingers, caressing each one separately. I massaged his flat wide feet, up his ankles to his knees, then over his bloated little tummy down one side and up over to the other side. I took special care with his face, folding the washcloth so it wouldn't drip or drag over his nose or bother his resting. His black hair, so thick and wild, floated above his head in long strands.

We probably spent forty minutes together before I lifted him out of the tub, wrapped him in his favorite blue beach towel and carried him to the couch, slipping his footie pj's on and tucking him in. I stayed with him a long time, watching his regular breathing, praying that he would be OK.

That same night my son died. I didn't see it coming. Even if I had known, I could not have changed it. I was fortunate. I had closing moments with my son. The one I describe here and later that night, other times I treasure. Times of closure. Times of comfort to look back on.

So here I am twenty odd years later, closing up the library in the place of a friend who is sitting at his son's bedside. And I remember. I remember as if it were yesterday the sundrenched smell of Michael's blue flannel shirts, his joyous laughter, his tender care for his favorite, worn out stuffed puppy dog, his pudgy little body tumbling about in the grass with his brothers, his yells of delight echoing off the apartment walls, his tight hugs about my neck, his fake kisses.

We had a good parting, Michael and I. We will have a wonderful reunion when the time is right. But tonight I miss him. I do not restrain the tears tumbling down my cheeks. And for every tear, I offer a prayer for the young man in ICU and for his parents. May God grant them strength in their hour of need.