9. Pain That Changes You
9
PAIN THAT CHANGES YOU
SAYAH
S itting outside the school in my car, the steering wheel keeps going out of focus as I run through things I will say to Gauge to save him from his grief.
Having to tell him over the phone that both his grandparents died was quite possibly hell on earth. Not being able to hold him while his ten-year-old heart shattered cut into me in ways no blade ever could. I wanted to wait to tell him in person, but he knew something was wrong by the sound of my voice when I called him to say goodnight. I have a thing about honesty—given how his father and I ended up—lying is the number one thing someone can do to break a relationship. Being truthful with the people you love is something I drill into him, and who would I be if I didn’t uphold that?
I’m happy that now I can hold him.
As soon as the school bell sounds, I see his bright green wheelchair emerge from the maroon double doors, ahead of all the other kids.
His sweet cherub face is fractured by sadness, and the puffy red circles under his brown eyes tell me he has been crying all day.
I get out of the car to help him with his crutches and backpack.
Gauge almost died when he was born. At a year and a half old, he was diagnosed with Congenital Myopathy, which is just a fancy word for muscle weakness. He’s in a wheelchair but can use his legs and walk with crutches; he’s just a little less strong than other kids.
I tell him he’s differently abled. Never disabled. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the word. I know that some people prefer being called disabled or people with disabilities, which is fine, but he doesn’t identify that way. I never want him to feel like it defines him
“Hey, baby,” I say as I meet him, taking the crutches and backpack from his lap. “How are you?”
His eyes catch mine, and he immediately begins to cry.
Wheeling him to the car and kneeling, I throw my arms around him and let him sob into my shoulders. Mama and Gauge had the kind of relationship I’d always been envious of. She was his best friend, too.
“It’s okay, baby. Be sad. Scream, cry, punch things—do whatever you need to, but get it out. Don’t bury it.”
Gauge sobs so loudly that other kids twist their heads, trying to see what he’s crying about. This does not hinder me, and I just hold him and let him sob into my shoulder until he’s done getting his sadness out.
Once his sobs abate, I help him into the car and then clamber in myself. “Did you get lots of snuggles yesterday?”
“Yeah,” he says, wiping his face. “Are the aunts at the house?”
“They are. They’re waiting to snuggle you up.”
His little lips curl up at the ends and his smile nearly reaches his eyes. That’s all I need right now. He is the reason I live and breathe, and it kills me when he’s sad.
On our trip home, I look in the rearview often, ensuring he’s doing okay. He picks up his iPad from the floor and watches the weird videos he loves.
“Why her, Mama?” he asks, the sound of his innocent voice wobbly.
“What, baby?”
“Why did she have to be taken from us?”
The question I need help with. He’s always asking me questions that I can bullshit my way through. But this one .
How the fuck do I answer this one?
“I don’t know, baby. It seems the goddesses always want to take the good people first.”
Gauge knows I don’t believe in a god like most people do. To me, god is a goddess and a god. It’s the higher power at work: the breeze in the trees and the juice in the apple. It’s the things you can’t explain. But I still talk of a god with Gauge to give him something to believe in.
“It’s not fair,” he bawls.
“I know it isn’t, love,” I strain to say through my tears like a breath in the universe.
I’m concerned how this death could change him.
Grief is a heavy burden to carry, and while time makes it so that the grief lessens and isn’t as large and strangling as the day it happened, there’s still a portion of it that knits away a little crevice in your soul that remains there for life.
The shape of that person and their death molds the pain so it’s tolerable but not diminished. It shifts from hurting you to changing you.
I do not know how to navigate these treacherous waters, throw him a lifeboat, and rescue him.
The last thing I want it to do is change him, but with every death, change is inevitable.
Somewhere deep down, I feel the guilt of my mother’s tragic death flip on its side and turn to rage. It’s as if the grief and rage are now twining together, bubbling up beneath a thin sheet of ice that’s on the brink of shattering.