Abstract
I
I met Michael one year earlier right after his above-the-knee amputation for osteosarcoma. He was scared and isolated. Being a young gay man just beginning his life, he had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend and left the home they shared. He was now living in his aunt's basement. Sad, anxious, and in pain, he recounted the prior six months for me. They were grueling. His ex had been taking advantage of him for months, but love is weird that way and he missed their relationship terribly. He had gone into surgery without knowing he would lose his leg and this devastated him. His relationship with his mother was difficult because they were “too similar” and they fought constantly even though he needed her support. He wanted to work and make some money, drive a car, go to college, walk again. It seemed as though the cancer had taken everything from him—his independence and his dreams.
Michael and I saw each other monthly. His visits would be at the end of the day, so we would be unhurried. He was a people pleaser, never forgetting to greet me with a smile and to ask how I was even though I knew he was feeling lousy. He was often generous with his thoughts and worries, but occasionally he would be shut down and frustrated. Sometimes we laughed. We talked about all sorts of things, but especially about his favorite movie Deadpool in which a young man overcomes cancer despite the odds after being poisoned, tortured, and disfigured. The parallels were explicit.
Michael knew deep down he wouldn't beat his cancer and this led to a lot of ambivalence. Ambivalence about seeing friends, about moving into his own apartment, and about taking a course at the local community college. I encouraged him to “do it now” as time was getting short, but these things he said he wanted to do probably weren't really things. They were a feeling of loss and of resignation.
These patterns continued until the very end of Michael's life. He turned 20 years-old two days before he died, a milestone he actually had hoped to reach. He had gone to a two-day concert with friends a few weeks before and for that brief period of time he had been completely pain free. He died peacefully in the middle of the night in his sleep at his home.
All of us who knew Michael have been struck by his loss. He seems too important a person, and too important a life, to be gone. The grief I feel is still brand new, but I already feel numb to it. This makes me want to hold onto the physical memories and not just the mental memories. I feel I owe Michael that as a way of saying goodbye and as a way of keeping his full memory with me. Instead it escapes me and in many ways that emptiness feels like even more of a betrayal. If I can't remember now, how will I in the future? If I can't do this for Michael, how will I do it for the other children I lose? If I can't feel it for myself, who am I anymore?
It is with this dark thought that finally the tears come. I start to remember the many children and families I have said goodbye to this year. So many children. I remember their innocent faces, their patience, and their strength. I remember their desperate loving parents. I can remember something special about each one.
Maybe I'm not as numb as I think and maybe this is shock. I do have some pieces of him. I will remember. I am grateful. Today I just need another hug.