A pivotal point in Gage’s journey is the day he recognized and verbalized that he could die. It wasn’t the day the surgeon told us he could die from the surgery, even though the risks were low, and it wasn’t the day of his botched surgery for his second catheter placement, it wasn’t even the day a year ago he grabbed a rope, ran to me and put it around his neck.
The summer day two years ago on vacation and we were discussing when he was on dialysis. He simply said, “You mean when I almost died?” Yes, then.
It was the first time that he’d verbalized that he was near death, that he could have died. And if was the day that my Momma Radar when up that he was in great danger. Within weeks he’d begun play therapy, been referred to a psychiatrist for being acutely (and dangerously) depressed. It was also the day we started trying to talk more about his experience because obviously he had many feelings about his illness and treatments and well, it wasn’t going to get better by just pretending it didn’t happen or that he didn’t have these feelings.
Because you know what? He was near death. He was barely alive when we had the catheter emergency placed and we smiled along side him during that first dialysis treatment, knowing we’d likely be able to keep him alive until we could give him a kidney. Something happened on that botched surgery day, too. I just don’t know what. It was enough of something that makes the memory of the surgery keep coming up. Maybe he was awake for some of the surgery? Or he heard something the surgeons say? Just recently he talked about that surgery and the pain from it. He said something about it be different than his first surgery and he didn’t know why. I asked him if he remembered the dialysis session that the nurses sang happy birthday, gave him a cake and then he threw up. He said, “yeah, that hurt a lot.”
Gone are the days of him wanting to die and wanting us to kill him. Occasionally he will still say, “It would be easier if I were dead” when something is particularly frustrating and difficult. It’s not everyday, several times a day that we’d grown accustomed to back in the early days of his depression.
My son is doing well. For him. That’s what we look at; Gage is in his own group of one. When we look at how far he’s come, we’re grateful. When are focused too much on how bad it was instead of how much better he is doing it sends us into a place we don’t want to be so we’re learning how to remember, how to look back. Remembering how sad he was helps us see how far he’s come and how far he can go.
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Wow, I’m so glad you were able to write about this (which I guess is ironic when you’re talking about the power of verbalizing terrifying things). I’m amazed to see how far Gage has come and I truly believe that learning to tell himself his own story is a necessary part of that. I’m glad he has your help and support.
Confronting our own mortality is something we all have to do. For Gage, it obviously came before “confronting his own life-possibilities.”
The fact that he recognizes that “death” is something he did confront can be a “good thing” as he learns that he and his “team” helped him avoid death at that early stage.
You’re so right about looking back. Understanding that “remembering” the past from a “disassociated” point of view is not the same as “re-living” the past.
You all have gone through so much, that I’m sure you know how to live “in the present moment.”
Gage’s awareness is a heck of a lot better than having it repressed and un expressed.
Hopefully, as life goes on, and he has more of a “past” to look back on, he will have a good, healthy perspective on the miracle of life.
Julia,
When I read your writing, my heart is constantly in my throat, I cannot imagine what it is that happened to your beautiful Gage in that surgery, but I am happy to hear he is starting to be in a place where he is able to start talking about it. I hope one day you are all able to get some healing.
Always sending love and good thoughts your way
Jackie
Hugs to you and I am glad he is in a good place now. What a story.