The things that are left

I have been spending a lot of time trying to collect everything I can which relates to Karen, from notes she wrote, pictures, or just those random tangible things that remain from she and I sharing this time together. In a way there isn't very much because we had such a short time together, but on the other hand there is so much because of how close we were and how much we shared.

What there is very little of are things that mark James' life. For him, everything was the future. Despite being born and dying on November 16, 2008, I requested that the hospital not issue a birth certificate, and consequently a death certificate, because had this been done he could not have been buried with Karen. The thought of them not being together sickened me, as did the notion of seeing two coffins at the funeral. Thus the decision was, among all that I had to make during those horrific days, an easy one for me to make.

What this decision means now is that I am struggling to preserve the memory of James' short life in any way I can. The hospital took a photograph or two and made footprints, but I have not had the strength to look at either. Even looking at the sonogram pictures is exceedingly painful for me.

The reality of this is becoming more acute as February 13 approaches. That was the due date we were given by our doctor, although Karen was utterly convinced that he would be early. She was so sure of this that she asked her mother to come up to New York in mid-January so there would be little chance she would miss the birth, and Karen absolutely LOVED being pregnant. Many an hour she spent laying on the sofa or bed rubbing her belly. We had even been talking to him so that he would begin to know the sounds of our voices. Me speaking in English about how much I was looking forward to meeting him and apologizing in advance for the Mets, Karen speaking in French convinced that it would instill in him an early understanding of the language she loved.

For as long as I've ever known Karen she possessed a radiance, but in those 6 1/2 or 7 months of pregnancy she positively glowed. She moved through the day with a sparkle in her eyes and infectious smile on her lips. These were never more so than at the instant that I opened the door to our apartment to find her on the sofa. Despite whatever kind of day she might have had, her face lit up every time I opened that door.

Now each time I come to the front door and put my key in the lock I pause momentarily before pushing the door open. I hesitate in part because of the impossible, and perhaps irrational, hope that she will be inside. But more so I wait that brief moment to think about all those times the opening door would reveal her on the sofa laying back rubbing her ever growing belly, surrounded by her students writing, or just relaxing watching TV. Whichever way she was at that moment, her head would invariably turn at the sound of the door and whatever expression she might have had on her face was instantaneously replaced by that radiant smile.

Now the sofa is empty, only my memories of her being there are left and I surround myself with pictures of her smile and sparkling eyes. What they capture, however, is only a fraction of the woman she was and life she led.

Now there is no belly to rub or to talk to about the Mets, and I have no memories of James in life. Instead all I have left are a series of amorphous dream-like visions, sounds, and emotions acquired through my tears during the one and only time I held him. The only images are from the sonograms and hospital, which merely serve as a reminder of a life that should have been filled with happiness, hopes, dream, and love, but was so unfairly ended shortly after his mother’s.