Since Riley and his brother have always been together--at every dentist appointment and pretty much everywhere else since C was born--the dentist asked about C. “Oh, he’s at school and probably due for a cleaning as well,” I said, “but we’ll take care of that on the other side of the hospital. Hopefully November or December.”
|I used to have four children|
Anyone who knows Riley knows that he died after complications from heart surgery. That is one of the reasons that I’ve avoided going anywhere. I’m afraid of seeing people who know Riley, who know me, who know my family. I’m afraid of seeing my sorrow reflected back at me. I’m afraid of seeing pity or relief that it was my kid and not theirs. When they ask, “How are you doing?” Do I say fine? Do I say terrible? I’m pretty sure no one actually wants to know I’ve lost of bunch of weight. No one wants to know that I’m still taking the anti-anxiety medicine and the sleeping medicine. No one wants to know that as soon as I fall onto the couch or heave myself into bed, my leg shakes uncontrollably. No one wants to hear how dividing Riley’s death has been. Before Riley died, I had four children. Now I have one dead child and one living child and my husband has two living children. No one wants to hear that spending time with the other children does not make me grateful that I have the other children. It simply illuminates that there are three instead of four. I suspect they do want to hear if I’m thinking about having another baby.
In the handful of times that I’ve gone to the store with my husband and the clerks have asked How are you?, I know they don’t really want to know. What I’ve wanted to say is this: “Not very well actually, my son just died.” I say hello instead. Hello seems less rude, although I'm not sure why saying that my son has died seems rude. When they say Have a nice day or Happy Holidays, I just lower my eyes. Social niceties are too loaded. For the children’s band concert at school, I wore a cap low on my face and avoided eye contact with hundreds of families. I peaked glances at the students, hoping to see Riley’s friends. I’ve missed them. I sobbed while they played and made the decision that I want to go the high school graduation ceremony for Riley’s class six years from now.
But C’s dentist appointment was different. The dentist falls into a small, special list of people who know Riley, but who do not know that he has died. This small list of people who will ask about him and I will have to tell them. I will have to speak this horrible truth. I even talked about it with C on the way to the appointment. “They will probably ask about Riley,” I said. “What would you like to happen when they ask?” I wanted C to have a say without leading him to want one thing or another. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Well, do you want to answer or would you like me to answer when they ask about Riley?” He thought for a minute and decided: “I want you to answer.”
The receptionist said hello when we entered the office. We sat down and I pulled C onto my lap. I felt less exposed with his weight pressing into my legs. I grabbed a magazine featuring several different kinds of pie and asked him to name each kind pictured. As he guessed at apple and pumpkin and chocolate, she leaned over the desk and casually planted the question I’ve dreaded. My eyes swung over to her face and my lips opened. “Riley died,” I said, holding her gaze for a moment. “Oh,” she said. I looked back at the magazine cover and squeezed C. A minute later, she leaned over the desk again. “How was your Thanksgiving?” And just like that Riley’s death had come and gone for her. For me, it was real in a new way.