This has been a year for the legs of our logic to be kicked out from under us, over and again.

Javid died six months ago today. Wisp of a thing he was at birth, blood pumping wrongways through his heart, Saran-wrapped to keep his body temperature from plunging. The shock of his arrival—what with the carving out of his mother’s belly to keep her body from fighting his presence so hard it could kill the both of them—fogged our brains.

We found no room to love him at first, scared as we were at almost losing Ana Lisa. We felt hard and awful, not loving our child. But fear had filled us up, leaving no room for the terror of losing another loved one. Better not to love.

Logic had it he would die. Too unstable. Not fully formed. We would mourn him like a miscarriage, imagining the what ifs but understanding intuitively it was not meant to be.

Stubborn little shifting bunch of stardust, he took our logic and tore it asunder. Emerging from under the cellophane, he flaked like an adolescent epidermal nightmare. Grew skin. And flesh. And bones, confounding our beliefs about what was too much, too hard and what couldn’t be. About what had filled up and could fit no more.

The logic of Javid’s ending was the horror house mirror of his beginning … the same in its contradictions, just backwards. Tiny little no-skin-less-than-a-bottle-of-soda-pop found strength to breathe and grow and make us love him. Dear robust-looking-veteran-of-many-a-health-related-battle, flagging near the end. Continuing to connect with us while shutting down on the inside.

We felt hard and awful not permitting ourselves to love at first. We felt the same and worse entertaining any other reaction than “back off or we’ll kick your _____” to any suggestion other than to keep fighting. Healthy looking on the outside, the ever-present tube, readings on the machines, and word from the doctors told of other “realities” than our senses could perceive. But our senses are how we experience the universe and they’re all built to read what’s in plain view, not what’s hidden away.

Earlier this month, the very week of Javid’s birthday, I rode up on a broken woman. A squirrel had run across the path of another biker and she fell, twisted, and stopped moving. I didn’t see it but rather the awful aftermath, with her neck, back and legs contorted at unsurviveable angles. Her friend crying over her. Another biker, a driver and I stopping, gazing sadly at each other, getting on our cell phones to call 911.

I was trying to remember the ways people were with us around Wee Boy’s loss that had felt the best, wanting to offer the same to her friend. Thinking how unutterably strange it was to encounter this just days before his birthday. Realizing how much the awareness of death had come to inhabit me.

And as I wallowed in my death sense the broken woman moved. Gasped and shuddered. Then slowly, against the warnings of her friend and the rest of us who feared she would further injure herself, unbent her body. Proper angles reformed, she lay there breathing. Alive and whole, like a magician’s assistant walking out smiling from a sawed-apart box. Death vanquished.  Senses fooled once again.

We’ve had so many magical thoughts about our Javid. Moments when we imagine him alive and whole, breathing without a tube, smiling and crying and rolling around.

We imagine him unbending all kinks of body and brain, confounding expectations, overcoming obstacles. We dream of him remaining in Ana Lisa’s womb until term and emerging fully developed. Screaming his lungs out.

Our minds follow as he grows, develops, thinks and talks. We submerge in the subterfuge, erasing his ending and editing in chapter after countless chapter.

How sweet is the deception of perception. And how petrifying the brief glimpses of otherthought, that so much we see as stable is fluid, as permanent only fleetingly passing.

I am one who is repeatedly, joyfully seduced by the belief in stasis. Not the rigidly frozen but the strong and solid and built to last. The wonderful fiction that “somehow the unstable stuff of which we are composed ha(s) learned the trick of maintaining stability” (Walter Cannon, The Wisdom of the Body).

Bollocks, but what delightfully exquisite bollocks they are.

WeePlanet is so named as a gentle reminder to myself, mostly, that this big, flat surface I’m standing on is a tiny speck nestled in the backwater of an unremarkable galaxy. But like many a backwater, it has undeniable charms. Certainly it is worth an extended visit, whenever possible.

Javid has been gone now almost as long as he was with us. If our lives are but a blink in the eye of the universe, what a wee involuntary twitch he was. But tiny little beings that we are, we find ourselves diving back into the sweet, vast pool of his recollection. Allowing him to loom large in our hearts. Dipping and flowing and twisting and emerging in repeated, joyfully excruciating seduction.

7 Responses to “Homeoflux”

  1. Matt, Chan, Addyson, and Aeron Says:

    How quickly these anniversaries sneak upon us. I cannot believe it has been 6 months already. With your awesome website and Javid’s amazing way of touching so many lives, he will never be forgotten! We love you guys!

  2. Sara Cohen Says:

    Just checking in, thought I’d say hello. Hope you two are coping, healing, resting…wishing you well! Sara Cohen

  3. Tisa Says:

    Wanted to check in and see how you guys are doing. So sorry we’ve been out of touch, but Rod and I think about you often and have been so impressed with your strength through Javid’s short life and his sad sad death. I wish I could give you both big hugs. AZ makes for great winter-time visiting, if you’re so inclined!

  4. Ceci Good Says:

    Hey Tony and Ana Lisa,
    I just thought I’d meander onto your site and see what’s happ’n… :-) I guess you’ll know that at least ONE person loves you today! I’m thinking of you guys as I go through a SORT of similar experience to yours (spending a lot of time in the hospital, wondering each day what the next will bring, trying not to think too far ahead, trying not to think of death, and then trying to, just in case it helps if it happens… then getting depressed, then getting excited at any little sign of progress… you know…)

    I loved your little comment that you wrote awhile back, “anything your wife is involved in becomes more attractive to you… ” or something like that. What a nice thing to say. I hope that if I ever get married, that after what is it, 10 years of marriage? that he would still be saying stuff like that.

    Hope things are going well. I appreciate all your mother is doing to help her sister (my mommy…) these days…