The children in your life say precious things; most of them you forget, but some you remember.
My nephew, Cobi, the child of my heart, lived in Texas and I in Wisconsin, but he spent most of each summer with me from age 9 through 15 (I left Texas when he was 8). The summer he was 9, I enrolled him in a week-long day camp and we left home early each morning to get him there and then me to work. Every morning he would fidget in his seat, move the visor several times, put his arms in front of his face, all in an effort to get out of the direct line of brilliant sunlight pouring into the car. He was still short them, so of course it hit him right in the eyes. One morning he was particularly bothered and after much fidgeting said: "Why does the sun always have to shine on
me?"
The first time Cobi had a conversation with his father, he responded this way when asked to say something about himself: "Well, I'n Cobi. I'n six years old. I'n in the first grade. And I'n not dead yet."
What you can tell from that statement is that he had trouble with saying
m then. What you can't tell is the reason for the last part about death. Cobi's father had abandoned him a week before he was born, probably because he had never dealt with the drowning death of his first son (first marriage), about four years earlier. Cobi's father was supportive of my sister's pregnancy until he bailed. His leaving was a shock to us all. Cobi did have a relationship with his paternal grandparents and some uncles and their families, and eventually he became close to his half-sister, the sibling of the young boy who drowned. None of those, of course, filled the void of an absent and remote father.
In Cobi's young mind and heart, he must have thought his father would be reassured that he was "not dead yet" and that, perhaps, he could be persuaded to become more involved. He desperately wanted a dad, his dad.
Over time, Cobi did develop a relationship of sorts with his father. Telephone calls several times a year; Christmas presents; an annual visit when his dad came back to Texas from his home in the Pacific Northwest to visit his family. I think the phone calls were most important in the last few years, when Cobi was able to express his anger at his dad, and his dad was somehow able to listen to it.
It wasn't enough, nor was my love and nurturing, or that of his mother, or the many friendships he had developed and maintained over the years. Cobi took his life two weeks ago. He was 18 and a few months.
It was his third suicide attempt in six years. He had been diagnosed with ADD when he was in grade school, and with bipolar disorder about a year or so ago. He struggled with substance abuse problems and had been in some legal trouble in the last half year or so. He had finally been put on a medication protocol that seemed to be helping. He was doing well in school; his teachers thought he had turned things around and was going to finish high school and go on. He seemed to me to be on an even keel (we talked frequently on the phone). His friends were shocked, heart-broken; they had no indication he was feeling suicidal. He was not expressing suicidal thoughts, as he had the two previous times.
He left no note.
We've asked ourselves why a million times in the last two weeks, and though we can come up with handfuls of answers, none of them is
the answer. Why ask
Why? Human nature. Same for
What if?The body grief is unlike any grief I've ever experienced, and I've lost both parents to cancer, lost two long-term animal companions (Margaret Rose,
gata non grata, and Blackie the Virgin Huntress), and experienced lover's grief -- for love lost and for one seriously longed-for, impossible, unrequited love.
When I asked my partner, early on, how I would go on with my life she said:
You'll be living with a deep sadness for a long while. I do know that time heals, and it gifts us with increasing good memories and decreasing bad memories. I've been comforted by these words from the movie
Shadowlands, (spoken by Joy Gresham to C.S. Lewis,
a propos his grief about her impending death): "the pain then, is part of the happiness now."
---------
As I said before, Cobi was the child of my heart. I was his mother's birth coach and, when he was delivered by C-section (he turned breech in that last week in the womb, after his father left), I got to carry him from surgery into the nursery. One of my persistent childhood fantasies was to have Asian children when I grew up. Cobi was a quarter Japanese and that part of his heritage was strongly expressed in his coloring and in his eyes. He and his mom lived with me the first year of his life. I was the one he called when he needed love, or a sounding board, or reassurance, or advice (that is, when he wasn't getting those things in enough supply or acceptable measure from his mom). He also called me many times, over the last years, to play some tune he'd created on his guitar, or to sing/rap some lyrics he'd created, or to play something he'd put together on his synthesizer. Cobi had a love of music that he got from both sides of his family. Both of his parents were jazz professionals in their twenties, before "real life" hit and they gave up late nights and partying for steady paychecks and parenting lifestyles.
Some kid stole his musical equipment last year, so we have no record of his musical life, but I'll never forget his passion for music.
If time is a great healer, then so is music. When our mother passed away in 1989, my sister and I listened to the
Tuck and Patti Tears of Joy cassette over and over again. Love songs. Jazz. Somehow, the music healed us.
Now, it's
Norah Jones Come Away With Me, simply because my sister first heard a track from it while watching music TV with Cobi, one they both liked, one she heard again the day of his death. I bought a copy and listen to it here in Wisconsin while she listens to it in Texas. Sometimes she calls and plays one of the songs for me on the piano. She's a music teacher these days and like Cobi used to do, she calls me pretty often to play something she's worked out. It doesn't make sense why this particular music is healing, or why Tuck and Patti were so healing in 1989. It doesn't have to....
Haloscan:
.
Blogger:
.
My name is Cobi
