When Death Takes Something from You Give It Back Read online

  Your older brother collapsed on the street

  Your father was at the hospital with an oozing acute sty

  I had to go to the dentist because of an acute mycosis in my mouth

  Acute

  Your laundry

  Your duvet

  The pillow that had fallen to the floor from the bench under the window

  The window

  The light that streamed in through the window

  *

  I sleep with your duvet.

  I sleep with your fine light duvet.

  I can still smell your skin, your sleep.

  I say to myself: You are in your duvet.

  I say: You are in your duvet, too.

  I say: You are.

  I believe, and don’t believe, what I say.

  I only exist in this moment.

  It’s the closest I can get to your time.

  It’s nothing I’ve decided to do.

  It’s the only thing that’s evident.

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  February 9, 2016

  Sometimes, like last night, I try to access the darkness of his final ten minutes when he was alone in the apartment. What happened? What was he doing? Was he lying in bed, was he standing, was he searching for his friend? What did he see or hear that made him jump? But I can’t access it. Naturally, I can’t. Or: Maybe it’s not that obvious. Maybe at some point I’ll be able to. And maybe it’s crazy to think this way.

  Today I cried on the way to the subway because suddenly I was walking behind the coffin again. Getting up from my chair, hearing all the sounds, jackets rustling, chair legs scraping against the floor, the sweeping sounds of the living, and then—there was the coffin. How we moved forward behind it, how not letting him slip from my sight even for a second feels like both the most impossible and the most important thing in the world. If someone comes between him and me now, I’ll kick them down. And I walked furiously away from the coffin when it was lowered into the earth. I flew. I ran away, hating everyone, furious and wild with sorrow. I left all the people and hid in a side street. I didn’t cry. I called a taxi. I ordered a taxi and my voice was cold and mechanical.

  There is nothing more I can do for him in the whole wide world. I sit in a café in Chelsea. The sky is dark and starless.

  I would go to the ends of the earth for you.

  But it was not far enough.

  *

  Gilgamesh wandered desperately in his sorrow across the plains looking for Utnapishtim, who had survived the flood and therefore received eternal life from the gods. Gilgamesh wants that as well. He is overwhelmed by his fear of death. Along the way he meets, among others, a proprietress of an inn and he tells her how he could not bring himself to bury his beloved friend, Enkidu. He cannot accept his death. He will not part from him; he will not part with his body. He says:

  For six days I would not let him be buried,

  thinking, “If my grief is violent enough,

  perhaps he will come back to life again.”

  For six days and seven nights I mourned him,

  until a maggot fell out of his nose.

  Then I was frightened, I was terrified by death,

  and I set out to roam the wilderness.

  I cannot bear what happened to my friend—

  I cannot bear what happened to Enkidu—

  so I roam the wilderness in my grief.

  How can my mind have any rest?

  My beloved friend has turned into clay—

  my beloved Enkidu has turned into clay.

  *

  In 1865 Walt Whitman wrote the poem “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” The poem, an elegy, is 206 lines long and divided into 16 sections.

  Whitman writes:

  When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,

  And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,

  I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

  Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

  Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

  And thought of him I love.

  Walt Whitman. In your pocket. Your great-grandfather’s book. In the pocket of your green jacket. The strange blessing when I found it, a strange joy knowing that you were reading Whitman in the days before your death. That you made it to reading Whitman. The strange joy, that it was a sign.

  It’s Venus that Whitman is talking about in the poem. Venus, the morning and evening star. Venus, the goddess of love. Venus, who hides under a veil of clouds, the ashen light produced by the planet. Venus, the earth’s sister planet.

  And the lilacs, the lilacs.

  The sweet, sweet scent of the white and purple flowers.

  Elegy, / i/, n. (from Fr elegie; L. elegīa; Greek έλεγεία literary poem in elegiacs, in Hellenistic Greek also elegiac poetry as a genre < sung lament). 1. a. A song or poem of lamentation, esp. for the dead; a memorial poem. Also as a mass noun. b. In Greek and Latin poetry: a poem written in elegiac meter (hence) a poem in another language based on or influenced by this.

  *

  I’m crouching in front of N and then Martin says: We need to go see the doctor now, we need to go see the doctor, and he and I go into the doctor’s office, which is just across the hall from where Carl is, and I’m crying, and we sit down, and the doctor says: Yes, it’s a very sad affair, but no matter where Carl is now, he regrets what he’s done. And I become furious and say: He is nowhere, and he regrets nothing whatsoever, and then the doctor says, we should talk about whether you’ll donate any of Carl’s organs because he’s not going to make it, there’s no way, the only reason we’re keeping him artificially alive is in case you’re interested in donating some of his organs. And Martin and I look at each other with wild eyes, and we say: Yes, yes, we would like to, that’s what Carl would’ve wished, and everything starts sinking, and I say: What do you mean that he’s not coming back, how can you know for sure? And the doctor says: The damage is too massive, there’s no hope, he sustained so many fractures from the fall, such massive brain damage, survival is not possible. Survival is not possible. It’s a small, stuffy office, and we say yes, yes, we would like to donate some of his organs, that is what he would’ve wished, and still we understand nothing. We go back to the waiting room and I say to Martin: I can’t bear that our children will now live with this trauma for the rest of their lives, and my father says: We should call them in Brooklyn and I say: Can you do it, I can’t. And then he calls, it’s early in the evening in Brooklyn now, and my youngest sons are with my husband, my father calls, he says: Something terrible has happened, it’s Carl, there is not much left of him. I can’t listen anymore, my brain burns, I can’t bear that they have to know what has happened, that my children have to hear this gruesome news, this insane, gruesome news, and I take the phone, and I can hear my husband’s voice, and I say: It’s Carl, it’s true, you should come as soon as possible, you should come now, and I can hardly speak. We sit in the waiting room all night, and we go in to see Carl, and we hold his hands, and we kiss him, and I say, little friend, little beloved friend, Carlo, Carlito, and it wheezes, wheezes, the respirator wheezes and clicks, he looks like himself, and he does not look like himself, the coal-black swollen eyes, his forehead covered with a cloth so we won’t see his broken head, and we say: What have you done, what have you gone and done to yourself?

  *

  The demonic was with you as you were lying in the coffin. One side of your face: demonic. We could not stop thinking that the demons you saw during your psychotic episode had left a mark on you. We could not stop fearing that these demons had overtaken you, overtaken your soul. Eradicated that which we knew as you. These demented thoughts. This insane fear. The madness streamed through us, and we felt powerless, ignorant, small, exactly as the people of ancient Greece felt, who attributed Fortuna with everything that was incomprehensible, gruesome, completely meaningless.

>   And grief.

  Like Cicero’s grief, when he mourned the loss of his daughter, Tullia. She died in February 45 BCE, one month after she gave birth to her second child. Cicero isolated himself for months in his villa near Astura, broken by sorrow. The loss hit him harder than anything in his life. But it also set in motion his literary production. As early as the spring of 45 BCE he began writing a consolatio, solace writing, which has been lost, unfortunately. And he wrote Hortensius, a fragmented revival or exhortation manuscript, a common genre at that time, with the purpose of turning readers around to philosophy as the path to a fulfilling human existence. He threw himself into philosophy as a cure for pain. His literary focus completely changed direction.

  There is before.

  And after.

  Between these two poles:

  That which changes everything forever.

  I am someone else.

  I am forced to be someone else.

  Nothing is familiar.

  Nothing.

  This is exactly what Nick Cave says in the documentary One More Time with Feeling (2016). He lost his fifteen-year-old son the same way I lost my son. Nick Cave’s son jumped or fell from a cliff after he had taken hallucinogenic drugs with his friend. Nick Cave says in the film:

  Most of us don’t want to change, really. I mean, why should we? What we do want is sort of modifications on the original model. We keep on being ourselves but just hopefully better versions of ourselves. But what happens when an event occurs that is so catastrophic that you just change? You change from the known person to an unknown person. So then when you look at yourself in the mirror, you recognize the person that you were, but the person inside the skin is a different person.

  *

  The sixth dream (May 3, 2016)

  I’m sitting under an overhang in the shade with lots of booksellers. There’s a street, and on the other side of the street is a bench. On the bench sits Carl’s friend N. The sun is shining; we’re surrounded by green trees. I understand that Carl is in prison for stealing books. Several booksellers talk on phones. They’re talking to lawyers and police to find out how harsh his punishment should be. They tell me that he’s going to get a very harsh punishment. Then Carl walks up and sits down on the bench next to his friend N. I shout: Carl! I shout: Come over here! He looks shyly or shamefully down at the ground. His hair is shaved, and he has tattoos of buildings all around his head. Come here! I shout again. Mom! I shout, I shout, MOM. Then he gets up and changes into a little white goat. The goat crosses the street and comes over to me, and I scratch it behind its ears and pet its fur. Then the goat says, AH. Then it says, MOM. Then it turns back into Carl, and I embrace him. Look, he says, I have the Manhattan skyline around my head. He does. Good that you’re not dead, I say. I’m getting a very harsh punishment, he says. I’m afraid that he will be beaten up and abused in prison. Carl goes back to his friend N. I know that I can’t cross the street. I know that I’m not going to see him for a long time.

  The seventh dream (May 16, 2016)

  Carl is locked in a freezing dark cellar. A young man has locked him in there. We learn that Carl will never be able to come up into the light again.

  Books. Transformation. Punishment.

  Crossroads. Imprisonment.

  Dark. Never.

  *

  Pan, (Gr., etym. uncertain), Grecian god of shepherds, identified by the Romans as Faunas. Pan, whose cult was originally located in Arcadia, in contrast to the anthropomorphic (humanlike) Greek gods, is usually represented with horns, beard, tail, and goat legs. Along with the nymphs, he could be found in fields and forests, and those who met him would suffer from a “panic attack.”

  Fear of nature and nature within oneself, desolate places, the dark forest, and, first and foremost, that “groundless” anxiety we call “panic” was named after Pan.

  Pan is often associated with mischievousness that is neither benign nor malicious. It is as if Pan creates misfortune for the sake of entertainment.

  Pan is the only Greek deity who dies.

  *

  A month after the funeral we return home to Brooklyn. The days pass, and the days are empty, but filled with shock and grief. I sit near the window and stare at the sky, the clouds. I sit at the table and stare out into space. I have no needs. I have no desire. I force myself to eat. I force myself to sleep. In the evening I drink wine so that I can fall asleep. I drink myself drunk. I collapse into sleep. I buy nothing. I’m indifferent to my appearance, my clothes, my impact on others. I avoid people I don’t know really well. I don’t dare to be alone. When I’m alone, there’s nothing that keeps me from going insane. No boundaries. I can’t control myself. I have no means of controlling myself. Nothing works. No routines work when I’m alone. I have no routines. To any work-related offers, I immediately say no. I consistently say no. I’m indifferent. I have no ambition. In the afternoon I lie on the couch. I watch TV series. One season after another. I lie on the couch until evening. This is the only thing that soothes me, because it makes me disappear. Like being drunk. It’s a sedative. I don’t say much. I only get involved if it’s absolutely necessary: I simply maintain what it takes to barely stay alive. I can hardly manage to take care of my children. I try. I prioritize time with my children and my husband over everything else. It happens by itself, it’s instinctive. I am deeply dependent on my husband and my friends. Once in a while I manage to write to my friends. They write to me. Their letters keep me alive. Love keeps me alive. My children keep me alive. Just barely alive.

  Roubaud writes:

  I rarely go out as if locking myself in this minimal space could make you real again because you lived here with me.

  you are real

  I am here

  *

  Your older brother got up and spoke at the funeral. He continued:

  Aristotle believed that tragedy after a reversal of fate would inspire fear and compassion in the audience. Compassion, for those who do not deserve trouble. Fear, when someone gets into trouble who, in many ways, is like ourselves. Our equal. The impact on the audience needs to be strong and gripping. The audience has to experience catharsis—a shock-like effect that makes the audience’s hair stand on end. And here is the crux of the tragedy and this entire unfortunate situation. We have compassion for Carl—and we feel fear that we ourselves under certain circumstances could have met the same fate. After the tragedy the audience will leave the theater feeling humble about their own ability to avoid trouble, and will think twice about looking down on one of their fellow human beings, whose life has ended in a failed situation. I hope that everyone with us today in this room will learn from this tragedy.

  *

  All night we sit in the waiting room and we go into Carl’s room, and we hold his hands, and we kiss him, and I say, little friend, little beloved friend, Carlo, Carlito, and it wheezes, it wheezes, the respirator wheezes and clicks, he looks just like himself and he doesn’t look like himself, the pitch-black swollen eyes, the forehead hidden by a cloth so we won’t have to see his broken head, and we say: What have you done? What have you gone and done to yourself? I lift the sheet off his body and see that a broken bone is sticking out of his ankle. And I say to the nurse: He has asthma, maybe that’s why he can’t breathe, maybe he has difficulty breathing, you should give him some asthma medicine, and she takes my hand and says: Then we’ll give him some Ventolin, don’t you think you should go home and get a little rest? On a cart there is a little bag with a thin woven bracelet, it’s Carl’s, the only thing he had on when he was brought in, it was cut off his wrist, and I think: He was born in this hospital, and when the nurse came and put him in my arms, he had a bracelet on, a bracelet that said who he was, our child, a boy, born at 2:32 p.m., I think: You came into the world here, and you will die here, a bracelet is fastened to you, a bracelet is cut off, I take the little bag and put it in my pocket, I squeeze the bag in my pocket, I go back to the waiting room, and it’s light out, it’s nearly six o
’clock Sunday morning, and then we go home. My sister and I go home. Martin goes home. I lie fully dressed on my sister’s couch and sleep for an hour, awake at seven o’clock to the sound of my sister’s shrieking, she’s lying in bed screaming and crying, and we can’t figure out what to do, we’re just staggering around the apartment, and my sister wakes up her ten-year-old son who’s been deep in his sweet unsuspecting sleep, and, crying, she tells him what happened, and he cries, understanding nothing, his face is pale and transformed, the shock on a face, on his, the way shock destroys a face, and my sister and I take a taxi back to the hospital, and we sit with Carl, we sit with Carl, and Martin comes, and his wife and their twelve-year-old daughter, Malu, Carl’s sister, come, Carl’s friend N and his girlfriend come, my parents come, Martin’s father, my oldest son comes, and he wails, he stands next to Carl wailing, he falls to the floor, screaming and crying, and we tell them all what happened, more people come, many people come, family, friends, Carl’s friends, Carl’s two ex-girlfriends come, the waiting room is filled with people, some go get fruit, some get coffee, we sit with Carl and wait and wait for the doctors to declare him brain dead, so he can be brought down and operated on to remove his organs, so they can turn off the respirator, so he can die. A doctor shows us how many fractures he has in his body, we all stand in the corridor, he shows us an x-ray, we have two doctors in the family who understand what they see, they’re shocked, they’ve never seen so many fractures in a body, in a head, they tell us that, and we stand in the corridor, and the doctor tells us what he’s discovered, and I look at the images, Carl’s bones, Carl’s skull, I don’t understand anything, but I understand that Carl will die, I begin to understand that Carl will die, and the day passes, more people come, we’re a very large group, we fill the entire waiting room, we have moved into the waiting room of the neurointensive-care unit, and the doctor asks Martin and me what we will donate, he says that the kidneys are sound, the pancreas, that one of his lungs can be used, the other is torn, he says: Will you donate his heart? He has a strong young heart, you can think it over, he says, and I cry and cry, his heart, his heart, and we go back to the waiting room, and we sit with Carl, the day passes, the hours, the minutes, the seconds, and then toward the evening many start to leave, and at last it’s just me and my sister waiting, we are waiting for her oldest son, Joakim, for Carl’s cousin Joakim, who’s grown up with Carl, as if they were brothers, who lives with Carl and N, for him to come home from Spain, he is in Spain, he could not catch an earlier flight, we are waiting for Joakim, and at last he comes, ten o’clock in the evening he arrives, N is with him, and Joakim sits there stiff and pale in a chair and does not dare to go in to see Carl, but at last he goes, he goes in to Carl, and we sit in the waiting room, and then we go home, and my brother-in-law gives us each a glass of wine, and we fall over, and I sleep on the couch in my clothes, I don’t understand how I can sleep, but my body falls asleep, and now my husband and two youngest sons in Brooklyn are on their way, they’re sitting in the plane, and I sleep, I sleep five hours, then I wake up because my whole body is shaking violently, it’s nearly six o’clock, it’s Monday morning, Monday, March, 16, 2015, and I think: I cannot give his heart away, I cannot bury him without his heart, we cannot make him heartless.