Most people picture The Big Bang as just that, a big bang. Like a spark and a flame that suddenly brought the universe into being. Energy makes sense. Flipping the light switch on makes sense. But if the universe truly began not from a bang, but from intense pressure that literally pressed the world into being, then how? I suppose it’s why we look to God; the wonders of belief, the wonders of blood, the white and the red. One day, long before we knew Mark has cancer, something happened–his DNA and his environment meet, pressed, bang!–and, lo, he has leukemia.
Maybe there are times in a person’s life that are so combustible that you are fused into another version of yourself. My husband may earn a new life by accepting life from another person, but perhaps he already is becoming someone else. Perhaps it doesn’t take blood to renew the spirit. And perhaps it doesn’t take God either. Perhaps the extreme pressure he is under will change him regardless of the transplant, of the noncancerous cells recreating in his body minutes, days, weeks, and months after. And perhaps the same is true for myself. I wonder, after so much pressure, how much of my previous self is still here? How much of me is memory now too?
I love my son most when we are alone and he is quiet. I hold him–a heft and thickness to his limbs now that surprises me though I’ve watched him grow, inspected him even, twelve years now–against my chest and the ache of loving him burns through my center like I’ve downed a tequila shot and eaten the lime whole. I want to fold him back into my belly, return him to his point of origin. I could be his chrysalis. I could rebirth him and give him a chance. I could rebirth him and give myself another chance. It’s not romantic, but this special kind of motherhood rarely is. It’s pulsing blood in my jaw and nerves revealed only in the twitch of my eyelid. It’s still shit and drool and too-sharp nails and sometimes bites and lots of shame, and twelve years of tiredness that makes my body ache and all I can do is lay myself on the floor and wait to feel myself again. I’ve read that the center of a star is held together only by the force of its own gravity.
I was in the hospital for five weeks when I was ten. My left leg was being lengthened millimeter by monotonous millimeter. There, I met an Amish boy who had been injured in a farm accident. I don’t remember much about him, exactly, but my parents befriended his, and in the following year, we visited their homestead, ate jarred meat, and, when dusk fell, watched their many children put on a play from behind a sheet, illuminated shadows made from an oil lamp. I gave one of the youngest girls my favorite doll because the only dolls they had with were hand-sewn, awkward creatures more monster than toy.
I don’t remember what happened to the boy, if he recovered, or even if I spoke to him during our visit to their farm. My mother soon died and there ended our family’s relationship with anyone who required some effort to visit. But I wonder now if the boy struggled to reconcile his startling introduction to modern pleasures amid the unpleasurable at the hospital, if he ever, while back on his farm, wished he could return to those white rooms, to the dings of the nurses’ call button and the rattle of the IV poles and gurney wheels, just to taste some jello and watch TV again.
More often during my hospital stay, I visited a little boy who had been badly burned. His toddler body was covered in white bandages until they were removed, revealing his brick red skin, shiny as a newly polished floor. He had curly strawberry-blond hair, so sometimes he looked to me like he was still on fire. I was drawn to him, maybe to my own feelings of nobility when I persisted in staying in his room while he cried, which was most of the time. Or maybe I just stayed to witness a pain greater than my own.
It is dinnertime and we have just arrived home from the grocery store. While M empties the grocery bags and I prepare the chicken, N is occupying himself by opening and closing the storage drawer beneath the oven. When we hear a thump, we both look down and he is lying prone on his back like a turtle flipped on its shell. This happens occasionally. When he just loses control of himself and falls backward. He still isn’t always good at sitting even though he’s 2. But he usually cries or laughs, depending on how hard he bumped his head. He’s regrettably used to pain. This time, he is just lying there, stiff, and his eyes are rolled up half under his lids. It is a seizure again, out of nowhere, here when we were doing normal so well. We move N to the living room couch, his head tipped to the right side as it does, a sign perhaps of where the storm brews in his brain. His limbs jerk and his throat throbs with work and foam collects on his lips. Mark sings. I kneel down beside him and kiss his cheek. Wipe his mouth. Watch for breath. This time, his lips are not turning blue. At five minutes, we medicate him. It’s what we’ve been told to do. We do what we’re told. We wait for the sedative to break the seizure’s spell. Don’t think, I tell myself. Don’t you dare feel a thing.