But how can you possibly ease yourself into the death of your child? For one thing, it is supposed to happen well after your own dissolution into nothingness. Your children are supposed to outlive you by several decades, during the course of which they live their lives, happily devoid of the burden of your presence, and eventually complete the same mortal trajectory as their parents: oblivion, denial, fear, the end. They’re supposed to handle their own mortality, and no help in that regard (other than forcing them to confront death by dying) can come from you—death ain’t a science project. And, even if you could imagine your child’s death, why would you?
But I’d been cursed with a compulsively catastrophic imagination, and had often involuntarily imagined the worst. I used to picture being run over by a car whenever I crossed the street; I could actually see the layers of dirt on the car’s axis as its wheel crushed my skull. When I was stuck on a subway with all the lights out, I’d envision a deluge of fire advancing through the tunnel toward the train. Only after I met Teri did I manage to get my tormentful imagination somewhat under control. And, after our children were born, I learned to quickly delete any vision I had of something horrible happening to them. A few weeks before Isabel’s cancer was diagnosed, I’d noticed that her head seemed large and somewhat asymmetrical, and a question had popped into my mind: What if she has a brain tumor? But I banished the thought almost immediately. Even if you could imagine your child’s grave illness, why would you?
by Aleksandar Hemon, New Yorker | Read more:
Illustration: Guy Billout
