Time

Today was Friday. Truman is getting better, apparently. We've reached a state of constant emotional vigilance, so the news that he is healing is treated with some skepticism. Still, x-rays continue to improve, his skin color is better, his belly is less distended, he's urinating and stooling more, and so on. The current plan is to treat him with antibiotics for 2 weeks (no feeding during that time), give him a full medical evaluation, then to start feeding him very slowly. We thought he'd be home last week, but he won't be home until at least Christmas. He's worth the wait.

An autopsy was performed on Fisher, though we won't have results for several days. We hope that the autopsy will illuminate any anatomical issues that the boys may share. Another way in which Fisher is helping his brother survive.

We spent the early evening at a funeral home in Inwood, relatively close to the hospital. We were met at the door by a huge Italian man named Jimmy. He was about forty-five, 260 pounds, and wore khaki pants, a gray sweater vest, and a chambray shirt tucked in on the left side but not on the right. He looked like a tipsy, gay, off-duty Santa Claus. He stood hands-folded at the door and said that he was pleased to meet us and that we should wait for Ralph. Ralph (his brother) emerged shortly, wearing a suit. He led us to a consultation room in the back. We talked for nearly an hour about funeral arrangements for Fisher, who would have laughed his ass off at the whole situation.

Then, in a page from a script of the story of someone else's life, I paid for my son's funeral.

There will be a small ceremony this weekend, when a very few of us will gather to remember our boy. Ralph and Jimmy, in spite of the pains I've taken to mock them, were kind and sympathetic without dragging out the potentially maudlin aspects of the arrangements. We like them.

I talk to Fisher all day long. When I see something odd that makes me smile (one of the Children's Hospital's benefactors is someone called "Daniel Placentra"), I say "Thanks, Fish." When it takes me too long to park, I say "Sorry, Fish." And if you were to say that I must be losing my mind, I could hardly argue with you. I don't believe that he hovers over me constantly; but the thought of him lives in me so vividly that I can address that part of myself directly. I know I am talking to myself, but this mild illogic brings me a great measure of comfort.

The deluge of generosity that continues to fall on us has been humbling. My work, our families, our friends and neighbors have been inordinately thoughtful. Our doormen have ordered flowers for us. We are lucky to know great people.

At the funeral, there will be 'memory cards' (really cheesy idea?) for the few who attend. The front of the card will have a picture of him (We have so few pictures. Just writing that sentence puts a heavy weight on me.), and the back will have the following words:

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Fisher Daniel Kayne

Fish,

Today the neighbors brought us food. The doorman ordered flowers for us. Your dad's co-workers offered to do his work for him. Your dad's family drove in from all around. Your mom's family flew in from Indiana. The neighbors brought more food. Friends wrote us letters and tried to help us out. This world is like that. People are good and kind and decent.

You live in our hearts, Fish, as silly as it sounds. When we walk through this good world, you walk with us. Thank you for being our son. We love you.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

C and I still have spells of dumbstruck grief. I should have noticed this, or I should have told him this, or I could have done this differently. He will never choose a shower instead of a bath. He will never be scared to go on a date. No Thanksgivings or Christmases or Hanukkahs (if he had wanted to convert, that would have been fine). But little by little by very little, we find ways to celebrate the boy he was becoming. He was, though little, his big brother's patron saint. When C held them both on her bare chest, it was Fisher who reached out and held his big brother's hand. I know it may mean nothing, I but I believe it meant everything. He was a feisty son-of-a-gun who had his brother's back. We love him.

Thank you to everyone. To Dr. Tom, Dr. Wiseman, Angela, Dr. Ratner, Dr. Wong, Pat, Erin, Maria Beltran, Maria "the fellow", Kevin, Erin, Keith, Stacey, Chris, Michelle, Pablo, Elena, James, Lennon, Eliza, Dreadnought, Mika, Lani, Sam, Hayden, Christy, Dana, Jordan, Todd, Liz, Maggie, Sarah, Goode, Casey, Berg, Dana, Taylor, our families, and everyone. I know I left out a thousand people. These are just the names of the first 40 or so that I can remember. If I weren't falling asleep as I type, I would keep going. We apologize to anyone left off this list; I can assure you that our gratitude is profound, even if our memory is hazy.

Much much love to you, you kind and thoughtful people.