10.29.2014

Dear Cody,

It’s difficult to see you get upset with yourself. It’s difficult to see you so passionately attempt something, but then so gloriously fail. There is always glory in your failure, Cody, because there is always glory in the prospect of becoming better. It’s funny how sleep erases a lot of things. It can erase arguments, pain, sadness, and for you, can erase some basic motor functions. You woke up not quite sure how to walk or to talk, and the doctors assured us that it was not because your brain cells were dead, but just a little rusty. It unfortunate that in those times when you desperately grab onto the side rail of your bed and weakly try and force yourself upon two legs that little slices of your memory weren’t erased in your sleep, too. Every time that you try and stand, something you did without a second’s hesitation before the accident, we can all see on your face that you remember those times when it all was so easy. You remember the times when you ran half-marathons or the days you spent parading around a research lab, constantly doing the one thing that has now been made impossible- standing.

The doctors, your wife, and even I try to persuade you into not being too hard on yourself, and to take this process in stride (pun intended). You don’t listen, however, or at least you don’t let it sink in, because even though we plead for you to not treat yourself so unfairly, tears still well up in your eyes, your face burns with anger, and you push us away as you retreat back into you bed. The doctors have told both Vivian and me that “it’ll come, but right now he should be lucky he can even move.” It’s not uncommon for someone who escapes the unconscious vortex that is a coma to come out not fully capable of what they were able when they went in. When their brain went inactive it also decided to downsize some parts. You were lucky enough to not have that happen, your whole brain stayed with you the whole time. I know that it’s hard to see now, when you feel as if your body has been made to resemble that of an infant, but you are one of the very lucky ones.

Vivian continues to surprise me. She cries all the time, and many times, does more than cries, she sobs. She sobs when she walks up to your room, she sobs as she touches your arm hair, she sobs as she’s leaving. I don’t know what has gotten into her. There were the first few days when she was actually frantic. I couldn’t get a hold of her so didn’t know when she was coming into the hospital, and when she did it was as if she was a contained tropical storm. She’d run from nurse to nurse asking what they had done for you today, and demanding and evaluation of whether not they were at the top of their game. Next, she’d see a doctor and fire questions at them as to why you were not already released to go home. She hardly ever acknowledged me, but when she did it was to fill my ear cavity with blistering complaints about the doctors and nurses inside the hospital. I probably shouldn’t be writing this to you, it’s not showing your wife in the most picturesque of lights, but it does go to show you how much this process is changing all of us. Vivian doesn’t normally act like this. Yes, she can cry once in a while, but she’s never in such dizzying control of her emotions that she seems manic. I’ll keep an eye on her for you. I know that is what you’d want me to do, and it’s really not a punishment, I love Vivian. I just hope that I can see the Vivian I used to know sometime soon. Don’t worry about her.

You’re doing much better- give yourself credit.

Love,

Mom

10.21.14

It was the most beautiful shade of blue you have ever worn. Your wife had bought you a sweater for your anniversary four days before the accident. Today, she brought it in and we helped you put it on. For the first time in months I got to see you in real human clothes. Your body is a little oddly proportioned because it’s been cramped in a tiny metal bed for days on end, but as hunched as your shoulders are, and even if your neck can’t quite straighten itself, with that royal blue sweater on you looked like the most handsome man in the all the earth. I know I am biased, but I have seen many blue sweaters, and, believe me, I have seen many men, but none of them have ever worn the fresh perspiration of new life that you do. No one can quite emulate the sparkle that comes off your skin as fresh breath and reinvigorated blood springing forth to your capillaries, almost literally, seep out of your pores. You spend most of the day happy to be alive, and when this happens you could be on the cover of any magazine. Sometimes, however, you wear the look of a man who’s unacquainted with living and unsettled by all the noise and feelings this world can bring. In those moments you still look attractive, because you show a soft side of vulnerability, which you never had before. As you look at anyone around you with your “help me, I’m new here” eyes, all they can do is be warmed enough to feel deep compassion and do everything they can to make you feel more welcome.

Your father had that same look about him often. When he was in the classroom he was nothing but confident and strong-willed. When he was outside of his academic safe place he became edgy and unsure of himself. He could be so powerful and steady as a professor, but out at the grocery store would get nervous about what pasta to buy. So nervous, he’d buy 5 boxes just to cover all the bases. I stopped him once and said, “honey, why are you buying so much pasta?” He answered my in a hushed, serious tone, “you think I buy too much pasta? Do you want me to put it back? I’m sorry.” And I believe he was genuinely sorry. He was sorry that he wasn’t a perfected, pristine human being like I “wanted.” In many ways he was the opposite in the real world than he was in front of his students. He thought that would make me nervous, probably like him less, but when I got to see his human side, the side that cried easily, got cranky when he was tired, and laughed when people tripped in front of him, that was the side I really loved.

We dated for almost two years and each time when the new semester rolled around, he’d always try and get me to apply. “I know you are smart enough, and it’s not like you can’t get determined about things.” He said the last part with a mischievous smirk on his lips (probably because he was referring to the way I never let arguments go easily), but it still meant a great deal to hear him say that, and although it never fully sunk in, it was always a pleasant shock to my system. I come from a family where the only choice for me was to become homeless or a housewife. My dad stopped caring if I went to school around the tenth grade and my mom yelled at me when I asked to join the student government. In her mind, “those are things that only lesbians and ugly women do.” In my mind, it was the way to never end up like her- going through a bottle of antidepressants a month and chasing each one down with a small shot of vodka. That’s why I never stopped you from dreaming big, at least, I tried to never stomp on your dreams. I know, there were somethings that I did that stunted your personal identity growth, but I never wanted them to. I did what I had to most of the time, and if that shut you down, I’m truly sorry. Your father would have never wanted that.

I hope you keep that sweater forever- it just looks so damn good.

Love,

Mom

12.10.14

My Dearest Cody,

It is so much different touching your face now. It’s warm… or warm-er. It’s warmer and it seems even your capillaries have woken up and are prepared to face life again. While you were sleeping, in your endless sleeping, your skin felt more like a heavy, muddy saran wrap stuck to your bones than actual human flesh. You were part human, part corpse, part zombie. Now you are live! You are still very inactive and it will take a lot of time until you even resemble yourself before the accident, but it’s a starting line. A starting line, that up until the last few days, seemed buried underneath sand and soil and rock, and possibly under some buried bodies too. Now that line has risen valiantly up to our feet, and all of us, you mostly, have stepped over it with a strength I didn’t think was possible. It was so nice to run my finger over you cheek, like I did when you were young were scared of the sounds outside. They were likely sounds that you should have been scared of, but I’d still roll you up into my arms, rub away the tears, and assure you that I was going to keep you safe. I guess I should have made that same promise to you today, as well. After all we’ve been through, after seeing you with your brain numb for 32 days, I will do anything to keep you safe– to keep you awake.

Veronica hasn’t been around a lot lately- she says that work has really picked up now that they got the approval to renovate that major city park. The first few days I was really puzzled on how she could leave your side now. I feel guilty even blinking in your room because I am afraid you may fall back into a coma at any time. I know, that’s not how this works, but a mother can never be too cautious or too scared. How can I, a mother who left you alone on more birthdays than not and was excommunicated for half a decade, be more attached than your wife? It actually bothered me to think about it, but then I thought- what does she really have to worry about now? For the last month we were all living on top of your precipice. At any moment your vitals could have dropped and send all of us plummeting into the icy depths below. Veronica put her life on hold, practically pulled a sizeable chunk of hair out of her head, because she believed every breath you took could have been your last. What a way for a women to spend her summer… Now, you’re doing better, you can open your eyes and form human words. Veronica, along with all of us (including you) need to start reentering the lives we were living before the accident. Now, instead of thinking that she is full of neglect, I think she is full of courage.

Another reason why I shouldn’t be upset with your wife is because it gives me more time alone with you. After all your preliminary tests and you were safely back in your bed and still responsive, I got to see you. Veronica had already gone out to call her mother and get some real human food, and the doctor asked if I wanted to be alone. I thought that was an odd question in the moment- you aren’t dead and you aren’t my lover, so why would I need to be alone in a room with you? But after several seconds of contemplation, I said, “yes, please” and I got to stand next to your bed, run my finger down your cheek, and let silence comfort us both.

I’m so very glad you’re alive, my son,

Mom

9.30.2014

Dear Cody,

My hand is shaking as I write this… You’re awake! You’re awake. You’re really awake. You’re awake! I never thought it would happen, but you’ve fought past that hellish, abysmal gate of coma are are able to blink and sputter out infantile conglomerations of words. You’re awake. My son is alive! Cody, I know that there is a pile of letters for you to read, and I know that you won’t be ready to even look at them for months now, but I hope you read them. As I write this now it reminds me how much they truly have meant to me. They’re the only link I’ve had to you for two months now. A link that at a few points was pathetically anemic, when I felt like words were the least successful means of communicating my emotions. How can a mother coherently describe what it feels like to watch her child drift further and further into a merciless, eternal sleep-state? I wanted to cry and scream and throw glass at walls, not write. However, this superstitious link also, at many times, was a link surging and rushing with thick, ink-black blood. Blood that was comprised of apologies, wishes, and daily happenings. You probably will find most of my letters completely forgettable, but each still carries with a unique story and emotion that guided my pen that day- each was written by a little different me. In the last letter I wrote I had planned to write you about the death of your father, but now, both of us have narrowly escaped writing death stories; mine was your father’s, and your’s was your own. I may still write and tell you about the day your father died, but for right now, I want to right about more joyful things.

Veronica is uncontrollable today. Not necessarily uncontrollably happy, but just uncontrollable. Maybe it’s the way that she shows she is uncontrollably happy… I don’t know. She was the one that walked in and saw your eyes open and your mouth gasping for dry breaths. Unlike me, she stayed silent and slammed the door behind her. The sweet and chubby nurse that’s stayed by your side the majority of your time here (and washed up all your shit on many occasions) called out to her from down the hall, “Miss! Miss Veronica! The doctor is supposed to go in there in a few minutes.” When she reached the door she saw you through the slotted blinds and let out a scream of amazement. Hearing her vocal siren was the moment when I shot out from my favorite and most uncomfortable blue love seat and started sprinting down your hallway. I’m sure that the nurse thought she was seeing a dead man brought back to life! She did her cute half-waddle/half-run trot to the nearest phone where she loudly called for any doctor available. She added that your doctor (Dr. Howski) would, “be nice, but anyone that hears this needs to get to room 505 now.” Again, I don’t know if that dragnet call followed hospital protocol, but I think she was too stunned to do anything by-the-book. Although unconventional, it worked perfectly and within a minute Dr. Howski came sliding in the door. Everyone was yelling at Veronica to let them see you. When I got there she was huddled over you, hunching her back so much you could see every crack in her spinal chord, and she was clenching both your shoulders deep with her hands. It looked as if she was whispering something very serious into your ears and had to get it all out before she’d let you go.

When the doctor was able to forcibly separate her from you and push both her and me out of the room, Veronica wouldn’t stop moving all day long. She also couldn’t stay in your room. She demanded that any conversations with doctors, nurses, or even me happened happened in the lobby or as we looked onto you through the outside window. I’m sure she’s just so ecstatic her little body can’t control how it moves anymore. She got her husband back! I got my son back. I have’t been able to see much of you today, they’ve been running tests on you since you woke up, but I will tomorrow, and I expect it to be one of the best days of my life.

Good morning my son- I love you,

Mom