A Death in the Family

Our daily rhythms are all shaken up. Yesterday Banu, the director of our program, received a call from the States telling her that her son had been killed in an accident. Between 10 and 11 am when I had hunkered down alone in the library, everyone changed. I didn't understand what I was supposed to do or say - loss seems to fill up a space and only leave this empty haze. Without any idea who this man was, or what it could possibly feel like to outlive your own child, I was stuck. I felt nothing - I just wanted to keep living like it never happened. But everyone else just looked through things. Smiling, joking or talking felt like a sin, a sign of disrespect for the soul I never knew. For that first day, all I wanted was to hide in my room until everyone could forget about it.

I have no idea what death is like. Uncle Klaus was the closest thing, and I still don't believe he's really gone. We visited so seldom that he might as well still be sitting in Westchester, staring out the window through clouded cataracts with his pump-up Nike kicks and hospital gown. Denial is a powerful thing, and generally I just keep building up that wall until something brings it all crashing down. We visited Banu today (in Nepal when someone dies, you just show up at the family's house as soon as possible.) I walked into Banu's bedroom and found at least ten people sitting along the walls and on the bed in mutual silence, all sucking in the same weighted air. It was like meditation curled up on the edge of that bed, not knowing who or what to look at, whether to smile or even if I could get up to go to the bathroom. I sat there, through the hugs and the crying and the silence. At some point, I found myself sitting next to Banu, this powerful woman reduced to a silent mound with eyes that said it was alright if she never smiled again. Suddenly her head was on my shoulder with shaking sobs that tore the air from my lungs. All I could do was sit there stroking her hair as tears welled in my eyes for reasons I still cannot explain. Here I was, curled around the woman who always took care of me, who was supposed to have all the answers. Walking out was like slowly wading out of a bog - it took several minutes to realize I was out, then to find my voice, and finally to look at anything but the ground.

There is no proper conclusion here - I don't think there can be - except that after leaving that house, everyone in the program seemed to breathe a little easier as if we were able to leave our baggage behind and move on. We paid our respects and now it was time to appreciate the lives we had, even if others could not.