Moving

Until yesterday, Graham had never expressed any actual sadness about the death of his beloved Oma.

For months now he has asked me repeatedly, sometimes dozens and dozens of times a day, "Are you sad about Oma?" but when I answer in a manner designed to engage him - "Yes I am, because I loved her and you did too didn't you?" - he has abruptly changed the subject or simply repeated the question over and over: "Are you sad about Oma? Are you sad about Oma? Are you sad about Oma?"

Attempts to break through often result in Graham chanting in an increasingly loud crescendo with slightly different wording: "Are you sad about Oma? Are you sad about Opa? Are you worried about Opa? Are you worried about Daddy?"

For four months now, louder and louder Graham has chanted, drowning out every attempt I make to respond to his questions in a thoughtful and loving manner.

It is the most gut-wrenching thing I have ever experienced.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday his babysitter, the woman he calls Omi and my late mother-in-law's best friend, said Graham approached her during play time with tears coursing down his cheeks.

"I can't help it Omi," he said. "I'm just so sad about Oma."

And so she took him onto her lap and together talked they talked about how much they loved her and how much they missed her and all the wonderful things they used to do together.

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Last night, exactly four months after her death, I dreamed about my dearly, dearly-loved mother-in-law for the first time.

I dreamt I walked into our living room and was astonished to see her sitting at our little cherry wood table sipping a cappuccino. My shock and happiness at the sight of her was so overwhelming I can still feel it now, crowding the air from my chest and stinging behind my eyes. In my dream I fell to my knees and took her hands in mine as tears rolled down my face.

"I have missed you so so much," I told her, over and over again. But she just regarded me with a bemused smile, as if she were confused over my outpouring of emotion.

"I can't believe you are here," I cried. "Don't you know you died four months ago?"

But she just smiled and in my dream I rushed and found a calendar in order to impress upon her what a miracle her presence was. But when I found one, the dates on it had been replaced by a series of nonsensical letters and numbers. All the dates and clocks throughout the house looked the same way, I realized, and so finally I stopped rushing about and just sat with her, clasping her hands and crying in wonder while she smiled benignly.

And then I realized what she wanted.

"Don't go anywhere!" I told her.

I rushed into Graham's room where he was sleeping soundly. I lifted him up, rushed back into the living room and thrust him into her arms.

In my dream Graham's eyes fluttered open as he clasped his chubby arms around her neck.

"Oma!" he breathed, snuggling into her. And she kissed the top of his head.

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I awoke with a start this morning and my mother-in-law's presence was so fresh and so real that I could only lie there and sob quietly for a few moments, as dawn's light and its harsh reality crept into my consciousness.

I did not want to get out of bed and leave her behind this morning but I had to: we are moving into our new house tomorrow and there is much to be done.

We are moving tomorrow from a house that she loved to a house that she will never see.

We are moving. Graham is growing. Our lives are changing.

And yet it seems that none of our forward motion is sufficient to fill the gaping hole her death has left behind.

Abandoned

I am so mad at her right now.

I feel I have been abandoned in the country of lost male souls.

A country where every day my son asks plaintively where his Oma has gone. A country where my husband uses forced cheer and industry to try and cope as weeks of unemployment slip into months. A country where my father in law, who often dines with us, slips into red-eyed reverie while I try and make small talk and force him to take seconds.

I don't know how to be anything but angry. For weeks now each day on my commute home from work I have spoken aloud: asking her, begging her, to please help me look after the boys she has left behind. I have implored her for some kind of sign that she is looking out for us, for some kind of peace that will allow us to accept and move forward.

But she hasn't responded.

And so I have taken to wondering (and bitterly so, to my shame) if she couldn't have just fought a little harder to stay here on earth with us. I have taken to wondering why she doesn't visit us in our dreams and infuse us with a mythical sense of serenity or when she will orchestrate for us a stroke of luck so joyful and unexpected that we can't deny her hand in our fate.

But she hasn't responded.

I know my anger is illogical. Several weeks after her death Rob and his brother met with her doctor who revealed that her cancer was far rarer, swifter and more cruel than anyone first imagined: we know now that she never stood a chance.

But I still feel angry; if only because the anger is easier to bear than the fear that, without her, neither do we.

Scarred

It was two days after Christmas and my mother-in-law had been in the hospital for only two days when Graham and I visited.

We enjoyed a coffee together in the cafeteria and while she lamented the crappy hospital food in her typically vigourous way Graham raced about the room like a banshee.

Every time he darted out of sight, I chased after him and chastised him. And chased after him and chastised him. Until one time I held back for half a minute to finish a thought and was rewarded with an ear-splitting scream just out of my line of sight.

I dashed around the corner and there Graham lay, sprawled on the floor beside a table surrounded by a gaggle of grey-haired ladies who materialized out of thin air to cluck and tsk. He was sobbing as if his heart would break and blood was gushing from a nasty gash across the bridge of his nose.

I picked him up, cooed in his ear and wiped the gash. Then I led him back to his Oma where Graham allowed himself to be further fussed over while we discussed whether I should investigate the possibility of getting the gash stitched.

Ultimately I decided not to bother and Oma concurred. It was a rather nasty gash but I wasn't sure you could even put stitches on the bridge of the nose and I figured it was unlikely to scar - his lovely skin was regenerating so quickly, surely it would disappear in just a few days.

But over the next few months I watched that angry mark on his nose with a curious mixture of fear, uncertainty and nostalgia.

When it was still prominent enough to solicit remarks at the beginning of February I felt a little sick about my failure to take it more seriously. I wondered if I had done Graham a great disservice (and ruined his chances of being a teen model!) by assuming that it would clear up and disappear in just a few days.

And yet, as the weeks went by and my mother-in-law got sicker I felt strangely comforted to see that the mark on Graham's nose was still prominent and appeared relatively fresh. I remembered clearly how energetic and vibrant she had been on the day that Graham fell and the physical reminder of that day - the mark - was a way of reassuring myself that she had been in good health just a few days ago and therefore would be in good health again in no time.

It didn't work out that way of course: she died a month ago.

And yesterday, as I peered at the bridge of Graham's nose as has been my daily habit for three and a half months, I realized that all evidence of the mark is now completely gone too.

And even though I should have felt relieved that the evidence of my neglect was finally gone, I didn't feel relief at all.

I felt unbearable sadness, rather, and an inexplicable wish that my son's scar was still on the outside where I could kiss it and comfort him just like his Oma had done just two days after Christmas.