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December 17, 2004
The Dream, The Walk, The Echo
As Ariel's lungs worsened and breathing became more difficult, even with oxygen, Ariel developed a particular kind of walk, a shuffling gait that broke my heart. When I saw him from behind, he looked like an old man moving along at a snail's pace. Occasionally, I dream about Ariel and this most distinctive walk. I see him slowly making his way down an endless corridor, a dark, oppressive space filled with massive machines whose purpose I cannot fathom.
For several days now, I've been hobbling around like an old man. Attacks of lower back pain have been a constant in my life for the past few years. It happens when I pick up something heavy and forget to bend my knees, or when I open our heavy garage door, again not using proper leverage. Because I'm male and genetically incapable of making an appointment with a doctor, Karen sticks a post-it on the refrigerator letting me know that she has arranged for me to see an orthopedist this morning. Karen is a most capable woman and I always follow in the direction she points.
But I hesitate to keep this appointment. I hesitate because the doctor's office is in the same building where Ariel had his pulmonary therapy three times a week. I realize, however, that there is no way out of this. I owe it to Karen, to the girls, to watch after my health. Besides, if I were to spend my life avoiding all the places I associate with Ariel, well, I would have no place to go in this world.
And so, I drive to the medical building on San Vicente Boulevard. I park in the oh-so-familiar parking garage. Slowly climbing out of my car, I make my way to the elevator.
I shuffle along, slowly, and in pain. I have to adjust my normally brisk walk to compensate for the fire radiating from my lower spine.
And as I move along it hits me: my gait is achingly familiar.
Yes, my walk is now an unconscious echo of Ariel's. Even my breathing is much like his: short shallow breaths that help control the pain.
Abruptly, I realize that I am inhabiting my dream. I am shuffling along the dark corridor; the massive machines are cars parked on either side of me.
I can see my son Ariel, slowly, painfully walking along.
But it is also me that I see.
Ariel and I--for one brief moment--are one.
I halt. I look all around me. A nurse breezily walks by and asks:
"Are you alright?"
I want to tell her that my son died. That I loved him more than I love my life. I want to tell her that I am paralyzed between present and past, that my life is no longer recognizable. I want to tell her that if she has children she should run to them and hug them and cherish every single moment she has with them. There is so much I want to say.
"I'm fine, thanks."
She smiles brightly, and moves on, her high heels clicking on the asphalt.
I stand there a moment longer and I say:
"Ariel?"
My voice echoes.
Ariel. Ariel. Ariel...
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at December 17, 2004 01:14 PM
Comments
Seraphic Secret is private property, that's right, it's an extension of our home, and as such, Karen and I have instituted two Seraphic Rules and we ask commentors to act respectfully.
1. No profanity.2. No Israel bashing. We debate, we discuss, we are respectful. You know what Israel bashing is. The world is full of it. Seraphic Secret is one of the few places in the world that will not tolerate this form of anti-Semitism. That's it. Break either of these rules and you will be banned.
Dear Mr. Avrech,
I just came across your blog today, from a friend's website. Although nothing I can say can possibly ease your pain, or that of your family's, I have to say that your words are among the most beautiful that I have ever read.
Ariel's memory, through your posts, is truly a bracha, even for those of us who were never privileged to meet him in this world.
B'shalom,
Cara in Chicago
Posted by: Cara at December 20, 2004 09:13 AM