Peter's childhood was not normal by any definition of the word; nevertheless, it was not terribly abnormal either - at least, not so much that our parents were terribly concerned most of the time. Going to school was an ordeal sometimes, but not usually; every now and again he would scream furiously while my mother prepared him for school, but once there, he would perform well, his friends adored him, and his teachers were always happy with his behaviour and work.

Bubby Sylvia's sickness, meanwhile, was worsening considerably. She never complained, however; she would lie in bed, in pain at first, and then later paralyzed below the waist, and sometimes vomiting sporadically; but when Peter or I showed up, she would smile and welcome us, and lift her bed up and roll over to hug us.

Peter loved her, and in all of his young wisdom, it is unlikely that he fully recognized that this brave, smiling, weak woman was going to disappear as her husband had.

When I was twelve, she grew more and more sick, and finally was admitted to the palliative care wing of the hospital. Her doctors would prop her up on pillows, and she continued to smile; they adjusted her wheelchair to deal with her paralysis, and she continued to smile; when her entire body betrayed her and she was unable to leave her bed, she continued to smile.

She never left the hospital again. Near the end of her life, she became unable to feed herself, and to speak; only when the muscles in her face left her control did her smile fade.

I was thirteen when she died. Peter was eight, the age I had been when I first thought that I would never be able to live without her.

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posted by Adelaide at 7/22/2000 6:52:31 PM