Cleo

I had to agree. Few things bridged those two worlds, apart from a handful of friends and relatives, and the small black cat Sam had chosen for us all those years ago. Even though we laughed, worked and played, our grief was still real, unresolved in many ways and buried deep inside. Concerned neither of us had undergone professional grief counseling, I sometimes embarked on “Remember when Sam…” stories to encourage Rob to acknowledge our previous life. We thumbed through photo albums, talked and smiled. But to say time had healed us was a lie. Although we’d encompassed the enormity of losing Sam, we were still emotional amputees. We’d lost a limb when he died. After so many years the stump was invisible to almost everyone, apart from Rob and me.

Rob sprouted into a tall, handsome young man. He was a strong swimmer and, with Philip’s encouragement, a triathlete and yachtsman. While I sometimes worried about his emotional well-being his physical health was never a concern. He had an enviable ability to shrug off any virus within a day.

Watching him plunge into the surf I sometimes imagined his older brother alongside him. What would Sam look like by now? Probably a little shorter than his younger brother, but even-featured and no doubt handsome in his own way. I wondered what byways that unconventional streak might have taken Sam on. Maybe he’d have turned my hair grey dabbling in drugs and embarking on an uncertain career in filmmaking. Alternatively, he may have become a mother’s dream, sailed through law school and be halfway to owning a house in the suburbs. Time-wasting fantasies were no use.

During the holidays after his first university year Rob, Philip and I were walking to the local shopping center. Rob suddenly turned pale and said he felt unwell. “Sick?” I said. “You’re never sick.” Rob was equally bewildered. Such a stranger to illness, he had no idea about the etiquette of throwing up in public. Instead of bending discreetly over the gutter, he spun about, showering us with his breakfast. I assumed he’d eaten a dodgy hamburger and would recover in no time. I assumed wrong.

He took to his bed and was unable to eat or drink for several days. His GP assured us it wasn’t serious and wouldn’t last long. But by the end of the week he was severely dehydrated and admitted to hospital, where he was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel condition, cause unknown. Rob’s attack was diagnosed as very severe.

I sat helpless at his bedside, watching him grow weaker by the day. Once again I mustered all my life-giving power as his mother and willed him to get better. Yet again it seemed to fail. Several times I excused myself to find an alcove to weep in. The prospect of losing another son was unbearable.

A young surgeon in a green gown fresh from theater stood over the bed. If Rob didn’t respond to the drugs and his already swollen colon expanded another centimeter, he said, the entire lower bowel (more than two meters long) would have to be removed. The surgeon described the operation as Big.

A tower was under construction outside Rob’s hospital window. I willed time to pass, so we could move forward to a happier phase, when the building was finished and Rob (please every deity that ever existed) was well again. The more I bullied the minutes to speed into hours, the more begrudgingly they crawled. Sometimes they seemed to stop altogether, like belligerent donkeys on a mountain pass.

Rob and I reenacted his babyhood. I stroked his hair and helped him sip an unpalatable canned drink that contained essential nutrients. I tried to find ways to help him feel better. Reducing his fear was difficult when I was almost equally terrified. A rose quartz crystal on his stomach seemed to help soothe violent seizures of pain. His face always lit up when he was told someone was praying for him or sending healing energy. Rob welcomed a visit from Patrick, a psychic healer. When Patrick took his hand Rob said he felt an invisible force holding his other hand.

I stuck a photo of a mountain glowing pink in a sunset above his hospital bed. Rob looked up at it and said he’d get there someday. He’d always dreamed of taking time out to work on a ski field.

Fleets of doctors and surgeons visited Rob in the mornings. While they claimed to be using blood tests and X-rays to determine if Rob needed surgery, they seemed to rely more on how he looked and responded to them.

As they drew close to making the grim decision, I urged Rob to drag himself out of bed and walk down the corridor when the doctors were due. The effort of struggling fifty meters to the showers was enormous. Rob could hardly walk, let alone wheel the drip he was attached to. As we glided painfully past the team of doctors, their faces froze with astonishment. Rob’s triumph at that moment was up there with winning an Olympic marathon.