After a week of inpatient chemo with Lauren, I began to work my way through the house. It occurred to me that none of us have really been home much since June, between Lauren's treatment, Brent's trips to Houston and countless unplanned visits to Rainbow. Alex has been back and forth between Ann Arbor for school and Columbus for his internship. I recall several times when all six of us were working out of suitcases, Ramers coming and Ramers going.
There are so many things that I have to sort through, medical supplies to dispose of, equipment to return, stacks of papers everywhere. I used to be incredibly organized, but my dining room should be reported to FEMA.
Overwhelmed, I dodged the dining room altogether and began to sort through Brent's desk, which seemed far more manageable. I began with obvious and easy things, like textbooks that should be returned to the school.
As I slowly worked through the papers, there were bits of memory that opened up. I found pages of incomprehensible equations in Brent's tiny handwriting from his progress last summer in AP Calculus. He always preferred to focus his efforts on math, even when he was feeling poorly because, "math made sense" and was easy for him. I flipped through his biology homework and thought that this ought to have been easy for him, given his medical experience and the multitude of explanations of biological processes that were both practical and personally relevant.
His planner from the 2016-17 school year listed detailed assignments for each day. I remember my son's determination to attend the first day of school. only a month after being septic with necrotizing fasciitis. That fall, he carried a portable wound vac pump as he crutched to his classes. I noticed that the homework entries ended abruptly around the time that Brent had an incredibly painful surgery. I regret consenting to this procedure, one of the few decisions in all of this nonsense that I sincerely wish that I could have back. We worked hard that fall looking for better surgical options. Thankfully, we found them. But Brent never returned to school.
His wallet contained ticket stubs from movies and sporting events that he attended. It also contained a decent amount of cash. Brent seldom spent money on himself. I remember him fretting a year or two ago about not being able to work, as many of his friends did. Partially, this was because it was another notable difference between the path that his life had put him on, and theirs. I had told him that he had a different sort of job, important and meaningful work. I urged him to not worry about money, and assured him that we would buy him whatever he needed. Brent didn't have specific wants for himself, aside from wanting to be more normal and productive. But he did cite concern about how he would buy birthday and Christmas presents for others.
I found a stack of novels with scraps of paper marking Brent's progress in them. As a monogamous reader, I am bewildered by folks who have multiple books working at once. I remembered that he struggled with The Great Gatsby, telling me that he disliked all of the characters. I tended to agree with his assessment of them. Brent's generous soul could not understand shallow or selfish behavior in real life and he found it difficult to immerse himself in a fictional version. I noted the bookmark, and was rather pleased that he did not spend more of his precious time with unworthy and irredeemable characters.
His wallet contained ticket stubs from movies and sporting events that he attended. It also contained a decent amount of cash. Brent seldom spent money on himself. I remember him fretting a year or two ago about not being able to work, as many of his friends did. Partially, this was because it was another notable difference between the path that his life had put him on, and theirs. I had told him that he had a different sort of job, important and meaningful work. I urged him to not worry about money, and assured him that we would buy him whatever he needed. Brent didn't have specific wants for himself, aside from wanting to be more normal and productive. But he did cite concern about how he would buy birthday and Christmas presents for others.
I found a stack of novels with scraps of paper marking Brent's progress in them. As a monogamous reader, I am bewildered by folks who have multiple books working at once. I remembered that he struggled with The Great Gatsby, telling me that he disliked all of the characters. I tended to agree with his assessment of them. Brent's generous soul could not understand shallow or selfish behavior in real life and he found it difficult to immerse himself in a fictional version. I noted the bookmark, and was rather pleased that he did not spend more of his precious time with unworthy and irredeemable characters.
I scanned a copy of the school newspaper and saw an article featuring one of his closest buddies. I know that Brent celebrated his friends' athletic success, even while he struggled with his own mobility. He had remarkable friends that he longed to spend more time with. I found a class selection form. He still had his eye on the prize when he relapsed with leukemia.
I opened a composition notebook, one that recounted interesting articles that Brent had read on a variety of subjects: art, architecture, natural sciences. One entry described the work of Lin-Manuel Miranda, written long before Hamilton was a smash hit. I turned the page with some regret. We had always intended to see that production together.
I discarded vials of eye drops and relocated a dozen travel packages of Kleenex, both persistent necessities after chemo and transplant. Traditional cancer treatments certainly take a toll on the body. We chose the best options available, but they often carried devastating side effects. Brent always said that it was worth it.
I found a card from the oncology clinic for Brent's 18th birthday, signed by people who have cared for him a very long time, and not just in the medical sense. I remember the photos that we took that day. He was happy because Lauren was with us, her bald head covered in henna.
I flipped through a photo album that Brent kept on his desk, a birthday gift from his grandma. It contained happy memories of family gatherings and represented so much love. I found the scribbles of a working copy of a poem that would become a gift to his other grandmother. He had debated between haiku and iambic pentameter while he crafted something personal and complimentary.
As I inventoried his desk, the evidence piled up. I was reminded of the essence of Brent's life, of the people that he loved and how hard he worked to be well for them. He was always pushing to be his best self while he was with us. He was required to work incredibly hard.
I hope that the effort of this archaeological dig helps to bring me physical sleep, as well as the dream visits that I so long for: where Brent is happy and whole, his health not a challenge that requires a creative work around, but a detail that recedes in the background. I am working to focus my waking thoughts on who Brent was, and how he expressed this while he lived, rather than the heartbreak I have felt since he died.
This goal requires so much effort at the moment. But I am inspired by Brent's example to make the most of what we have been given, even as we watch some of those gifts slip away. I was given a wondrous gift for a time, an extraordinary example of strength, of courage, of determination, of love.
I am grateful for the experience.
