a hard rain

A hard rain makes me think the sky is sobbing, like a huge release of the world's sorrow and pain, melting away the dirt and grime which has built up in our cities and towns. We got one in the early hours this morning, and I wished I had been able to join it. I don't weep nearly enough, don't feel that singular release of tension which sobbing provides. Mostly, I hold it together through the difficult circumstance that is taking care of our complex son.

This week, Tuesday and Wednesday nights were particularly hard. On the first we had to deal with another of Calvin's night terrors or migraines or withdrawal episodes—we can't be sure which one(s). For nearly three hours our boy was inconsolable. During these events, he screams and writhes and cries as if someone is cutting him up into little pieces. Extra THCA oil did nothing to dampen his misery. We abstained from trying rectal Valium since we have weaned him from benzodiazepines, reserving it for prolonged grand mals, which we hope Calvin will never again endure. But having no remedy is excruciating for us and for him. He thrashed in bed yanking fistfuls of my hair, head butting me, pushing his hand into my throat, trying to dive out of bed. I wonder where he goes when he feels like this.

The next night Calvin suffered two grand mals which, thankfully, is a rare occurrence. Bloody drool soaked his pillow. After the second seizure he was again inconsolable. His heart pounded in his chest. His hands were clammy. He thrashed and arched in bed again, though this time without the crazed screaming of the previous night. After 1:00 a.m., sleep was elusive for me. I wondered what he was feeling, thinking, seeing.

Yesterday was restful. It seemed Calvin was able to purge the awful physical and emotional feelings and/or hallucinations. His calm led me to think that maybe what he had endured was a stint of withdrawal, the result of having zero benzodiazepine in his bloodstream since quitting Onfi last Friday. Then this morning, while Calvin slept like a stone, the rain began, and for a moment it poured. I lied awake for a spell listening to it thrum the roof, one of my favorite sounds. I remembered Bob Dylan's song, A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall, soulfully performed by Patti Smith, which makes me cry every time I hear it. Its lyrics made me think about my blue-eyed son, my darling young one, and what I'd ask him if he could speak and understand. I wondered what he'd tell me if he could. I imagine he'd describe the kind of anguish, frustration, fear, pain and sorrow I've never experienced, even as his mother. I imagine he'd tell me about his hopes and dreams and what makes him happy. I imagine he'd describe the hard rains that have pelted him, and the ones which have soothed his soul. Perhaps, together, we'd sob.

No comments:

Post a Comment