Our life together looked very much like that of many families with young children. Jack worked and I was—apart from teaching yoga and studying energy medicine—a stay-at-home mom. Asher and I did a weekly mommy and me playgroup, and, observing his affinity for all things round and kickable, I signed him up for toddler soccer. My days were a rhythm of play time, nap time, mealtime, story time, and lots and lots of walks.
Although it took a while before I felt comfortable taking Asher on walks by myself. There were too many variables to keep track of—the stroller, the traffic, the dogs. For many months after Vox died it felt like a daily effort to avoid the undertow of paranoia that threatened to pull me from reality in any moment. I knew how quickly, and how badly, life could turn. Every time we stopped walking, I would check and recheck that the stroller brakes were on. I looped my hand through the safety strap and clung to it. I carried bear spray in case we encountered any aggressive dogs or bad guys. Inevitably, despite my caution and care, some horrific scene would occur to me: Asher, strapped into a runaway stroller, careening down a hill and over a ravine or into oncoming traffic. The scenes were like waking nightmares and I never knew when they would come. Every time they happened, I felt flooded with adrenaline, ready to vanquish any threat. But it was all in my head.
“Ma-ma, want to get out.” Asher’s voice would bring me back to reality. I was charmed by the way he enunciated his words so crisply. He fiddled with the seatbelt buckle with chubby fingers so adorable it made me ache.
One Saturday morning when Asher was around three, we were in the kitchen making plans for the day when Jack’s phone rang. It was his sister in Florida. Jack’s mom, who also lived in Florida, had been admitted to the hospital overnight. She’d fallen, likely due to a stroke. We agreed he needed to go. Jack flew out the next morning and went straight from the airport to the hospital, where he received the latest update on her condition. He called me with the news.
“They’re moving her to Hospice.” He sounded tired and resigned.
“Okay,” I said, choking up. I had known this day would come, but I loved my mother-in-law and hoped for more time with her. “When should we come?” I was ready to get on the next plane to Tampa.
“You don’t have to do that, honey,” Jack replied. “It’s okay. She’s resting comfortably.”
“But I want to see her before she dies. And I think Asher should see his grandma. We should say goodbye.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know I don’t. I want to!”
I couldn’t believe he didn’t realize how much I wanted to be there with her, and with him. I was not especially close to his mom because we had never lived in proximity to one another, but we had shared a mutual fondness since we’d met, and I thought very highly of her. She was elegant, sharp, funny, loving—many of the same qualities I admired in her son.
“Of course I want to be there with her,” I repeated. His resistance was confounding.
“Well, I don’t think we should put Asher through that. And it’s a lot for you to bring him all the way here by yourself. What would you do with the dogs?”
He must be in grief, I thought. He’s not thinking straight.
“I can figure it out, honey,” I told him. “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
We said goodnight. When we spoke the next day, I told him I’d worked out where the dogs could go. I wanted to bring Asher.
“No,” he said. There was no room for compromise in his tone. “It’s only immediate family. I don’t think you should come.”
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