A Liminal Space

By Pat Gallagher

Where am I now?  Nowhere. Not there nor here. Grief is like that.

The first week is the hardest. Shocked, numb, you stumble from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day. Suspended in time. Others speak to me; I try to smile and nod. A minute later I cannot remember what they said. I am hard-pressed to remember their name. The effort exhausts me. This is not like me; this is not how it used to be. Before. 

Before I saw your phone blink on in the middle of the night. Before my granddaughter Valeria texts from my son’s home in Italy: Today he is worse. He has difficulty breathing and doesn’t respond much. 

Before the phone call a few hours later from her brother Riccardo– as I prepare to board the Lufthansa flight: “Hi Nonna, I’m sorry to tell you: Papa didn’t make it. He knew you were coming. It was very peaceful.”

Photo by Ben Kopman

The words shatter me.

How can it be? I just talked with him yesterday. For the past few weeks my son and I have exchanged brief texts. The side effects of the anti-angiogenesis drugs produced mouth lesions that interfered with his ability to eat and to speak; the relentless hacking cough sapped him of the energy required. So, when I saw his name on the incoming video call I was delighted, expecting news that he is improving. I calculate over and over again the hours separating us. A 9-hour time difference.  It is evening there. Riccardo has placed the call for him. On my iPhone screen I see him, my son, his Papá, lying in bed pale and restless. He is much sicker than I’d been led to believe. He is nearly unrecognizable. “Hi Mom”. And he waves at the screen. We exchange a few words. He tells me- with some effort- “When they (the doctors) know what they’ll do next, I’ll call you”. 

Less than 24 hours later Riccardo makes the second call. I howl. The sound rises from deep inside. “My baby…” I wail. …”my baby”.

I know only one thing. I must go. Immediately. 

I travel alone. I am in a daze navigating the airport, looking for the gate. Anxious and weary I forgo the Lufthansa lounge. I’ve not slept since the text from Valeria at 2 am.  I’ve not traveled since I fell and broke my ankle and foot six months ago. I walk slowly, mindfully, down the concourse. “…Papa didn’t make it.”  So fast; it happened so fast. My first-born child is no more. I think of them all, his wife ‘Rari’, their grown children Valeria, Riccardo, Davide surrounding him with love, as he crosses over beyond reach into another dimension.  

I board the plane. I cannot yet let go. I am no longer here and not yet there. It will be weeks before I can speak about him without weeping. I am learning to carry the grief. So it goes.

Photo by Nancy Rubin

Pat Gallagher
Born in 1940