The aftershocks continue.
The scabs have been ruthlessly peeled off the special scar and it has been prodded and poked. It was angry and raw, releasing toxins that causing a violent aching of the head, bilious retching and undamming a torrent of tears.
The suffering that my poor baby endured was known and not addressed, avoidable and not avoided. On the contrary, it was probably made worse by the medications he was put on. It all happened in front of my eyes but I could not see it. In fact I was so sick with worry that I couldn’t make sense of anything. I feel like such a fool for having placed so much trust in the people ‘looking after’ him.
The Coroner didn’t have to but she said, ”If Saagar’s loving parents bear any burden of not having done everything they could for him, they have no reason to.” I don’t think I will ever be convinced of this but it sounded pleasant to the ears.
My thoughts are not me. I need to once again get to the place where I am the ‘witness’ – of the thoughts, the feelings, the happenings, the entries and the exits on the stage where the drama of life is played out.
“Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate… but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins.” – Franz Kafka.