That’s when I hear them arguing over by their hole.
Ivan wants to talk about what he will do when he is twelve, and Miles is reminding him that he might not live to be twelve. After all, “Silvan didn’t.”
“Yesss…” Ivan shouts with four-year-old vehemence.
“But you can’t know for sure,” Miles says smugly, “right Mommy?”
“That’s true,” I say, “but…”
“I know,” Ivan interrupts, “but I just want to tell you what I’m going to do.”
“Okay,” Miles gives in, and they begin to talk about their future without any reassurance from me until Ivan reminds Miles that I may not live into that future. Now Miles is upset. As I hesitate behind them, trying to find a balance between hope and truth, Ivan says, “One thing you can know for sure is that she’s still alive right now.”
“Now that is true,” I say, and they turn to beam at me.
As I beam back, I know something else for sure. Love outlasts grief. Though we can’t say for certain we made the right choice for Silvan, our love for him has survived. It is alive this very minute. How lucky I feel. And how full of hope. For I feel it now, hope fluttering up. David comes out of the house to join us then, and for a single, golden moment in late September I have nothing more to wish for. How strange hope is. Promising nothing but still making sense, it hovers here as all around us red and yellow leaves flame in the lowering sun. Strung between plants, fat spiders wait in the gilded bull’s-eyes of their webs. David spots a fly, gauze-wrapped and still. The web trembles. “Look,” he calls to our boys. As we gather around to look, the last of the light reaches through the trees. It sparks off leaves, off a length of spider silk stretched from one end of the yard to the other; it coats our arms and the spaces between us, suspending us in its amber light, linking leaf to arm, and past to present to future. And so we stand here, held in this moment together.
Acknowledgments
MY GRATITUDE GOES FIRST TO ALL WHO HELPED US HOLD Silvan in life. This includes the amazing Dr. A, Nurse Kerry and the rest of the hospital staff, as well as the family, friends, neighbors, acquaintances and even strangers who became part of his brief life. You know who you are. We did not parent alone and we are deeply grateful for it.
Nor did I parent this book alone. Going as far back as high school and college, I am grateful for my teachers Ann Cromey and Lena Lenček; and later, for the support of established writers: Michael Cunningham, Tobias Wolff, Al Young, Louis B. Jones, Lynn Freed. I am grateful to Micheline Marcom for urging me to keep a diary about Silvan, to Susie Davis and Holly Fleming for knowing it was time to turn those pages into a book, and to Eve Müller whose insight shaped not only this book but the very way I think. I am indebted to Sylvia Brownrigg, brave mother herself, who generously agreed to read the first draft. And to Ayelet Waldman who sought that first draft out – without your swift mind and big heart, this book might never have been published. To the members of my writing group, especially Lindsey Crittenden and Audrey Ferber, who challenged every whining, bitter word, forcing me to become a better person through my prose. For help in ethical research, I thank Rich Gula. For medical expertise, Michael Singer. For general support, more friends than I can list but especially Eliza Patten, Julia Scheeres, Jenny Pritchett, Laleh Khadivi, Margie Ryan, and Teresa Sharpe.
Of course, all this would mean little without my agent, Mary Evans, who had such faith. As I said when you took me on, if you were the only person ever to be changed by this book, that would have been enough; but how much better that you fiercely believed everyone should have a chance to read it. Thank you. Likewise, to my intrepid editor Rhonda Hughes and to everyone at Hawthorne Books. You all treated my story with respect and compassion, but also with the wisdom of good publishers. Thank you also to Erica Jong who graciously agreed to introduce me to the world.
Finally, I could not have written this book without the support of my family: my parents, my parents-in-law, my brothers and sister, my brothers-and-sisters-in-law. Your warm reception of the book alone has made the project worthwhile. How lucky I am for all of you. And how lucky I am for my children. Miles and Ivan, thank you for your tender interest in your absent brother and for your acceptance that I share my love for you with him. Last but not least, I’m grateful to David with whom I lived this story. Loyal and loving throughout Silvan’s life, you have remained steadfast in the birth of this book, debating with bright and fearless honesty, improving what I did not think could be improved. Because of you, Silvan will be remembered well.
Copyright ©2013
Monica Wesolowska
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage-and-retrieval systems, without prior permission in writing from the Publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wesolowska, Monica, 1965 – Holding Silvan : a brief life / by Monica Wesolowska.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-986-00072-0
1. Wesolowska, Monica, 1965 –—Diaries.
2. Mothers – United States – Diaries.
3. Authors – United States – Family relationships.
4. Newborn infants – Death.
5. Cerebrovascular disease in children.
6. Parental grief.
I. Title.
HQ759.W446A3 2013
362.83’9530922 – dc23
[B]
2012009392
Though this book is based on notes taken during and immediately after the events described, the names and characteristics of some individuals have subsequently been changed to preserve their privacy.
“You Are My Sunshine” by Jimmie
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International Corporation.
Copyright Renewed. International
Copyright secured. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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