2. The things of it: artifacts

In medical electrophysiological monitoring, artifacts are anomalous (interfering signals) that originate from some source other than the electrophysiological structure being studied. These artifact signals may stem from, but are not limited to: light sources; monitoring equipment issues; utility frequency (50 Hz and 60 Hz); or undesired electrophysiological signals such as MG presenting on an EEG-, EP-, ECG-, or EOG- signal. Offending artifacts may obscure, distort, or completely misrepresent the true underlying electrophysiological signal sought. (wikipedia, emphasis mine.)

You lived in me while I worked in the Cardiac Critical Care Unit. We saw heart signals on monitors confused by muscles moving, by the acts of living-artifact. At our doctor, I saw your heart beating, I heard your heart beating. In blue and red we saw the chambers, the blood flow, just a week before you died. I saw the still chamber of ribs after your heart stopped. My heart stopped too.

Artifacts:

1. Your body. Your robust 8lb 20 inch body is now ashes in a safety deposit box. I held you, vaguely. I was in the wordly ether, you were in the otherworldy ether. You were cold. You had blood pooling in your cheeks and extremities. But. You were perfect. Nothing amiss but the absence of life. Your chin: the same chin as your brother, modified from your father and my father. This is the essence of continuity. This is deepest pain, the sharpest pang. Your lips turned purple and we returned you/not you to the nurse. I didn’t kiss you goodbye. I’m sorry.

2. The photos. I hold you. Your Baba holds you. Your Mimama holds you. Your Cucu holds you. You are wearing a blue hat. Today I made myself look at them. I want inoculation to your face and fingers. I want to one day see them and just love you with peace.

3. The late ultrasound pictures. The last time I saw you alive. You were big, you moved, you did all the right things to show you were vital. And yet, the pictures show already a stillness. A premonition.

4. A box, a bag. An eagle scout project from an older brother, a grieving stillborn mother’s gift. Containers, placeholders. I opened the box today, held the blanket that last held you/not you.

5. Your footprints and the hair. The last record and real piece of you. In a bag, I can’t touch it yet. Still wet with amniotic fluid. It will never grow back.

What to make of the things. The dates, death and due, non-anniversaries, non-milestones. I don’t want to hold on to them. I am plagued by nostalgia anyway, for small things. My tiny tea set I would have given you if you had been a girl, or a careful boy. The small socks. The blue hat, the blanket. This rule follower is torn: the grief process, making memories, keeping vigil. But I can’t make totems. My world would be unnavigable from sorrow or avoidance. I imagine shipwreck in that world. I want our relationship unmediated by artifacts. I want a clear channel to you, to the light where you might be.