Aleshia Jensen - Still Crying for Help

The way that we judge others and others judge us, we should hope to borrow their awareness and lend them ours.

Louis Joseph Mabire, Dictionnaire de maximes (1830)

Id avoided leaving Montreal those last months. But on that cold Sunday in April 2013, sitting in the Saint-Eustache arena, I watch my four-year old grand-daughter Mila glide across the ice at her very first figure skating performance, so small among the other young skaters in her group. My mind is only half there, as I anxiously try to will time to speed up.

We dont make it back to Montreal until around five that evening. I go straight upstairs to look for my eldest son, Ferid. When I dont find him, I figure hes resting downstairs in his basement suite. I go back outside to check, but his front door is locked. My daughter Jasmina, Milas mother, hasnt left yet. She flashes me a worried look and peers through the small window into his living room, then gives up. Maybe Ferid went for a walk, I think. Jasmina kisses me good-bye and heads home.

I go about things as usual, busying myself with supper for my two sons. But I cant focus. I go back outside as dusk is slowly setting in. If Ferid went to the store or for a walk, as he often does, hed have been home long before now.

Outside I squeeze under the landing to get near his bedroom window. The room is empty, pitch black. The bed is still made. Leaning against the mattress is a bag with the pillow he took with him two days earlier to spend the night at Jasminas in Deux-Montagnes. Ferid had agreed to go visit her, which was a first. Wed all had a nice, happy evening together. Early the next day, hed wanted to go back to Montreal. His face had been pale and he was trembling all over. I told him Id come with him, but he assured me it wasnt necessary. My daughters partner, Pablo, had driven him back. I knew he needed to rest, to have some time to himself. It was a miracle hed agreed to come with us in the first place.

I duck back out from under the landing. I can feel anxiety rise in my chest. My mind starts conjuring explanations, all sorts of scenarios. Hes out. Hell be home soon. He walked to Sherbrooke Street to pick up a few things, as he often does. Hes a grown man: sensible and cautious. I think back to the bag on the floor of his room: he hasnt used his pillow since he got back, that means. Maybe he slept upstairs? But it didnt look as though he had.

I go back down and knock on the door. Theres no movement, no lights on inside. My heart races. I go back upstairs, grab the spare key for the door out back, and fly down the stairs. I slam my body against his kitchen door, but it doesnt budge. I pull on the handle in vain. Terrified and imagining the worst, I try to break down the damn door. I had never imagined it to be so solid. I go back upstairs and call Majid, Ferids dad, and tell him that Ferid has locked himself in the basement, that he needs to get over here right away. Majid tells me not to panic, and I yell at him to hurry.

Thoughts assail meterrible thoughts. I hold my head in my hands and beg Allah to save me. I pace my bedroom, trying to bargain with God. Please, not this! Not this! Let me carry the burden, God. Anything but this! Everything fades and all I can focus on is this overwhelming thought that has lodged itself in my mind.

Majid comes over with a friend. The two men try to get the door to Ferids suite open, and it eventually gives way. Majid calls his sons name. He walks past the half-open bathroom door and cries out, Ferid, no! My blood goes cold. Im standing directly behind him. In a flash I catch sight of my son lying in the bathtub, his face serene and his eyes closed, asleep. His father kneels next to him, cradles Ferids head in his arms and speaks to him in a soft plaintive voice. I cant bring myself to get any closer. Maybe hes still breathing, I think. Is he still breathing?did I say those words aloud? Did Majid gesture or say something to me, or did I see it in his eyes? I back out of the room, howling like an animal in the night. My cries rise and fill the dark apartment. I double over, struck by the unnameable violence of death. In an instant, my life splits in two.

Outside I sank to the ground on the main-floor landing and stared into the dark, deserted street. I laid there in total shock for I dont know how long. Then I got up and called 911. I have no memory of what I said. The dispatcher couldnt understand me, so Adam, my younger son, grabbed the receiver and told the person on the line someone was dead, that they should send the police right away. Had he already then taken on the role of protector? Taking care to bring me to the couch, stroking my face and stemming the flow of lamentations with his sweetness. He nestled close to me while his father waited in the basement for the police officers to arrive.

Everything came rushing to the surface like lava. The entirety of my sons suffering which I had watched as a powerless mother expanded in my chest. The struggles, the dashed hopes, the tremendous effort it had taken to live one hour at a time, the pain hed pushed down to make himself as small as possible, as little of a burden as he couldall this flashed before me in overwhelming clarity. My eldest son is no longer there for me to take in my arms. I can no longer tell him how much I love him and that Im here for him. Id never be able to hold him in my arms again.

The police arrived first, then the paramedics, then the investigating officer. That irreversible action. The word we dont say aloud. The unimaginable. The thing we have to face, and its permanence. It was only the start of what would be a long night. I was angry at myself that I hadnt been home, that Id let my guard down, that I hadnt done enough for Ferid. Adam cried and hugged me, telling me, Ferids not suffering anymore, Mom Hes not suffering anymoreits all over, searching for solid ground to stand on so he could steady me too. The night was long and empty. I felt utterly alone.

Majids partner, Sara, arrived at the house. It was thanks to her that I didnt end up completely dehydrated. I had cried out all the water in my body. In that moment, I thanked God for giving humans the gift of tears to heal our wounds. We turned on the computer and put on the Holy Quran. The recitation of the verses reminding Man of the need to accept his impermanence in order to reach an eternal afterlife free of suffering produced a spiritual effect that, at times, managed to calm me. Pain gradually took over my body, carving out a space inside mea deep chasm that Id carry with me for a long time.