Season of the Nightingale—a memoir

Author: dinamulombo

  • “Season of the Nightingale”-a memoir

    For those who have suffered the loss of a child. A story exploring the dynamics of mental illness, suicide, hope and recovery.

    Preface

    This book is not really a narrative about my son. Although his presence reveals itself over and over again. It is the story of a mother struggling with a loss so profound it feels palpable. It assumes a persons of its own. It is the creature from Hell. It rips and tears and leaves you dumbfounded and broken.

    Your reality splinters into a myriad of pieces and influences fragments of your life you never knew existed. Reassembling this shattered reality seems unattainable, because this journey is dark. It is brutal. It is harrowing.

    It is tempting to embrace the dark. Figuratively and literally. Figuratively, our minds are tormented with the darkest thoughts, regrets and memories. Literally, we find ourselves seeking refuge in dark rooms with doors shut and curtains drawn.

    I’m publishing this memoir for the mothers, fathers and family members who have suffered the loss of a child. This loss defies all that is humane and good in this world. It is beyond comprehension and there is no known equation where the common factors produce a logical answer. We are reduced to seeking out our own answers.

    This book does not claim to hold such answers. We are our own individuals with our own unique set of factors. Yet I’m hoping that you might find the various journal entries relatable to some of your own experiences. And that you may come to the realization that during the hundreds of hours that you have felt lonely that you were not actually alone. There are others who are navigating this agonizing journey. It is unfortunately a well trodden path.

    The journal portion of this memoir is raw and unedited. As tempted as I was to edit portions of it, I did not. It expresses unbearable grief and hopelessness, but its pages also contain hope and exclusive insight. As unfathomable as this journey presents itself, we have no recourse but to navigate through.

    Another objective for writing this book is for the individuals who have not suffered a loss but are intimately acquainted with someone who has. Perhaps it will illicit insight into the immense struggle the loved one is experiencing. It may help them garner the compassion and tools they need to succor, love and support the individual.

    There exists no quantifiable timetable for grieving. There is a well known adage-“Time heals all wounds”. There is truth and fallacy in this statement. Intellectually, our finite knowledge of what entails recovery is learned and we attempt to process the loss.

    Healing, however, resides beyond the parameters of time. It is almost never complete. I wept almost every day for several years. The last few years my tears have lessened in frequency. Smiles and laughter slowly feel more authentic. Gratitude takes on a new perspective. The mind is not as much consumed with what one has lost, but with the blessings one presently has. There are still days I sob incessantly. As time progresses, life begins to assume a persona of normalcy. Perhaps this is what constitutes healing. It does constitute progress.

    I spent several years defining the title of this book. The name “Nightingale” kept resonating with me. I only knew of it as a bird that sings at night-until I did a little research. Serendipity is a term I use very infrequently but I thought it quite applicable to this situation. It all fell into place. Quickly and decisively I selected a title: “Season of the Nightingale”.

    The nightingale’s song is noted for its impressive range. It is often loud and unmistakable with its accompanying whistles, trills and gurgles. The nightingale primarily sings at night and is heard most often during the spring and summer months.

    In English literature, the nightingale’s song symbolizes the coming of spring and rebirth. In Homer’s poem, “The Odyssey “, for example, Homer describes a nightingale singing in the woods “when springtime has just begun”*(19.519). The ushering in of spring denotes new growth. We witness it in the fresh blades of grass which shoot through the moist soil. Or tender leaves sprouting on the fig tree.

    In the context of this preface, growth metaphorically symbolizes the beginnings of recovery. As spring slowly restores the rosebush to its effluent blossoms and vibrant colors, in likeness a restorative healing of our own spirits can begin. As there is no quantifiable timetable for grieving, similarly there is no quantifiable timetable for healing. It is in reality a continuous process. For me, the journey has been ongoing for ten years.

    Some days the nightingale is silent for me. Other days I hear its definitive song. I emphatically embrace these days and declare myself victorious.

  • “Season of the Nightingale” a memoir— For those who have suffered the loss of a child.

    A memoir exploring the dynamics of mental illness, suicide, hope and recovery.

    Separation

    I possess a vivid image in my mind of Usman lounging in an enormous white wooden gazebo. He is perched on a large elevated chair. The chair is ornate and appears to be constructed of mahogany wood. It has carvings of vines and leaves in gold inlay on its surface. His legs do not completely reach the floor and they are dangling back and forth. Ivory voile curtains are draped within the inside of the gazebo. They flutter slightly as if possessed by a slight breeze.

    It is day and tremendously bright with tinges of yellow and orange on the horizon. The faint presence of a white round moon is pressed flush up against the blueness of the sky. The image appears washed out like a painting done with water colors.

    Usman proceeds to carefully ease his body from the chair until his feet touch the floor. He descends the three steps from the gazebo to the ground where I am positioned a short distance away. He looks at me ands he is smiling wide. His pink lips pressed snug against his teeth. They are like white corn nuggets in a neat row.

    He is wearing a loose fitting white linen top that is partially unbuttoned at the top. His pants consist of the same fabric and are open wide at the bottom of the legs. His feet are bare. His chest and ankles carry a profusion of fine hair. It is not the body of my 20 year old Usman but that of a grown man. He speaks to me. He calls me “Mama”.

    “Mama, I am exquisitely content.” He says. My eyes are stinging and are wet but I nod my head up and down slowly in acquiescence.

    “I know baby.” I reply

    “Thank you for understanding Mama”. He tells me.

    “I love you Usman.” I express myself with urgency this time. My arms are stretched out wide. It is a final desperate gesture indicating I wish to embrace him but he remains planted where he is standing. It is not time.

    “I know Mama, I love you too.” He is still smiling. Usman’s image begins to dissipate until he too appears washed out like the yellow and blue sky. And then he is gone.

  • For those who have suffered the loss of a child.

    For those who have suffered the loss of a child.

    My personal story exploring the dynamics of mental illness, suicide, hope and recovery. By Dina Mulombo

    On my son’s 21st birthday I picked out his coffin. It was copper colored and it was not extravagant but it was better than a white pine box. Earlier that day I was tasked with having to see his dead body on a metal slab and the unthinkable prospect of kissing his bruised face goodbye for the last time.

    This is a narrative of a mother and her child, and the transcendent quality of their relationship. But mostly, it is the story of a woman struggling with a new truth that alters her very existence.

    My story is partly told through a series of journal entries. It is prefaced with my own interpretation of loss, grief, recovery and the objective behind the book itself. This is a portrayal of the human condition in its deepest abyss. It is also a story of personal insight, hope, and the fervent conviction that life exists beyond the parameters of mortality.

    The final journal entry exemplifies the gradation from grieving, healing and finally recovery. Recovery is signified by the capacity to hear and recognize the song of the nightingale. As the nightingale represents new birth and infinite growth.

    The story generalizers across age, gender, nationality and social status. For losing a child, a loved one, or knowing an individual who has lost a child is relatable to all on some level.