The Family Room

White clouds, impossibly high

Yesterday I joined Vicki and Cliff at the memorial of their son Evan. They were fierce and loving and dignified under circumstances that no parent should ever have to bear. I cannot conceive of what the past few days have been like for them, nor what the future will hold. Only this: I hope that the emotion that charged our little chapel today will warm them when they most need it.

Imagine this: halfway through the service, we heard a rumble and the windows started shaking: a magnitude 5.4 earthquake centered not far away. There was a brief pause while a few people left the room to try to call loved ones, but Evan's Pre-K teacher continued with barely a missed beat as the light fixtures swayed overhead. After her, many more, all with stories to tell, all undeterred by the small matter of a few shifting tectonic plates.

Such was the power in that room: Evan so moved people that it seemed he had the power to move the earth as well.

Today would have been Evan's eighth birthday, which he shared with his twin sister Ellie. I am sending a kiss and a prayer out to the universe for those beautiful, strong children, who spent so little time in this world but left their mark in ways that none of us can yet fully comprehend..

A handful of words

Nothing feels right. Silence seems wrong, a retreat, while words are jarring.

It was only nine days ago that V. and I sat at dinner, the amber glow of the honey-paneled wall framing her face. We ate lemongrass chicken and vegetables and talked until we were both exhausted. I felt I'd known her forever.

Then Thursday morning, the shattering news.

That night after work, I stood at the corner by my office, numb, chilled by the wind, hoping to hail a cab. A couple of young guys approached me, smelling of several-too-many margaritas.

"Can we share with you?" they asked, and I unthinkingly said yes. Their energy, raw and exuberant, felt right somehow. In the cab, they chatted and thanked me sweetly, if somewhat drunkenly, when we reached their stop. The driver looked ahead, silently listening to a Koran sura, harsh and so very beautiful, as we made our way up the hill toward home.

For E.

I cannot think of the right words to say. There are no right words to say.

Evan, I wish you peace.

In lieu of flowers, please send contributions to:
The Pediatric Epilepsy Fund at UCLA
Division of Pediatric Neurology
Mattel Children's Hospital at UCLA
David Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA
22-474 MDCC
10833 Le Conte Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90095-1752

Evan Kamida
July 30, 2000 – July 24, 2008

With love.