07/28/2013

   Tuesday morning dawned-no miracle in sight. I had a long-scheduled appointment with my cardiologist for my six-month check-up. Emotionally I didn't feel like doing anything that would seem like part of a regular routine. To me, that was almost like admitting that my son was really gone, if I started doing things unrelated to his death. The only other time since his death I'd tried doing something normal was when I practically had a meltdown in the supermarket. My brother said he would go with me if I wanted some company. He would even drive if I needed him to. I figured I had better go see what kind of physical condition I was in, since I felt as if I was in danger of falling apart at any second. Besides, I told myself, at least it would use up some time before we had to go to the first visitation service tonight, then to our appointment at the United Methodist church to meet with their minister to discuss more details about Curtis's funeral service. Today was also the day that the coroner's office would be releasing our son's body to the mortuary. Finally! We wouldn't be able to see Curtis's body until the next day at his visitation service, but at least he would no longer be in that horrible coroner's office. It also meant that we needed to take the clothes in which he would be buried to the mortuary. We had decided, and received permission from the staff at the high school, to bury our son in the sweatsuit he wore as a part of the school basketball program. 

   I don't remember much about our drive to the doctor's. My brother was wise enough to realize that it wasn't necessary to say much of anything. What was there actually to be said? There were no words that could comfort me, and when people had tried over the last few days they usually only succeeded in making me angry with their useless, unwanted platitudes. I was enraged at first by how insensitive people could be and by the mindless words that came out of their mouths. On more than one occasion I had to get up and go outside to keep from exploding. How could they say such things: he's in a better place? God must have needed him in heaven? he's happy now in heaven? at least you don't have to worry about him anymore? his time on earth was done? God never gives us more to bear than we're able to handle? Really! Over time, I realized that such things were spoken out of ignorance and not malice. People simply don't know what to say in this situation, but feel they have to somehow try to justify to us (but mostly to themselves) how a tragedy of this magnitude could happen to people like us.

There's a fear that if something this horrible happened in our lives, it could happen in their lives, too.

That's a deeply unsettling realization for most people to even have to contemplate, let alone actually have to try to live through. Anyway, my brother seemed to grasp the fact that his presence with me at this time was what was most important and helpful to me. People would do well to remember this. I know we talked more about the details of the accident itself since my brother had not yet heard all that we knew. It actually seemed to bring me some small measure of comfort to share these things with him.

   At the doctor's office, my doctor was concerned about my elevated blood pressure and wanted to know if I thought their might be any particular reason for this. I told him what had happened.  He expressed his condolences. His first question was, "Why are you here?"  He then asked if I thought I might need a light medication to help  me through this time. I'm not one to take medications without a good reason, but I thought it might be a good idea to have something available if I found myself unable to function at some point. (There were still so many things we needed to do.) All of the doctor's office staff hugged me before I left and said to please let them know if they could help us in any way. That kind of support was always appreciated. When we got back to the house I found out that there were still plants and flower arrangements arriving, more food, more phone calls, more people stopping by, and a mailbox full of notes and cards. My wife and I found a few minutes to ourselves so we could discuss the last details of what we wanted for Curtis's funeral. We wanted to be able to speak plainly when we met with the minister that evening. We also needed to check-in with each other on how we were both coping with all that was swirling around us. I felt like I was in the center of a bombed-out building in some war zone with destruction all around us. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. Soon, we would have to begin searching through the rubble of our lives for what could be salvaged and what had to be left behind. That would take time and energy that we did not possess right now. Right now we had to steel ourselves to try to continue walking through this terrible week, starting with the first visitation service for Curtis's friend.