07/31/2013

   One piece of information from our meeting with the minister that I forgot to mention in yesterday's entry was that the band director at the high school had, at one time, been the choir director at the Methodist church. This meant he was very familiar with the church sanctuary and knew exactly how he would have the band set-up for their part of the service. It seemed to be another sign that everything was coming together properly for Curtis's service. If this was to truly be the last thing we could ever do for our son (no graduations, no wedding, no more birthday parties) then we wanted everything to be done with class and grace and in a manner befitting our son's life and memory.
   The first of the three funerals was to be held on this day at a nearby church that we had never before been to, and have not been back to since. I don't remember many details about the service for Curtis's friend except that the church was full of mourners, there were lots of flowers, lots of music, a message from a minister, lots of tears and some laughter as well. We went to the service to be supportive of another family who was experiencing the same loss as were we, but I did not find comfort. I was just too focused on my own pain and anxiety. Mostly, I could only think about our own loss and what it was going to mean for my family. We had lost our son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin, friend, classmate, teammate, neighbor. How were we supposed to survive that? So far, the shock of this loss, and the sheer amount of things we had been busy taking care of had insulated me from the reality of our  situation. Now that the services had begun, it was becoming impossible to deny the truth any longer.
After this first funeral was over, again someone from the family came up behind where we were sitting, put his arms around me and said, "Wasn't that a wonderfully uplifting service?" All I could do was mumble an affirmation of some kind. I understand that funerals can be inspiring and celebratory depending on your beliefs about what happens in the afterlife, but I was not yet ready to celebrate my son being ripped away from me without my permission. As far as I was concerned, God had given me the blessed responsibility of raising Curtis as my son. I was angry that I was not being allowed to finish that job, and the truth of that situation was about to become appallingly apparent for all to see. The viewing service for Curtis was to be that evening at the mortuary chapel. At last, I would be able to see my son for the first time in almost a week. I had never gone this long without seeing Curtis since the second he was born. Would I even be able to handle seeing him lying like that in a casket? I would soon find out.