Friday, August 30, 2013

08/30/2013

   In some respects, the second Sunday of our new life without Curtis would prove to be one of the most challenging days yet. My mom and stepdad were up early. They would be going back home, so they could attend church that morning. For my mom, she needed to be back in worship surrounded by her longtime friends, many of whom were our friends as well from our years at the same church. For me, however, I was just beginning to sense a growing awareness of something very negative deep within me. This would be the first day since the accident that I would have time to ponder such things.
After my mom and stepdad left, I found myself alone downstairs in our house. There hadn't been many of these moments of isolation in recent days. In truth, I had been afraid to be alone, forced to ponder the unthinkable.  Everyone had gone home. I don't remember where my wife, son, or daughter were, but I distinctly remember an overwhelming feeling of utter aloneness enveloping me. I had never before felt such a complete sense of loneliness in my life. What now? All the hustle and bustle was over. All the things that had seemed so absolutely necessary were done. The people had all gone home, the flowers were beginning to wilt, the food beginning to spoil, the plants, cards, notes, letters, tributes, posters, stuffed animals, candles only serving as reminders of the horrible truth. The services all done, the children all buried side by side in the cemetery, together forever.  None of that had been able to return my son to me. I felt more lost and alone than ever before. How was I supposed to go on from all this?
What was the point? I suddenly had to acknowledge that the negative feeling that seemed to be growing stronger by the second was an overwhelming sense of betrayal. I felt forsaken by a God I'd prayed to on the very morning of the accident for divine protection over my family. Had He not heard or didn't He even care? These first moments of despair and doubt would linger to one degree or another
for several years before I would be able to come to grips with them. On this Sunday, however, what shook me out of my depression was gazing at photographs on our living room wall. They were photos of our children over the years. There wasn't much different about them from the types of pictures many families proudly display in their homes, and I'd certainly seen all of these photos before, but this time I seemed to be seeing them for the first time. As I stared at them, I looked into my children's beautiful, trusting eyes, and I realized that somehow, someway, I needed to find the strength to go on. I had to find ways to not just survive for myself, but for my wife, for my surviving son and daughter, and, yes, for Curtis himself. How could I let them down by falling apart? How could I let down all of our family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers who had been so supportive? On that afternoon, I felt like I was in the center of a black hole of grief where no light would ever again penetrate. What I had failed to realize was that it was only my perception of reality that was cloaked in darkness. I was so deeply grieving and in such tremendous pain that I hadn't acknowledged that the true reality was that we were bathed in the love and light of all those supportive people, and had been since the very moment of the accident. In time, we had to find ways to get through this ordeal (you don't get over it, as some people seem to think you should do after enough time goes by, however long that may be, but you do learn to live with a new reality) as a family. If we could not get through it together, how could we possibly hope to do so as isolated individuals? I didn't fully comprehend it at the time, but  that rainy, gloomy Sunday afternoon would mark a turning point in my journey. 

Monday, August 26, 2013

08/26/2013

   This second Saturday of our life without our son seemed to be something of a transition day. It was one of the first days since Curtis's death where we had no business to attend to. More of our house guests would be leaving. I had certainly appreciated all the love and support we had received in the last several days, the memories of which would help sustain me in the long, bleak days ahead, but by this day, I was definitely feeling in need of some space to begin dealing with all we had endured. At the same time, I was also fearful of what I might feel when I slowed down long enough to really think about what the future now held for us. One of our neighbors who was a police officer (not with our local police department) apparently felt it was important to meet with us all. He wanted to try to tell us from his experiences as a police officer what we might be facing when it came time to try to get justice for our children regarding the man who had caused the accident. We believed (naively, as we discovered) that when a man kills three children, intentionally or not, that there would be some kind of suitable penalty involved. Our neighbor tried to explain to us that this might not be the case. I had to give our neighbor credit. He knew that what he was saying would not sit well with any of us, but out of concern for all we'd already gone through, he wanted us to be prepared as we began our journey through the legal system. After all, he had years more experience in this area than any of the rest of us. Up to this point, I hadn't had much time or energy to even think about the man who had caused the accident. The only thing I'd done at one point during that terrible first week was get in my car, drive to his house, park in front and wait for him to appear. To this day, I don't really know what I was thinking except to say that I just wanted to see what someone who killed three children looked like. After a few minutes of waiting,  a car pulled into the driveway, and the man I assumed was responsible for Curtis's death got out of the passenger side of the car. In spite of my fragile emotional state, or perhaps even because of it, I just sat frozen in my seat. I didn't even have the energy to confront him. I would get a chance to do that many months later in the courtroom. Common sense prevailed even at this emotionally precarious moment in my life. I really didn't want to do anything that would add further trauma to my wife and children. (I would not even tell my wife about this incident until much later.) Besides, at that time I had yet to hear the my neighbor's discouraging words. I still thought then that
surely the legal system would provide us with justice. Wrong again.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

08/24/2013

   I know I keep saying that I don't remember much about certain aspects of that most horrible week of my life, but in this case I really don't remember much about the final funeral. That's not to imply that it wasn't important to me or that I'm downplaying the significance of the young girl's life and death. It was just that we had been through so much. Three funerals on three consecutive days at three different churches. Trips to the same cemetery on three consecutive days to bury our children.Viewing services. All the business arrangements that had been necessary. The emotional roller coaster ride we'd been on for days. Out of town guests, visitors, calls, mail, flowers. Could all this have really taken place across a span of only eight days? Could it really have been only a little over a week since the accident that stole our son away from us? With everything we'd had to deal with, I felt at least a hundred years older. I know I was physically present at the last of the funeral services. I remember at the time feeling that it was a beautiful way to celebrate and say goodbye to Curtis's friend, but if I was forced to try to recall any specific details, I would be hard-pressed to do so. I don't think I had any more room in my heart, mind or soul for any more emotions. I had spent so much energy in trying to cope with my son's death and all that that meant, I had nothing left at that time for anyone or anything else. I do remember feeling a little guilty that I wasn't fully present during the service. I felt like I was on automatic pilot. With the completion of this final funeral, and the last burial service at the cemetery, I'm sure many people probably thought that our hellish week was over. In fact, several people made comments to us to that effect. It was true that the week of funerals and burials was indeed now complete, but I don't think even we fully yet realized at the time a very horrible truth-our real hell was just beginning.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

08/20/2013

   Before leaving the cemetery to go to the reception at the high school, we said goodbye to my brother and his wife. They needed to head back home. When we got to the high school we were again amazed at what people had been doing for us behind the scenes. The food and drinks were all set up on the tables and several of the band booster parents were already helping serve the guests. We had yet more people to greet and thank for their support. I really don't remember much about that time, except that the reception served its purpose in that it allowed some people to pay their respects who hadn't been able to be at either the visitation or the funeral services. Eventually, it became time to head home, but we had another problem-the limo driver had dropped us off at the school-we had no way to get home. Of course, there was no shortage of people willing to help us. We loaded cars with the leftover pizza and sodas. Our local supermarket (the one I'd gone to just a couple of days after the accident when I felt I was about to lose my mind) had donated all the bottles of soda. A local pizza restaurant had donated all of the pizza, as well. We hadn't even had time or energy to realize just how much we had been enveloped by love and support from so many different segments of the community, but we had been lifted up by it all, nonetheless. Several people accompanied us to our home to make sure we were all ok. As they left us to go to their own homes, they all left carrying pizza and sodas. I felt a gaping emptiness deep inside as I pondered the reality of our new lives. Curtis was really gone and never coming home. I felt a horrible stab of panic as it suddenly dawned on me that by this time Curtis would have been lowered into the ground. He definitely was once and for all forever beyond my reach. My precious, beloved, beautiful son, whom I'd tried my best to guide and protect, was gone for good. I didn't know if I could bear to go on living if it meant facing that knowledge every moment of the rest of my life. I wasn't sure if I could live with the intense pain that had become part of every breath I took. The horror of our week was mostly complete now, but we did have one more funeral to attend. The last service for the three friends would take place the next morning. I needed to somehow find the strength to get through one more funeral.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

08/18/2013

   The traffic escort officers whom we had spoken to earlier assured us that they now had enough escorts to handle the number of cars in the procession. (We were informed later that the procession line stretched for more than a mile behind the hearse carrying our son's casket.)  As we started down the street, I remember thinking that we didn't seem to be taking a very direct line to the cemetery. As I looked out the window of the limo, I suddenly realized that the route we were taking would take us by the high school. I wondered why they were going that way. When we approached the school, I saw that the marquee in front of the campus had a message of condolence for us, and that the flag in front of the office was at half-staff. It was another sign of how much our son, and we, as well, were loved and respected. The procession arrived at the cemetery where we had been just the day before for the first of the burial services, and where we would be again the next day for the third and final burial service for the three children. I don't remember much about the cemetery service except when it came time for the final song. A friend of ours had arranged for someone she knew to bring a sound system to the cemetery so we could play the music. The song we had selected had already been a part of the funeral service music, but we wanted it to also be the last song we would ever play for Curtis. The song was "Forever Young" by Rod Stewart. As the music rose in the air, I remember sitting there in front of Curtis's casket, tears running down my cheeks, trying to sing along with Rod Stewart, as were many of the other people gathered around us. Over the years since that day, many people have told us that they think of Curtis whenever they hear that song. In my mind, that's a fitting, lasting tribute to our son.
When the song ended, the minister gave a last prayer, then spoke the words I'd been dreading to hear all day, "This concludes the services for Curtis here at the cemetery. The family invites you all to join them at the high school cafeteria for a time of fellowship. Thank you." That was it. Done. Concluded. Finished. Ended. Over. My son's time on this earth was now, once and for all, at an end. From now on he would exist only in people's memories, pictures and videos. People still wanted to greet and console us. My wife had already taken refuge back in the limo. I was torn between wanting to never leave my son (how could I let them put him into the ground forever?) and wanting to run away as fast as I could while screaming my lungs out in anguish. I knew I did not want to be present when Curtis's casket was
lowered into the ground. That part I could not bear to see. By now, I was convinced that my son was truly gone. I didn't need to wait for his casket to be lowered for me to believe that at last. The limo headed back to the high school where the reception awaited. I was still amazed that the administration at the high school had approved all of this for us: letting the band students out of class to perform at the funeral,  providing a bus for them, allowing any students and staff out of class who wanted to attend the funeral, putting the message on the marquee, flying the flag at half-staff, opening up the cafeteria to us so that other students and staff who had not been able to attend the services could still have a chance to pay their respects. It was all so overwhelming to us and so very much appreciated. Our son had certainly had a profound impact on the lives of so many people. I would take a large measure of comfort from that truth in the days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

Friday, August 16, 2013

08/16/2013

   As odd as it may sound to say, I felt that Curtis's funeral was what he would have liked. The sanctuary was full to overflowing with mourners (latecomers had to stand outside), all the people we had chosen to give eulogies for our son did remarkable jobs with wonderfully touching and humorous anecdotes, the comments of the ministers were heartfelt and honest, the music was perfect. None of us were able to speak ourselves, although the ministers read messages from my wife and I as well as those from Casey and Carly. One highlight of the service (if a funeral can be said to have highlights) was the performance by Curtis's friends from the band. It may have been due to the setting and situation, but to me those kids played their hearts out in honor of their fallen bandmate. I remember thinking that I didn't think I'd ever heard them play that music better, even through their field tournament season the previous fall, even though that was several months before. I was so proud of them and amazed at their strength. I doubt any of them had ever before performed at a funeral, and I doubt many of them, if any, have ever had to do such a thing since. When they were done playing, I did what my first instinct demanded me to do. My wife and I rose to our feet and applauded. We wanted to make sure that these special young people knew how much their presence and participation in our son's service meant to us. It said about as well as anything could what an impact our son had had on the lives of others. No one in the band that day had been forced in any way to attend. They were there to honor Curtis and support all of us in the best way they knew how. What a fantastic group of young people! (Many of these students are still in contact with us to this day.) I suppose that there were some in attendance that day who thought our reaction might have been inappropriate for a funeral service, but I didn't care. I was beyond caring what other people thought about how I was handling any part of my son's death. What I've always appreciated about our son's service was how free I felt to respond any way I felt I needed to. There was laughter and humor. There were crying and tears. There was solemn, spiritual music as well as more modern rock-influenced songs. There was a sense of celebration regarding what a wonderful legacy and lasting memories this 14-year old boy was leaving behind, but there was also the acknowledgment of the magnitude of our loss. As the service ended, some of the people who had not made it to the visitation service the evening before began to file past our seats. We had informed the funeral director that we didn't think we could stand a repeat of the previous evening's greeting line, so he was prepared and quickly stepped in and ushered us out a side door of the church and into a small room where we would be out of sight of the other mourners. He then returned to the sanctuary and informed the crowd that those who wished to be in the processional to the cemetery should go to their cars. When most of the sanctuary was clear we returned to view our son's body for the last time. Standing beside Curtis's casket and gazing down at his face, I realized with bitter finality that I would never again be able to see him in the flesh. I wanted so much for this not to be true. I would have gladly given up anything in this life if it would restore my son to me.  If I'd been given the choice, I would have traded places with him in a second. But all I could do was stand there helplessly, tears dimming my vision, my wife crying beside me. How could I leave him this way? I was supposed to protect him. I don't really remember how long we stood there, but at some point we moved away and headed for the door. Behind us, I heard them closing the lid of the casket for the last time. My son's body was now forever out of my  reach. I'd never be able to touch him again. There was only one thing left to do. We got in the car and began processing to the cemetery.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

08/15/2013

   It had been almost a full week since our son's death. I was finally faced with his funeral service. This was to be the last celebration of his life. Everything we had gone through in the past days had been pointing to this event. The accident, standing in the middle of the street wondering what had happened, the unnecessary trip to the hospital, learning the awful truth, the phone calls, visitors, flowers, food, cards, the mortuary, the cemetery, people coming in from out of town, the church, the memorial service, the visitation service, well-intentioned comments, the  unfathomable anger, the unbearable aching in my soul, the bitterness, the guilt all had been present because of the necessity of this event. I once again found myself emotionally conflicted between wanting the service to be done and over, so I would know I'd survived it, but at the same time realizing that when the funeral was over there would only be one thing left to do-the burial.
   When we  arrived at the church, there were again already many people present. Both ministers from the Methodist Church and our home church greeted us, assuring us that everything was prepared and the service should run smoothly. The bus carrying the band students was already parked alongside the sanctuary, and the students were busy getting ready for their part of the service. I remember thinking how wonderfully amazing it was that virtually all of the students in the band wanted to honor Curtis in the best way they knew how-by playing the same music of which he had been a part. One of the parents in the band booster group almost always videotaped all of the band's performances, and I noticed him setting up his gear at the back of the church. I wondered if he would be filming the entire service or just the band's performance, but before I could ask him my attention was diverted elsewhere.
Everything seemed to be ready as the time for the funeral service to begin drew nearer. Before I took my seat at the front of the sanctuary, I scanned the growing crowd of mourners. Of course, there were all of our family members, neighbors, friends, work colleagues, church friends, but there were also people we didn't really know who had heard of our tragedy and wanted to offer their support. There were the band students and many of their parents. There were many of Curtis's friends from his elementary and middle school years. There were his friends and teammates from his few months as a high school student. There were Casey's and Carly's friends there to support them. There were people from Curtis's doctors' offices. In fact, there were so many people, that just before the service began we were told by the funeral director that one of the traffic escort officers needed to speak to us. It seems that as people entered the church parking lot the officers asked if they would be going to the cemetery. There were so many people who wanted to attend the burial service that the officer said they were going to need more escorts. We had only planned on four. They estimated that they would need at least  twice that number. We were amazed and gratified that so many people wanted to support us on this most difficult day. The officer told us that they could get more help ready while the service was going on, but they needed our approval since we would have to pay extra for the additional officers. We gave our OK, and as I turned to go back into the church I thought to myself, "Curtis, you're going out like a rock star!"

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

08/13/2013

   I was surprised at myself the next morning when I awoke from a sound sleep. I was also a little upset.
What kind of dad sleeps through the night right before his son's funeral? I guess I felt as if I should have been up all night keeping a sort of vigil, but the emotional and physical burden of the week had finally caught up with me. I had felt such a powerful sense of relief when I first saw Curtis's body, and such a profound sense of gratitude for all the people who had come to support us at the visitation service that when I finally fell into bed that night I was totally exhausted. It also didn't help that I was still only able to eat enough to keep myself from collapsing into a puddle. As I sat up in bed and pondered just how I was supposed to survive what I firmly expected to be one of the worst days of my life, I was overcome by a wave of despair and hopelessness. Today was to be the last day I would ever see my son in his earthly body; the last day he would ever physically be a part of my life. There had to be some mistake! Things like this only happen to other families, not to us. There had to be a way to keep this funeral from happening. Maybe if I just refused to go to the service, that would mean it wasn't true after all. As I sat on the edge of my bed, wallowing in my misery, I heard my daughter's voice. Again, it was one of my surviving children that pulled me back from the cliff. I had forgotten for a moment what my wife and son and daughter were also facing today. I had to pull myself together for all of them, if not for myself.
   I got out of bed and began doing all of the things necessary to prepare myself for the coming ordeal. We were all bustling about. If this terrible event had to take place, I had to be there on time for my son.
We were just about ready to leave when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw the parent who had been driving the car on the night of the accident, along with his minister, standing on our front doorstep. We greeted each other warmly, but I was anxious about just exactly what they wanted at such a critical time for us. The parent expressed his sorrow, and said that they meant no disrespect to us or to Curtis, but that he and his wife didn't feel like they would be emotionally or physically able to attend Curtis's funeral. (They were still dealing with a lot more issues through all of this than even the rest of us since they'd actually been involved and injured in the accident itself. Besides, their daughter's service was to be the next day.) I assured them both that we would not take offense if they did not attend, but that we understood. I told them that we a had always appreciated how they had looked out for our son while he was alive as if he had been one of their own children. (That's how we had all operated in our neighborhood.)  By this time, everyone was ready to leave for the church. I again faced a drive during which I had very conflicting emotions. I was torn between wanting to get there as soon as possible so as to get all of this over with, and the nagging belief that if I never got to the church at all then the service would not occur and everything would go back to normal. Once more I was about to be slammed in the face with the harsh reality of our new normal. The church was all prepared for a funeral-the service for our beloved son.

Monday, August 12, 2013

08/12/2013

   Of course, Curtis would not be going home with us that night. He would never again see his home. He would never be in his room again, never race down the stairs, leap over the railing at the bottom and dash out the door. He would never again argue with or tease his brother or sister. We would never again hear his voice and laughter bouncing off the walls or feel his arms around us or kiss his beautiful face. Those things and a million more besides were forever taken from him and from us. Going into the future, all we had were the memories and videos of our years together as a complete family. We would never be that family again. The family we now had become would never be whole.
   These were some of the thoughts racing through my mind as we prepared to leave the chapel following Curtis's visitation. I felt emotionally drained and physically exhausted after the last mourners had finally made it through the line. One of the last people I remember greeting was a teaching colleague from my school. I had noticed him standing against the wall at the back of the chapel throughout most of the evening. I even wondered at one point why he wasn't coming forward so he could greet us and then be on his way. As we greeted each other now, he explained that he had waited because he had a box of food for us from the staff at school, and hadn't wanted to interrupt us while the service was going on. Up to that point, he and I just had a casual work relationship since we taught different grade levels, but it meant so much to me that he had been there that evening and had waited all that time out of respect for what we were going through. He said that he and his wife had been praying for all of us since they'd heard the news and would continue to do so. Even though I was already at odds with God myself, I appreciated all the people who were holding us up in prayer, especially since I didn't feel capable of praying for myself.
   Now that all the people had left the chapel except for family members, the full realization of what had happened to us began to dawn on me. I pushed it down again to a spot deep inside myself. I couldn't deal with all of that right now. As one family member reminded me that they would see us in the morning, I thought, "Why will they see us in the morning?" Oh, of course. Curtis's funeral would be the next day.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

08/08/2013

   Even with all the positive love and energy being radiated to us, I'm still not sure how I got through that evening. My wife and I stood near our son's casket as people began to file past to pay their respects and leave us a bit of the love they were carrying. After several minutes someone brought us chairs, but I found it harder to keep getting up and down than to just stay standing. I didn't feel it would be appropriate to stand and greet some people and not others. This was a Wednesday evening in the middle of February. I'm sure it had not been easy for some people to make it out to the visitation service, and I didn't want anyone to feel that we didn't appreciate their presence. As the evening wore on, we were told that the line of mourners stretched out the door of the chapel, down the sidewalk and around the corner. All I knew was that we ended up greeting people for about three hours.
   I don't remember very many details from that evening. Over the years, several times I've met people who tell me that they were there that night and talk about what they experienced from their point of view. They often comment on how strong we seemed and that they didn't think they'd be able to handle a situation like that. Again, I didn't feel strong. I almost felt like an actor on a stage just playing a role. In the midst of greeting so many people for so long, this all still did not seem real to me. In my mind I certainly knew the horrible truth that had brought all these people to us, but emotionally, I still had not had time to grasp the brutal reality. It still seemed to me that when this evening was over Curtis would be going back home with us where he belonged-the only place where he belonged.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

08/07/2013

   One of the most gut-wrenching moments of this entire experience came when Carly, our 10-year old daughter, approached her brother's casket. She had been a little rock through this whole ordeal. She had insisted on being a part of everything no matter what it was or how she was feeling at the moment. My wife and I were so caught up in our own emotions and all the details that had to be handled, that I'm afraid we sometimes momentarily lost sight of what our surviving children, Casey and Carly, were also experiencing-the loss of their brother. Carly, in particular, again insisted on being part of everything. She didn't want to miss anything about saying goodbye to her precious Curtis. She leaned over Curtis's casket, bent down and kissed his forehead. I was astonished that she had been able to do that. So many people shy away from any kind of physical contact with the deceased person as if death was contagious or a touch would somehow bring the person back to life or somehow desecrate their body. To Carly, this was just her beloved brother. She was not going to let him leave her without a kiss goodbye. I felt toward Carly what people had been saying about my wife and I, and would continue to say for many days and weeks to come-how strong we were. In fact, I would hear those words repeated many times over the next few hours as people filed by Curtis's casket to pay their respects. Strange, I didn't feel particularly strong at all, but if my 10-year daughter could behave that way during this most horrible time of her young life, how could I do any less? More people were beginning to arrive. I still had no idea how many people would be coming to support us and pay their respects to our dear son, but as the evening wore on, I found myself gaining strength from each person I greeted. I was not standing by the power of my own strength. It was as if the positive energy and love they all carried with them was being transferred to me. I don't think I could have endured the evening otherwise.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

08/06/2013

   Nothing I'd experienced in my life up to that point had prepared me for what I felt as I drew closer to my son's casket and finally gazed down upon his beautiful face. All my fears and apprehensions which I 'd been harboring for almost a week since Curtis's death seemed to just evaporate instantaneously. I'd expected to feel either absolutely nothing or feel the complete weight of his death bearing down on me at last, crushing me into a puddle of mush. Instead, what I actually felt was a tremendous sense of relief. Here at last was my beloved son. Here at last I could again see his face, touch his body, run my hands through his hair. Here at last I could speak to him face to face and tell him all the things I'd wanted to say since that terrible night. My son looked like my son. I know, I know. People always say something like, "He looks so good," or "Doesn't he look so natural?" or "He sure looks like himself," at times like this. So much of what made Curtis the amazing person he was, was in his eyes and his personality. Of course, these things were gone, but I had spent so much of the last six days fearing that the accident had left my son's body mangled and deformed, that to see him in what looked to be an almost pristine, peaceful state was a colossal relief to me. I now felt capable of enduring whatever the rest of the evening would bring. I never expected to have to stand near my son's casket for nearly the next three hours greeting all the many people who had come to pay their respects to my son and to us.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

08/01/2013


   It was getting closer to the time for us to go to the mortuary. The visitation was scheduled from 6-8, but they had told us we could come a little earlier if we wanted some time to ourselves with Curtis before they allowed anyone else in. I was getting more and more agitated as the time drew near. I was feeling very conflicted about the whole thing. I was fearful and anxious about seeing my son in that state, but at the same time, I felt like I needed to see him. I needed to know what he looked like. As crazy as it sounds, I needed to know he was "all right." The clock was ticking and people were still not all ready to go. I felt like I was going to lose my mind right then and there before we even got to the mortuary. Finally, everyone was ready to go. As we parked in the parking lot, I could see there were already other cars parked. I thought, "Oh, no. We're already too late." Sure enough as we walked inside the chapel, some of my wife's relatives came to greet us. and told us how "good" Curtis looked. I could suddenly feel the anger rising. I loved these people, but how dare they be the first ones to see my son? I'd just endured the worst six days of my life.
I wanted to see Curtis first. Didn't I deserve that much? Now, even that had been taken away. I couldn't speak out of fear that anything I said during those moments would be completely inappropriate and would take away from the real reason we were all there in the first place-to remember and honor my precious son. My wife and I held onto each other as we walked down the aisle to the front of the chapel where Curtis's casket awaited. I don't know that I'd ever before felt what I was feeling at that moment: dread, anticipation, fear, anxiety, despair, hope-all rolled into one package. Could I do this? After all this time, would I be able to look upon my son's body without losing what was left of my mind? I was about to find out.