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.