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.

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.

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.

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.

07/30/2013

   Our meeting with the minister of the United Methodist Church went even better than I had hoped . He was very kind and sensitive to our situation. Even though the service was to be in just two days, he took the time to get to know us, counsel us, and find out what kind of person Curtis had been before we got down to discussing the actual service. I thought this was pretty amazing considering that only once had we ever been to a service at his church, and we obviously were not members of his congregation. He was even accepting of the idea to share the officiating duties at the funeral with the minister of our home church. Everything seemed to fall into place including allowing the high school band to perform the music from their fall field show of which Curtis had been a part. It was called "A Day at Disneyland," which was a  perfect way, we felt, to honor our son, since he had actually performed this music with the band and Disneyland was one of his favorite places on earth. I left our meeting with the minister feeling much better about things. It seemed as though everything was now taken care of: the viewing, the funeral, the burial, all the music, the pallbearers, the eulogists, etc. We hoped there wasn't anyone we had neglected to notify. Still, with everything that had been going on, it all seemed so unreal to me. As things had turned out, we would not be able to actually see our son's body until the viewing service the following evening, I was extremely fearful that when that happened I would no longer be able to emotionally deny what was real, and it would all come crashing down on me at once. I did not want to fall apart in front of everyone. I very much felt that I needed to be strong for myself, for my wife, for my surviving children, for the rest of my family, for everyone. It's a guy thing. However, before I would have to face that challenge, we had another obstacle to stand up to the next day-the first of the three funerals for our lost children.

07/29/2013

   The visitation service for Curtis's friend (the other boy killed in the accident) was held at a local mortuary different from the one handling the arrangements for Curtis. As we entered the chapel, the first thing I noticed was the overwhelming scent of all the flower arrangements. The aroma took me back to those long-ago funeral services of my youth, when we lost so many family members within about a two year span, including my oldest brother. My wife was intercepted by some people she knew, so I went to find us some seats. I knew it was probably a completely unrealistic notion, but I really hoped that somehow I would not have to talk to anyone at the service. I just wanted to pay my respects to the family and get on to our appointment with the minister at the Methodist church. I was just about to be seated when a person from the boy's family came and greeted me with a big smile at her face. I remember thinking that her smile seemed to be very much out of place in the given situation. What she said to me, a grieving parent, seemed even less appropriate than her large grin.  "I just have so much joy and peace over this situation. I just know he's safe in the arms of the Lord!" I wanted to slug her. I had perceived myself to be a faithful child of the living God most of my life, but I was struggling to see anything joyous or peaceful in our current situation. Even if that was the way she honestly felt, I didn't feel it was appropriate of her to say that to me. (In the coming days and weeks, this person would prove on other occasions to be extremely insensitive and unthinking about what we were experiencing.)  I hoped there might someday come a time when I could look at our loss with something besides this incredible pain I was feeling, but if that were to happen I knew it was a long way down the road. I was ready to leave before we even sat down! I had to force myself to stay a respectful amount of time. After all, we were really there to pay our respects to one of our beloved son's dearest friends who had left this life at the same time as our son. It wasn't his fault that one of his relatives was talking like a fool. After a few minutes, we made our exit. That was the only time I felt a tiny bit grateful that we had promised the minister we would do our best to get to the appointment on time. We had yet more business to take care of.

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.