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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.