Grave Matters

I got a letter today from the cemetery. It pointed out that we are approaching the one year mark of the burial but have yet to erect a gravestone for Jack. If we do not have one by the year mark, the cemetery will place a plain flat marker there for us, for a fee.

Margaret, too, has noted that we haven't yet taken care of this detail. I'm sure to her it seems as if we just can't get our crap together to mark where Jack's ashes are buried. And getting our crap together has been difficult. I have much less energy and gumption than before. Tim is plodding along doing what he needs to do and has also been picking up my slack-- paying the bills I used to pay, cooking dinner, and making runs to he store.

But something "extra" like trying to figure out how to capture what Jack was like on a slab of granite? Has seemed like far too much for either of us. I've been telling people we are following the Jewish tradition of waiting one year, not because we are Jewish, but because I haven't been able to face it yet.

Of course I think deep down I am just morally opposed to any parent having to commemorate the spot where her child is buried, because I don't think moms should have to bury their children. Ever. So Jack's blank grave is, in a way, my silent protest.

Not that mothers haven't been doing this since the beginning of time, placing rocks or crude wooden crosses on top of tiny mounds of dirt all around the world-- if they were fortunate enough to know their chidrens' resting places. In fact, many bereaved mothers have not had the opportunity that I have. They've had to leave their children behind on a wagon trail, in a concentration camp, a jungle, or a desert, with no chance to mark or revisit the spot. I am fortunate that the cemetery is in my town, and that the small, wooden box of ashes, along with 3 tiny lego pieces, is buried right next to my mom.

When, as a teen, I used to drive her old minivan to the cemetery in the dying light, startling the deer in my headlights, I would walk over to her grave. Sometimes I would cry. Other times I would just pat the stone, look around a little, get back in her/my car, and drive away. But even at dusk, I could see that some graves were unmarked, save the little tin and plastic nameplates from the funeral parlors. Many were several years old. This must have been long before the 1-year rule was adopted. I felt sorry for those people. They seemed so neglected. I figured their families were too poor to buy a stone or had forgotten about their loved ones completely.

Now I realize that cemeteries are different for different people. My grandparents take great solace in visiting my uncle, their beloved son, at the cemetery where he is buried. They have planted lovely flowers there and made it a special place to visit.

I went to my mom's cemetery, infrequently and always alone, speaking into my soul about how hard it was to be without her.

And Jack's grave? Will eventually have some sort of stone. I want to have a place people can go to pay their respects. Where it can be what it needs to be for them. I'm thinking of seeing if a stone bench will fit, instead of a headstone, so I can continue my protest (in a small way) yet provide a place for people to sit, pray, laugh, or cry.

I'll update you when (and if) we make any progress.

But the whole process seems paralyzing and leaves me with questions:

How do you capture the sparkle in an eye? A contagious laugh? Wit? Wisdom? A pat on a sister's back? How do you show a love of logic and math coupled with words, words, and more words? An introvert? A leader? The world's softest cheek?

Can we truly convey the essence of someone who touched so many lives in 12 years, but should have had about 71 more to do it in?

No. Of course not.

I guess sometimes those little tin and plastic markers really say a lot.

Don't Throw Your Trash in My Backyard

I was out in my yard today when a wayward piece of wrapping paper blew by. It was not a pattern I recognized. Annoyance flared up at having to pick up someone else's trash. A little thing, I know, but this is one day after mysterious tire tracks appeared going straight down the length of our front yard. In the middle. Between the trees. Not anywhere near the driveway. Weird and annoying.

I started thinking about having to clean up other people's crap, and why it annoys me so much. I mean, as mothers, isn't that pretty much what we do-- move piles of stuff from one place to another, day after day, year after year? I guess it doesn't bother me as much if it's my own family's crap, you know?

For there have been many times in this journey of parenting that I've felt the residue of other people's crap linger on my family. You know-- the tough issues, the drama, the complications that we would not have to face if we just chose to live an insular life. And as I look over the strange direction our lives have taken, with Jack's death, it is easy for me to say, "If only..." If only we had kept more to ourselves-- circled the wagons so to speak-- perhaps we could have kept the awkward, the uncomfortable, and finally the tragic from entering our lives. If we hadn't opened ourselves up to others, if we hadn't given our kids a growing sense of freedom, if only, if only...

This is the point in the post where we all say, "But of course we can't raise kids in a bubble!" It's one thing to try to be the family who bucks the tide against violent video games; it's another to isolate children and keep them from interacting with others and experiencing life." You know-- We are the world, Kum ba yah, carpe diem, hakuna matata and all that stuff.

But truly, it's hard to think in those terms when I yearn for a fantasy in which the 4 of us, the dog, and maybe even the hamster run away to some ice floe in Antarctica-- completely alone, yet together, and blissfully free from the tinge of other people's crap. Of course I would be cold, and extreme changes in body temperature do not a happy Anna make. And the kids would hate us, and there would be no internet or friends and we would be ruining their lives. And Tim would want to get frisky but can he not see that I have the damn igloo to keep clean and that 24 hours straight of light or darkness or whatever messes with my libido?

The more I think about it, however, the more I realize that, in reality, our crap is all over your backyard now. You never asked to be part of this tragedy. To have to explain to your kids that, yes, children do die. Maybe your child is one of Jack's classmates, a tender 12 year old who is trying to figure out how the clever boy who entertained the classs for more than 6 years could be sitting there one day, yet gone next. That cannot be easy.

Maybe you are trying to figure out how to regain a feeling of security and safety after yours has been rocked. "If something like this happened to them, what could happen to us?" Maybe your husband, after weeks of sympathizing is saying, "It's okay to feel bad for someone, but you are taking this grief thing too far. You have your own family to worry about." Maybe we have been friends for years and you want the old Anna back, or you feel helpless in the face of such a huge loss. Maybe you found Jack annoying and don't know what to do with those feelings, or you found him delightful and don't know why your own boy keeps screwing around when at least he gets to live, damn it!

Maybe you are trying to figure out why the life and death of a child you never met, perhaps on the other side of the world, wakes you up at night, or drives you to your knees in prayer. Is this normal? How long will this last? Maybe you are having sympathy fatigue and wishing you could read something here about spray paint or dumpster diving or the annoying way Tim chews. Maybe you are feeling closer to God than ever as you see how He is comforting us through this, or perhaps you are feeling farther from Him than ever before... before our crap landed in your yard.

I may not know your individual situation, but I know that when you come here, our crap lands on you. It must. If my family had and did lead a insular, bubble-bound, existence we would not be sharing in this way, either because the accident never took place, or because our suffering would be private and polite and reach only a small circle of people.

And my wish would be to never make my friends, those I have met and have yet to meet, suffer needlessly. Yet in the suffering, the suffering together, you help carry us. You bear our burdens, you pray, you care, just as we are all asked to do. And that can be messy, and confusing, and crappy, but somehow Holy, too.

Slow to Warm Up

Let’s just say your microwave breaks and even though it’s probably just a little fuse, you don’t want to shell out the 100+ bucks to have a pro come in to take a look at it. You don’t think you use it that much anyway except to check out your hair in its door before leaving the house and to use the timer to tell the kids, “two more minutes!” before time to leave for school.

After a few days in a microwave-less state, you and your husband decide it might be better to start over with a new microwave, rather than pay for repairs, so you take time off work to buy a new one.

You have done your research. You are armed with product reviews and Consumer Reports that basically all say the same thing. Over-the-stove microwaves are, in general, crap, and will most likely break the day after the warranty wears out. You will then be forced to shell out hundreds of dollars to get one fixed, when a brand new countertop model would probably only set you back about 80 bucks.

Sooooo, depressing info in hand, you hit Sears on a weekday morning and see what’s available. At first you start looking for the best price and key features you like, but after a while you just ask whichever one is available to fill the gaping hole above your stove by Thanksgiving Day. Ding! Ding! Ding! You’ve got a winner. For only $692 you now have a new microwave that will be installed on Friday.

You leave Sears and realize that $692 is almost 2 weeks salary at your important new high-powered job. Your husband, thinking he’s making you feel better, says, “Don’t worry, I’ll just put in a couple of extra hours at work this week to pay for it.” Somewhat deflated, you slink off to work.

Now your old microwave sits at the curb ready to be picked up with all of the computer monitors, printers, TV’s, digital cameras and other detritus of our wasteful, throw-away society.

You feel dirty and more than a little guilty as you wonder whether your new gadget has a popcorn button.