The weight of an anniversary

Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash

My Facebook memories remind me every day what I've posted for the past 11 years. For the past week, they've been reminding me that last year at this time I was in Iowa, spending my days in my mom's hospice room waiting for her body to shut down, after we'd taken her off life support, and my nights alone at her house. It sounds awful, but I don't know any other way to say it: I was waiting for her to die. In a different way this year, I've been waiting again. Waiting as the grief built again in anticipation of the anniversary of her death. Waiting for today.

The first time I felt anniversary grief was two years after my dad died suddenly at age 46 of a heart attack on the day the last episode of M.A.S.H. aired. I didn't even know he'd been sick. I was 24 and the oldest of five. I got the call at 1:00 pm and flew through the night from Georgia to Iowa. It was a life-changing education in growing the fuck up. It was several years before I could watch that last episode of M.A.S.H.

You might be wondering why the anniversary grief hit two years after and not one. That's because my grandma was dying at that time the next year. She died just two days short of a year after my dad died, and a day before her husband, my grandfather, had died in 1957. We held her funeral exactly a year from the day my dad died on February 28. (For those who struggle with math and care, my dad died on February 28, my grandpa on the 27th, and my grandma on the 26th. My uncle, son of this grandma and grandpa, was born on February 27. All of these deaths made his birthday difficult for him, no suprise.) I digress ....

It was simply more grief after a year of horrible, intense grieving. I was pregnant, as my mother had been with me when her father, my grandfather, died, so I borrowed the navy maternity dress with the white collar and red bow that we passed around base housing for just such occasions and flew home to Iowa again.

The next year the anniversary grief hit and I thought I was losing my mind. Nobody warned me. None of my friends in Georgia even knew how to support me. Nobody had been through the death of a parent.

I was so sad. I burst into tears for no reason. I couldn't focus. I felt anxious, like something horrible was going to happen. As the long days of February passed, the feeling built. But at some point I talked with my sister and my little brother and my mom and we realized we were all feeling crazy sad and anxious. And it struck me -- as if I had invented it -- that we were feeling anniversary grief.

It helped to know what was happening. And it helped the next year and the year after that when February rolled around like it does and we held our breath waiting for someone else to leave us.

This year I knew what to expect. When I found myself tearing up over small things the past couple of weeks, I knew why. And then the Facebook memories started, because I posted updates on my mom's Facebook page last year starting with her final stroke. I didn't post details, and I haven't been able to write about that yet. But I kept her friends and family informed most days.

I actually felt somewhat comforted to read those posts again. Grief causes us to pause and remember and feel. That's not a bad thing. Too often we try to push grief away or distract ourselves so we don't have to feel bad. But I'm OK with feeling my grief. It reminds me that I've lost someone I love. It reminds me that I'm human and I'm still here and this is one way I honor my loved ones who have passed on.

Today was hard  though. Is hard, which is why I'm writing. I was at the dairy at the farmer's market where I work part-time, and I guess I wasn't my usual talkative self. I was busy and not really engaging except with customers, although I wasn't aware I was acting different. Not until Marshall, the chocolatier next to me, commented that I was awfully quiet today.

It struck me then that today was the day. I looked up from wiping down one of the coolers, but I couldn't say anything.

"Everything OK?" he asked.

I gave a little shake of my head. I could feel the tears coming. Not the place. Not the place. Not the place....

He came out from behind his counter and walked over to me. I don't think he even said anything. He just waited. My eyes filled with tears, but I didn't let one drop. Not the place.

After a couple of minutes I got control. "It's the anniversary of my mom's death last year," I said. I couldn't say anything else.

I didn't need to. He just nodded and waited to see if I wanted to talk. And then a customer walked up so I had to take a breath and put on my professional face. He went back to his counter.

 When we were both free, he came over and held out a 2-pack of chocolate-covered cherries, one of my favorites. "Just take them and don't say anything," he said.

I did. I couldn't say anything anyway. Kindness hits me like grief sometimes, but I still couldn't cry there. Marshall doesn't do grief the same way I do. He doesn't have time for it. He thinks people should get over it. Which doesn't mean he doesn't feel things as deeply; he does. He just thinks death is a normal part of life and he doesn't like to dwell on it. The chocolate-covered cherries were his way of honoring my grief without putting me in the position of embarrassing myself.

At some point my youngest brother sent out an email to my mom's other four kids and her two step-sons reminding us that it's a difficult day, but he's grateful for his family and he loves us. My other brother and I answered that we were feeling it too. Again I didn't let the tears fall, but I felt them building.

Later yet Kelly, whom I sell kettle corn for other days, walked down from her store. She knew this day was coming up. Her mom died just a couple of months after mine, so we've shared our sadness through the year. She's got this day to look forward to as well. We shared a hug and some tears that neither of us let fall.

It helps to know others are on this journey too, that I'm not crazy like I thought I was after my dad died, that I have people in my life who honor my grief by just being with me and listening or texting or giving me chocolate-covered cherries.

It helps but it doesn't take away the grief.

I haven't written yet about my mom's last days and her death yet. I will. I need to. I will just write this much tonight.

One this day one year ago I was sitting with my mom in her hospice room. She hadn't been responsive all day. The lights were dim and I was playing quiet piano music on my phone. I had read to her from her Kindle for a while. Then I told her about some things that were going on in my life that I hadn't had a chance to tell her about before her final stroke. Finally I told her I was just going to read to myself. I sat beside her with my hand on her arm reading.

Her breathing had been rough all day, but it became more erratic. I put my book down and sat with her as she took her last breaths. It was difficult to watch her body finally give up, but it was also OK. It was her time and I was honored I could be there with her.

When it became apparent she wasn't going to take another breath, I said, "Goodbye, Mom. We're all going to be OK. I love you." And even though she hadn't taken a breath for at least a minute, her chin tilted up just a little, and I knew somehow she had heard me and she was letting me know she loved me too. A final gift of connection before she was gone.

Thanks for reading, if you got this far. Feel free to tell me about your anniversary grief or anything else in the comments.

Now I think I'm ready to go have that cry I've been holding back all day.

Break on through to the other side

I thought I had a blog post in me today, but I realized nobody wants to hear about what an incredibly shitty day I had during an incredibly shitty week. It would have been a book. So I will pull the one funny thing out of this day to share.

It's not news to some of you that my friend and the beloved minister of my church died of a sudden and unexpected heart attack Sunday on a trip to Boston. It's been a terrible shock. I would like to write more about him, but I can't do it yet. He was my age -- OK, about 6 weeks older. It's always hard when a peer dies. Thoughts of your own mortality and all that. And as Miss Serendipity would have it, Greg and I just had a long talk about that a few days ago, about how we intended to live decades longer. But that's not the story.

Today I had to go in to have some face cancer removed. It wasn't as easy as I expected it would be, but that too is another story. As the nurse was preparing for the procedure, she asked me about my sensitivity to epinephrine. We talked about how it makes my heart race for a long time. I told her a friend had just died of a sudden heart attack, and I didn't think I could tolerate that today, the day after most of us got the terrible news. I didn't tell her that my dad had died at age 46 of a sudden heart attack as well, leaving my mom with 2 kids still at home. I was the oldest of 5 at 24. I just have this thing about not wanting to have, or even mimic, a heart attack. She said she understood and went back to tapping on her tablet.

As I sat and waited for the next question, "Free Bird," the anthem of my youth, came over the speakers. The doctor is about my age, and a guitar player and a lover of the classics, so that's what they play. It's a good vibe for me except these lyrics hit me like a gut punch .... "If I leave here tomorrow/would you still remember me?/For I must be travelin' on now/there's too many places I've got to be ...." Greg's last post on his Facebook read, "The adventure begins!!"

My eyes filled with tears that I tried to dam up. I looked up to let them run down my throat. Not the time. I needed to focus on getting the face cancer off my face.

The nurse asked some more questions, and I answered as the long "Free Bird" solo played through. After she left the room and closed the door, the next song came on. "I, I just died in your arms tonight/It must have been something you said/I just died in your arms tonight ...."

You've got to be fucking kidding me! Right?

I sat there on the surgery chair thinking about coincidence and the afterlife. I used to have a friend who believed her late son, who was killed by a drunk driver at age 19, was still around. He'd turn her radio station so his favorite song would play when she turned on her car. Or he'd help her find things she'd lost in her house. Thinking he was still with her, somehow embodied to reach out to her from time to time, gave her comfort. I didn't deny her belief. What do I know?

The fact is, I don't know what happens to us after we die. I don't believe in heaven and hell. Neither did Greg, because we're Unitarian Universalists and we don't believe in those old dichotomies, nor the trichotomies either. In fact, Greg and I had talked early on about how we didn't believe everything happens for a reason, much as people would like to think it's true. Mostly shit just happens. Sometimes good shit happens. Sometimes really shitty shit happens. Trying to make sense of it, or trying to fit it into a religious mold, can either comfort you or it can make you fucking crazy. Greg and I were of the latter category. The shit just happens category.

But we also agreed that shit happens that is just too strange to discount. And then we don't know what to think, but it's the mystery that keeps life interesting.

And so I thought for just a second, What if Greg hasn't passed on from this world just yet? I mean, it was not his time to go. He had a lot more good work to do. What if he's hanging around for a while before he crosses over to whatever is or isn't on the other side of this life? What if Greg is fucking with me?!?

I kinda laughed at that idea. I didn't feel like laughing today, but I kinda laughed then (because I didn't know the hell that was coming, but that's another story). I had the urge to send Greg an email when I got home and tell him maybe things really do happen for a reason. Just to give him a laugh. Of course, I couldn't do that ..... And the song played on to the end.

And the next song came on. I wasn't really listening until these lyrics jumped out: "Whether you're a mother or whether you're a brother you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive ...."

"You have got to fucking be kidding me!" I said aloud. "Seriously, Greg, this is hilarious!" And then I thought, because of course the dead can read our minds, I wish I could believe you're really in this room distracting me with the golden oldies of our generation. And I really wish I could tell you about this, my friend, because this is some good serendipity. Thanks for the laugh.

I couldn't wait to see what was next, but the nurse came back in with the doctor, and I had to pay attention to getting rid of the face cancer. By the time I was listening again, the moment was over. Maybe Greg moved on and played tricks on other people. I dunno. I just know it was one of the best things that happened today, and a lot of the rest of it was spilled milk compared to losing Greg but ..... well, you've got your own shit to deal with, don't you? Stayin' alive. Stayin' alive.


Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I can't get either, I really try
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose
You know it's all right, it's ok
I'll live to see another day
We can try to understand
The new york times' effect on man

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

The weight of Memorial Day

(alliecatzgraphics.com)

I hate Memorial Day weekend. Or maybe the word I want is dread. I dread it like you might dread a triple root canal or the last episode ever of The Office or the death of a relationship.

I don't dread it because it's a day to remember those who have died. If I were home in the small Iowa town I grew up in, I would attend the flag ceremony at the cemetery and shed a few tears as I gazed up at my dad's flag with his name on it. Some years a family member sends me photos, and even those are poignant. My dad was 46 when he died in 1983. He was proud of his service in the Army, and he would be proud to see his name flying on that flag.

I would also visit my grandmas' graves and leave a geranium at each.

When I was a child, we would all pile in the car with the two grandmas -- the maternal and the paternal -- and visit graves all over the county in tiny countryside cemeteries. We'd start early in the morning by cutting all of the perennial flowers from Grandma B's garden and putting them in water in plastic waste baskets. Dozens and dozens of iris, peonies, daisies, tiger lilies, and the ferns that grew along one side of her house.

(andrusgardenquilts.com)

Mom and the grandmas would pack a big picnic lunch with fried chicken, potato salad, strawberries and angel food cake that we'd wash down with lemonade. We'd eat around noon in whatever cemetery we were at, being careful not to sit on the actual dead people who were stretched out in front of their carved stones. The rest of the day we traveled to the graves of long-dead (at least to a kid) relatives and carefully laid the flowers at the headstones.

As we drove through the cemeteries, us kids would reach our hands out of the car windows and try to touch the granite gravestones with our fingers, but Dad told us if we hit one it would cut our fingers right off so we just pretended to touch them.

No, these memories aren't why I hate this holiday. I hate this holiday because try as I might to push them aside, those pesky anniversary feelings -- my friend the Hot Italian calls it a mild case of PTSD -- darkens the edges of my world, and colors the days leading up to it gray.

I'm waiting, you see. I'm waiting for the anvil that's tied above my head with a frayed rope to fall, like it has the past few years. That's why I hate this holiday.

(siliconangle.com)

I realize anniversary feelings are ghosts, the past, never to happen the same way again in my life. But I'm kind of on a roll here. The past three years this weekend has brought one kind of relationship hell or another, and I don't think it's crazy to greet these days with some trepidation. It's become a pattern. Instead of memorializing people who have passed on, Memorial Day weekend has come to represent the death of close relationships -- relationships with people I loved, who were important (to me). For three years in a row, this weekend was the time when the nails were pounded irreversibly into the coffins that held those relationships. (Sure it's a tired metaphor, but it's fitting, don't you think?)

I don't want to write the stories of those weekends or of those relationships, although I have to admit, they are kick-ass stories involving the police and lies upon lies and toxic hypocrisy so fucking deep it's not worth excavating, in that order, through those 3 years. I could write them; they are my stories to tell, but I don't want to relive them any more than the stupid anniversary feelings are making me.

So maybe someday I will tell those stories here, but not tonight. Tonight I can feel that anvil swinging and swinging above my head, and the snap of tiny fibers ...

Yeah, this anniversary stuff is just ghosts. I've been through rough patches with holidays before. I suffered through a string of Christmases that I thought would never end. The first one LtColEx had orders to Korea for a year after just spending 6 months in DC, and he was leaving January 2. The entire holiday felt like the Last Supper. The next year, he was still in Korea, and the kids and I celebrated alone. Even for a military family, it was a rough one.  The next year my dog died a horrible week-long death as his body attacked his red blood cells.  And the year after that I fell face-first into our brick hearth 4 days before Christmas. The damage took over a year and a half to repair -- as much as it could be repaired. I was lucky I didn't end up on the mantle next to the box of standard poodle ashes. It was almost as bad as all those Christmases when I didn't get a pony.

But the year after that, nothing horrible happened. And the year after that and after that ..... I know the pattern can be broken.

People often tell me everything happens for a reason, that there's a lesson and it will keep coming back until I learn it.

I'm not sure I believe that. There are certain lessons I don't need to have pushed in my face over and over. I get it.

If I've learned any lesson from the jagged edges of those broken Memorial Day relationships it's this: No matter how close you think you are to another person -- no matter how much you care for him or love him or want to take care of him -- we are all actors on our own lonely stages. I could have saved myself much heartbreak by remembering I'm just a walk-on in everybody else's play, so it's better to be the diva in my own story.

This year I've been smart. I haven't let anybody get close enough to leave a hole in my life if they disappear this weekend -- at least not at ground zero like the past 3 years.

If I could just become a hermit this weekend, avoid the entire thing, I would. But I'm babysitting both of my kids' dogs, so they'll be coming Sunday and Monday to pick them up. 

And Free to a Good Home is playing at a festival north of the city tomorrow evening. We've been practicing for months, so I have to get out there and face one day of the weekend.

But after the festival tomorrow, I am going to retreat from social media, from social engagements, from anybody I don't want to lose. Fortunately, that's a lot of people. More than enough to balance those Memorial Day losses of the past 3 years. I'll stay home, count my blessings, and hope Memorial Day passes me by this year.

Superstitious? I suppose it is. It's just one weekend though. Maybe I can change the pattern. Cross your fingers for me, OK?

The real gin and juice blues

I don't want to write this post. I've been putting it off for 3 days now. I know putting it into words won't change anything. I know not putting it into words won't either. So I'll just write it.

Melvin died early Sunday morning.* He was a passenger in a car that crossed several lanes of traffic and ran head-on into a pickup truck. He and the driver died there. Careflight came for them, but the coroner left with them instead.

I saw photos of the wreck Sunday morning before church. The car was crushed. I thought, How awful. Nobody walked away from that car. I didn't know it was Melvin who wasn't going to walk away. I don't think we'll ever know what happened that night. The police said neither speed nor alcohol was involved, which means the driver wasn't drinking. Melvin was never sober, but he also never drove. Not after his doctor had his license pulled.

Every time I went out Sunday I expected to hear Melvin's voice, but our part of the street was quiet. He came and went a lot though; sometimes 5 or 6 different people would pick him up and then bring him home in a day. I looked for him, but I wasn't worried that I didn't see him.

The next day his landlord Paul knocked on my door to tell me he was dead. The police couldn't find Melvin's daughter, and Paul wanted to know if I had her number. I didn't.

I'll write more about that day, but not tonight. It's been a hard week, and today is only Wednesday.

There's a big gaping silence over there across the street where Melvin used to sit on his porch and holler to me as I walked to my van, "Baby, how you doin'?" And I'd reply, "I'm fine." And he'd say, "I know you are! I love you, baby. You know I love you, don't you?" And I'd say, "I know you do." And he'd say, "Where you goin'?" And I'd say, "To a party (or downtown or to the store or just out)." And he'd say, "Can I go wit' you?" And I'd say, "No." And he'd say, "That's OK, baby. You be careful. I still love you though. I can't lie. I still love you." And I'd say, "I love you too."

And I did. I did love him too, in spite of myself and in spite of himself. He watched out for me. And sometimes I watched out for him too.

Sometimes he really annoyed me. And .... I don't think I ever annoyed him. He just wasn't like that.

I'll write more about Melvin later. Tonight I'm struggling to see the page through my tears, and I'm tired. Grief makes me tired. The emptiness out there on the street makes me tired.


*If you don't know who Melvin is was, maybe you haven't been reading here long. I've written about him many times. Here's a list of the most relevant posts. I hope you'll want to  know him better.

"Gin and Juice Blues"
On the Radio
Life on My Street
It's Just Not There
Rick and Mitt
Wednesday Night After Karaoke (a poem)

And Now a Rant After the Unspeakable

I’ve wanted to say something about Shannon’s funeral, and yet I haven’t wanted to. I have no desire to write something full of pathos and tears about suicide or how parents might live with that once the funeral is over. I’ll just get that part out of the way and say even though I didn’t know Shannon’s parents, I thought that day they must be the strongest people I’ve ever seen to stand there beside their daughter’s coffin and receive people one after another. And when her mother hugged me hard enough to break bones and told me to “hold on tight…so tight,” it seemed to me that if a mother’s love had already created that child’s body and filled it with life one time, then shouldn’t she rise right up out of that coffin and stand beside her mom and her dad again? If only the power of a mother's love could do such things.

I thought we were only going for the viewing, which was from 11:00-1:00 at St. Helen’s. Elvira thought the funeral was private. So we got there a little after 11:00, after we picked up Elvira’s best friend, Katrice, and another friend, Jade. We met up with a group of their friends in the parking lot, and then we waited for my Girl Scout co-leader, Gina, to get there. Shannon had been in Gina's troop when we combined our troops, but she stopped coming. The whole group of us went in together, and then Gina and her daughter left.

Here’s the weird thing. Gina and I were the only moms there, and after she left, it was just me. A bunch of teenagers came and went. Another group of 7 or 8 stuck around. Our group of 10 or so did too. All these other kids who went through in twos and threes came with no parents at all. Am I crazy to be astounded by that?

Turns out the funeral wasn’t private, so the kids all wanted to stay. They sat in the sanctuary for a while, then they went outside to smoke and mingle. I wasn’t really hanging out with them, and I felt kind of funny being the only mom there--with them and not with them at the same time. I didn’t want Elvira to feel weird or embarrassed about her mom hanging around.

I sat in the sanctuary for a long time after they went outside. (The funeral didn’t start until 1:30, so we had over two hours to wait.) Every once in a while someone would come back in. Katrice hadn’t said what she wanted to say to Shannon when she went through the first time, and she wanted me to go back with her. So we did that. Jade came back in and she was confused because she felt angry, and so did Shannon’s best friend. She wasn’t sure if it was OK to be mad at Shannon. I told her it would be strange if she didn’t get mad at her for leaving this life like that. One of Elvira’s guy friends broke down after he was called into service as a pallbearer and carried the casket to the hearse. He’s a kid who’d probably cause some adults to cross to the other side of the street, with his crazy-colored Mohawks and his gauges. People think they know something from hair and piercings and tattoos, but they don’t. He’s not like that. But he’s had some tough times in his life, and he’s usually pretty controlled emotionally. No seventeen-year-old is prepared to lift his friend’s coffin into a hearse though. I don’t know why his mom wasn’t there to hold him while he cried, but damn it, I think she should have been. I didn’t even see Shannon’s best friend, Maggie’s, parents there, but Elvira told me later they were. I just saw her by herself most of the time. Maybe they were helping out with other things.

Where were all the other moms (and dads) though? I don’t get it. These kids were dealing with something we never master no matter how long we live. Death hurts like nothing else and it’s confusing and it strips us of the lies we tell ourselves about our own mortality. What the hell has happened to our society that we don’t support our kids when they’re going through something like this? They can only do so much for each other. Dealing with death takes experience, and if you don't have it, then you need to be guided by people who have been through it before.

When my dad died, he was only 46; I was 24, the oldest of five. LtColEx and I were stationed in Georgia, living on base. I talked to my mom on the phone before we left to drive to Atlanta and catch our flight to Iowa, and I told her I didn’t want to come home. I knew they were all waiting for me to get there and somehow take care of things and I didn’t know how. She said I had to come; they all needed me. I couldn’t even imagine how I was going to deal with it all, but somehow I did: my siblings' grief and confusion, all the people, the food, the coffee, the thank you cards.... Sometimes you’re thrown in the deep end and you survive the drowning.

When I came back to Georgia after 10 days at home helping my mom, none of my friends knew what to say or do, so they didn’t say anything. I was crushed under the weight of this brand new grief I’d brought back with me, but I was absolutely alone with it. One of my friends said, “We don’t know what to do or say. We don’t know anything about death. We’ve never experienced a loss like yours.” I got through it. There wasn’t a choice.

About three months later, seven of the guys in our wing were killed when their B-52 flew into a mountain in Utah. There are no survivors in crash like that. There aren’t even any bodies. It was the last flight for the pilot. He was going to be flying a desk in DC. We’d bought his lawn mower because they were moving to a town house. All of the wives were waiting on the runway with champagne to celebrate, but the plane didn’t come home. Our neighbor two houses down was on that plane. He was 25.

I took a big can of coffee down to his widow Rosanne’s house, because I remembered how much coffee we had to make the days before and after my dad’s funeral. I don’t remember if I saw Roseanne that day, but the day of the memorial service, afterwards, she called me and asked if I’d walk with her. I hadn’t gone to the memorial because I was still awfully raw from my dad’s death. LtColEx was TDY in England, and….sometimes you have to know what you can handle.

Rosanne and I walked a long way that day. She said she called me because everybody was being terribly nice and she appreciated their help, but none of them knew what she was going through. She wanted to be with someone who had experienced death too. She wanted to know when she would stop hurting like that. I told her I was still grieving and it still hurt just as much, but I was surviving. I’m not sure why that helped, but she said it did. People tend to tell you a lot of bullshit about time healing all wounds because they’re uncomfortable with other people’s pain. Maybe it just helped that I didn’t lie to her. Some things hurt almost unbearably for a very long time.

Back to Shannon’s funeral. Finally we went in for the funeral and took up most of a row, our little group. I haven’t been to a Catholic mass in a very long time. Most of Elvira’s friends never had. They were upset that most of the service wasn’t about Shannon at all. Her brother gave a heart-wrenching eulogy at the beginning. Otherwise, it was about Jesus and how Shannon was in a better place where she would find the love she didn’t find here. The young Indian priest got her name wrong in his homily to the family, and I felt the whole row of them stiffen in outrage. The teenagers in front of us put the kneelers down and put their feet on them, and they weren’t dressed in formal clothes. Elvira said she almost smacked them and told them to behave themselves. They were both fascinated by the service and disappointed. I think they wanted the funeral to be meaningful to how they remembered Shannon. It wasn’t for them. But I could tell it was for her family.

I was so impressed that everybody knew their parts. Methodists use books or let the minister do the talking. These people knew their lines cold, throughout the entire service. It was like going to Rocky Horror Picture Show with people who are there for their 152nd time. And I don’t mean that disrespectfully. I thought it was powerful theater. I have to say, I was also grateful for Mother Mary, who held court over the candles. I’m glad She was there. I wanted to light a candle, but I wasn’t sure of the protocol.

After the funeral, the kids wanted to go to the graveside services, which were held in…..Springfield. So we loaded up my van and a couple of the kids rode in another car. The final service was in a small chapel that happened to be right next to the grave. It was short; in fact, it took much longer to drive there. But that’s OK. We all walked by, dipped our fingers in holy water, and touched the casket. And then we went outside. I don’t know how Shannon’s mom left that little chapel, knowing what would come next. If it were me, they probably would have had to drag me out. It was hard enough for our little group of teens to leave.

But we finally did after more hugs and more tears. I drove the other kids where they needed to go. Elvira, Katrice and I got home about 5:00, and her dad picked them up an hour later. Wednesday night is her night with him. I rehearsed music for Sunday’s service for about three hours with a couple of my friends. Elvira came home a little after 10:00. Life went on…for us.

The next day Elvira came home from school and told me Don had asked her to tell me he was sorry for breaking down and crying on me for so long. She said to him, “Donovan, don’t ever say you’re sorry for crying on my mom. She’s a mom. That’s why she was there. We all needed a mom there.” (See? Elvira does have a softer side. She just hates to show it.)

I told her she’d said just what I would have said. And I told her I had felt kind of awkward, and I hoped she hadn’t felt like her overbearing mother was hanging around embarrassing her. She said she was really glad I was there, that they needed a mom there with them, and she couldn’t believe more parents weren’t there. And she said the other kids were glad I was there too. OK, I don’t want to make this about me, because that’s not my point.

Teenagers need their moms (and dads) just as much as little kids do. They’re moving into a world that, if they’re lucky, they’ve been protected from all their lives. They’re no different from when they didn’t know the stove would burn them or when they started their first day of school or when their first pet died. It may seem like they don’t want our wisdom and experience, and often they don’t, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continue to offer it. From what I’ve observed, parents push their teens away far more often than teens push away their parents. They still need to know the safety net is there and that it will come up to support them when they need it. They shouldn’t have to fall before it catches them, because sometimes that’s too damn late. Sometimes you don’t get a chance to catch them.

Musings on the Unspeakable

I had a plan to get through grading almost half of my portfolios tonight even though I didn't get started until after 11:00, but sometimes other things take the front seat. Tomorrow morning Elvira and I are going to the viewing for a friend of hers who committed suicide this past Saturday. We're taking some other friends in the van. I think they need a mom to go with them; I don't care if Elvira is almost 18. They need a mom.

She was surprised, but I wasn't, that she couldn't sleep tonight. She's not sure how she should feel, and it's hard to explain why that's normal for her age. I think we learn how to feel about things we can't understand; we aren't born knowing, and empathy plays an important role. She can't put herself in anybody's place but her friend's, and she can't imagine hanging herself in her dad's closet with one of his ties. What I know is that her friend isn't feeling anything now, but her parents....oh, her parents will never forgive themselves. All the questions they'll never answer: What if we hadn't let the doctor put her on Prozac? What if I'd been there instead of watching the basketball game? What if I.....? They'll never get over this. I'm not sure how I would live if that much of me died inside. I know how to feel about this; she doesn't yet.

I asked Elvira earlier today how she was doing. She said, "Mom, it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem. It's a logical fallacy. Wrong thinking." I felt such a flood of relief. The school is trying to keep it all quiet...the reason her friend died. Of course, duh, that's not going to happen. I dread the copycats. I hope not one of them succeeds, but sometimes they do.

I remember about 13 years ago hearing an ambulance siren stop nearby. I looked out the back and saw the lights about a block away, down the hill behind our house. About the time I went to bed, I heard the backup beeps and then the ambulance driving off, this time without the sirens. Later I learned a 15-year-old boy had shot himself with his father's gun. The story was--and who knows the truth?--that Dad had a new wife and they'd gone on a trip and left the boy at home. It was the first week of school and nobody was there to take him to buy school supplies. I don't know if it's true or not. The next-door neighbor told me though, so maybe it's true...a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Several other suicides followed that year.

I still have portfolios spread across my living room floor. I was sorting them, getting the obvious failures out of the way first. They will probably still be there in the morning, and maybe tomorrow night when people come over to rehearse for Sunday morning church music. When Elvira came back downstairs, those portfolios lost their importance for a while. Yes, they represent hard, important work of kids who are almost the same age as my daughter and her friend. As a teacher, I hope I never make a decision that causes....well, I won't go there.

We sat on the couch for a while, and then we went outside so Elvira could smoke. It's the first time I've let her smoke in front of me, and I hate it. The reasons why are another story. It was more important tonight that we sit out on the deck and talk. I had a glass of wine; she had a Bacardi Silver Raz (about as much alcohol as cough syrup) that I finished while I wrote this. The raccoons we raised last summer, Bonnie and Clyde, came up to eat dog food and a couple of bananas. Bonnie was in a playful mood and kept trying to pull off our shoes and bite us. He climbed up into the umbrella and got stuck. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to distract yourself with cigarettes, booze, and crazy raccoons.

Elvira wonders why her friend, who was always so happy, would do such a thing. She worries that she's not reacting the right way. I....I just want to hold on to my little girl--who will be 18 in one week--and keep her safe. Anybody who knows her knows I won't be able to, but just for tonight, an early spring night when we sat on the deck drinking, smoking, and laughing at the raccoons under a clear starry night....just for tonight, she was safe and nothing was OK, and yet everything was just fine.

I wish tomorrow wasn't here already.