Maybe it’s because we’re getting close to the anniversary of Richards’s death – it’s just a few months away. Or it could be because today is my birthday, and those family events cause me to reflect on the past. I’ve been thinking back on that time nearly three years ago, when we found out he was gone.

It’s strange what I remember of that time, and what I don’t.

The Night We Got “The Call”

I still remember that awful night like yesterday. The conversation with the coroner lady. Making Debbie get her car off the road and safely parked before I told her. The heartbreak of telling her.  I remember telling my boss I was leaving work, and why. The drive home is clear, as is meeting Debbie in the driveway when I got home.

All the details of that night are still with me. They’re burned into my brain, like a program on a ROM chip, permanent.

The Next Day and Funeral Shopping

Memories start getting cloudier after that first night. I remember going to the airport to pick Sarah up.

I know many people stopped by our house early that afternoon, but I don’t know who anymore. We got food delivered from folks, including some country ham from Carriss’ store up the street, that one of our neighbors sent over. That was one of Richard’s favorites, and a must have for Christmas mornings.

I know we went funeral shopping that afternoon. They didn’t have Richard back from the medical examiners office in Frankfort yet, but were expecting to get him later that afternoon.

There were a lot of details to figure out. I pretty much deferred to Debbie and Sarah on the church readings, songs and such.

We went downstairs and picked out a casket, then looked at the vaults to put the casket in. When the funeral director showed us one made from “football helmet” material, Debbie lit up. She was sure Richard would be pleased with that.

I know we had many more visitors that afternoon and early evening. I don’t remember who.

The Yard Crew Does Work

The next morning, a beautiful Saturday, my family showed up with yard equipment. My siblings and sibling-in-laws, their kids, and my dad went to work getting our yard mowed and cleaned up.

I remember feeling sort of put out about it at the time, because I was looking forward to the solitude of riding my mower around for a few hours. That was very selfish and dumb of me. All those people in my yard loved Richard too. They were in pain, and didn’t know of any other good way to help us deal with this.

I love all of them, and I’m ashamed of myself for how I felt.

More visitors and more food showed up at our front door. I don’t remember who or what.

At The Visitation

The next day was Sunday, and the first of two days I think of as “Showtime.” It was time to put on the best face we could, and send our kid off properly. It was the last thing we could ever do for him here – the last chance to be his parents.

We spent most of the day at the funeral home for the Visitation.

It’s all just a big swirl of colors and faces, sounds and voices, twirling around me. It all just joins together in a massive blur. A big fog.

I recall a scene from the Wizard of Oz, when the tornado picked up the house with Dorothy. The house was up in the clouds, spinning around and around. I felt much like that, but I was inside the tornado and it was spinning around and around me.

The details are completely gone – except for two things.

The “Sorry For Your Loss” Man

The first thing that stands out was something I thought was funny.

We were standing in a receiving line of sorts, early in the day. Debbie, Sarah and myself, plus at least one of my sisters and my dad were in the line. We were greeting our guests. I was the last one in the line.

An older man came through. I don’t know who he was. He may have known Debbie, or been married to someone that did. Or maybe he just liked going to funerals.

I watched him as he made his way down our little line. He’d take the persons hand and say, “Sorry for your loss,” then move to the next person and repeat it, “Sorry for your loss.”

I’m sure a lot of people told us they were “Sorry for your loss.”

Something about the almost casual way he said, “Sorry for your loss,” and nothing more, reminded me of my youthful days playing sports. After a ballgame, the players of each team would line up facing the other team. We’d then walk past each other, and either shake hands or more often just slap hands and say, “Good game. Good game. Good game,” as we passed each opposing player.

Maybe you meant it, probably not really, but it was just something you did. A tradition, part of the game.

That’s how it seemed to be for the “Sorry for your loss” guy, and I found it humorous. Yes, I have a strange mind.

The Message, Or The Messenger?

The only other detail from that day I remember now involved one of my co-workers.

She’s someone I think a lot of, but I would have classified our relationship as pretty casual. That day at the funeral home was the first time I’d seen her outside the factory we work in. It was the first time I’d met her husband.

After introducing me to her husband we stood there chatting.

She told me, “Remember what you believe in, and hold onto that.” I was tempted to ask her if she knew what that might be, because I wasn’t sure I believed in anything right then.

There were hundreds of people at the visitation that day. Some of them I didn’t know, others I love dearly and they mean a great deal to me. I don’t remember anything they said.

Another lady I worked with was there. She’s someone I was very fond of and I remember feeling a lot of comfort when I saw her. We talked for a long time. I can’t tell you a single word she said.

That message, “Remember what you believe in,” somehow has cut through the clutter. Like a lighthouse beacon shining through the fog, it still whispers to me, “This way. Over here, follow the light.”

Is it the message? Or is it the messenger that make those words stand out?

We’ve never talked about Richard’s death, the funeral, or any of that stuff since that day.

Still, I hear her say those words often.

And I’m still working on it.

At The Funeral

Monday, and as Ed Sullivan used to say, time for “A Really Big Show.” The funeral. Show time again.

Another day of swirling colored fog.

The church was packed. I have the general impression it was a really nice service. If my kid hadn’t been laying in that oak box at the front of church, I’m sure I would have enjoyed it.

I seem to remember Father Bill did a great job. He gave one of his best homilies, but the only reason I remember a word of it, is because it’s printed in the beautiful memorial book Sarah made for us.

Once again two things cut through the mist. Neither of them is humorous to me this time, but one does bring comfort.

Debbie

We sat beside the casket at the front of church.

You might guess, Debbie was crying. Not wailing. Not even sobbing out loud. She was mostly silent, the tears slowly dripping down her face.

What I remember most is how her whole body trembled.

We held hands through the service. I could feel the quaking as we touched one another. It lasted the entire service.

And there was no way to make it go away.

That’s burned into my brain too.

Chris and Susan Go Solo

As I said, the service is a blur, but I have the impression of beauty. I’m pretty sure the choir area was full of singers and they sounded really good.

One song, and two singers in particular, Chris and Susan, made it into my lifetime memory bank.

The choir sang In His Time. I’d never heard this song before, but it was beautiful. Chris and Susan each sang a verse solo.

Though several years older than Richard, Chris also graduated from St X High School. So they had something of a connection. He was a long time member of the choir, but I’d never heard him sing alone before.

Susan is the wife of our choir director at that time. She was part of our bell choir, but I’d never seen or heard her sing before. I don’t believe it’s happened again since that day.

They both did a great job.

These two people stepping out of their comfort zones like that, just to help us get through the funeral, and to make the service special to us really means a lot to me.

Susan couldn’t even talk about later, when I went to thank her.

I own them both a lot.

What About You?

Going through the darkest days of my life, you’d think I’d be able to remember more. But I can’t.

Some things had great impact, and I’ll never forget them. Most is just a blur.

What about you? What do you remember?

As a young family we didn’t take many big vacations. We decided shortly after Sarah was born to become a one income family, so money was always tight. Big vacations cost big bucks.

There was also that little matter of my not wanting to travel much. Let me take a few trips around the yard on the lawn mower and give me a glass of iced tea – that’s what a vacation was supposed to be in mind.

But I did get talked into one big adventure.

By big, I’m talking about 5600 miles, 17 states and 21 DAYS away from home.

Go West Young Man Family

We started out with only one predetermined destination – the Grand Canyon. The rest of the trip was to be pretty freeform, only a rough sketch.  So if something along the way looked interesting, we often went to check it out.

Early in our adventure we were driving across southern Colorado, enjoying flat plains covered in wild flowers. Snow covered mountains rose in the distance. We came upon a sign pointing to an approaching crossroad to our right.

“Great Sand Dunes National Park,” it read.

Hmmm, that might be interesting. Right turn.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

As the name implies, The Great Sand Dunes National Park features sand dunes. 39 square miles of them.

Here’s an interesting fact we discovered on our trip – rivers in the west are full of sand, not water. I don’t know why they do it that way, but trust me, they do.

So here’s what happens. The winds blow down out of the San Luis mountains to the west. They travel across the Rio Grande river, pick up sand and carry it across the vast mountain valley. When the wind strikes the Sangre De Cristo mountains on the eastern end of the valley, the sand falls out and piles up.

It’s been doing that for centuries.

The result is the vast dune field that gives the park it’s name. This is sand like you see in the movies, when they show people staggering across the desert, on their way to a hot, dry death.

We arrived at the parking lot. A little dirt trail led off through the surrounding trees. There was no where else to go, so we followed it.

The trail ended at a 30 foot wide stream. On the other side of the stream was sand. Sand as far as the eye could see. Sand in great rippling dunes, some as much as 700 foot high.

It’s a pretty place. Picture pure, golden-brown sand, surrounded by trees and a stream. In the distance you see snow covered mountains. Postcards are born here.

After removing our shoes, and wading the creek (man, that’s some cold water in there), we hit the sand. First we crossed a beach area, about 100 yards long.

And Then There Were Dunes

The early summer day was bright, the sky crystal clear and deep blue. The warm winds that formed the dunes was with us, and the temperature was climbing fast.

I don’t know what picture comes to mind for you when you hear the word dunes. I’ve always thought of nice gently ripping sand. What lay before us were small mountains of sand.

We climbed a 50 footer, crossed the valley on the other side, and climbed the next.

Climbing these steep sand hills was a real workout. The sand under foot shifts and slides away as you walk. So you step up two or three feet, but slip back down a foot before you get dug in enough to hold your position. It’s hard work.

Up and over and down, up and over we went.

After about a half dozen or so of these these mini-mountains, we came to a deep valley. Up ahead, maybe a quater mile away, a huge monster dune loomed into the sky.

We old people had exercised more in the past half-hour then we had in the previous month. The sand mountain in front of us was hundreds of feet tall. No way was I climbing that thing. We decided this would be a perfect place to put our blanket down and enjoy the view.

The children, not being as wise as their parents, wanted to continue.

“I want to go to the top,” pleaded Richard.

A Plan Formed In My Mind

“You kids go ahead and climb to the top. Mom and I will sit here and watch,” I said. No way was I climbing that thing.

Off they went. Down the valley, and up the first hill, then up the next they climbed.

Their progress began to slow. Sarah took a break. Richard kept going.

As they crossed valleys between hills they often disappeared from view. They both took frequent breaks, but the distance between them grew. As they got farther away, it became hard for us to tell which of the many climbers on the dunes were them.

Debbie grew uneasy.

“Maybe one of us should have gone with them,” she said.

“Us,” of course, meant me. No way was I climbing that thing.

“They’ll be fine,” I reassured her.

On they went.

Sarah was taking longer and more frequent rest periods. The distance between them grew and they were now far apart.

Richard was getting really far away, and it was hard to pick him out, as he disappeared in the numerous small valleys. I had to use the video camera, on full zoom mode, to watch him.

Slowly, finally, he made it to the top of the monstrous dune.

He stood, catching his breath at the top, looking back from where he had come. He then turned around and looked on the other side.

“He’s not going down the other side is he? If he goes down the other side, I’m going to have a heart attack,” moaned his worrying mom.

Richard headed off down the other side.

“He’ll get lost! Someone is going to have to go up there and get him!” Debbie screamed.

You know when she said, “Someone,” who she meant don’t you? No way was I climbing that thing.

“Don’t worry so much. Richard will be fine. He won’t go far,” I told her. ”He’ll be back soon.” No way was I climbing that thing.

We sat down on the sand to wait. Debbie chain smoked, as I scanned the horizon for signs of my little Boy Scout. Fifteen minutes passed.

“Someone is going to have to go up there and find him.”

“Just have patience, he’ll be back soon,” I said. No way was I climbing that thing.

Sarah finally made it to the top, rested, and began her return. Thirty minutes passed.

No sign of Richard.

Debbie, frantic now, said “You have to go up there and find him. NOW!”

I was going to climb that thing.

I packed the video camera/spotting scope over my shoulder, kissed my wife goodbye and headed off into the sand.

The sun was directly overhead and very hot. I picked out a longer but slightly less steep route to the summit and trudged on in the boiling hot sand.

Each of the successively higher hills became harder to climb. At each upward step my foot would slip back in the sand about half way.

I reached the top of a dune about midway up the big hill. My calves were screaming. My lungs were screaming back at them.

It was time to stop for rest.

I spotted another man, about my age, fifteen feet away. His face was flushed red and he was sweating profusely. He was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

“Nice little walk up here, isn’t it?” I casually remarked.

“Huff, huff, wheeze,” he replied.

“I didn’t want to come up here, but my kid went over the top and my wife said I had to come find him,” I confided.

He shook his head in an understanding nod and said, “When you get there, send my kid back too. I can’t make it any farther.”

I got a description of his son and left him alone as I struggled on.

The sun was merciless. The sand was merciless. I was sweating like crazy.

I hadn’t had a drink in hours. My mouth was parched. My tongue was so dry it began to flake away. My vision blurred.

Overhead, buzzards circled in a greedy death watch.

I could see the headlines now, “Man Dies Tragically, Attempting Rescue of Son on the Sand.”

I staggered on.

I reached the final valley. The last hill to the top lay on the other side. It was a huge mountain of a sand dune.

I stopped for one last look back at Debbie, for I knew I may never see her again. I couldn’t tell where she was. In the vast ocean of sand behind me, all the dunes looked alike. The people were too small to identify from here. I realized, I could get lost up here.

I wondered who Debbie would make come up here to find me.

Turning back to the mountain before me, I raised the video camera for one last scan of the peak. Slowly, I panned the horizon. Over there to the left, just coming down from the top, was kid about the right size. I zoomed all the way out. Yes! It was him.

“Richard, get over here,” I yelled.

I sure hoped he could find his way back down from here.

There is a valuable lesson to be learned from this little story. We had violated one of the most basic rules of parenting: be specific and always sweat the small details.

When we gave Richard permission to climb to the top, we had failed to mention what top we had in mind. When he got to the top of the hill in front of us, he discovered it wasn’t the top after all, as there were taller hills farther on.

Richard always liked to be the first one up the hill, to reach the summit first.

I guess he’s still doing it.

Photo credit NPS

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast

To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

I’ve read, that things inanimate have mov’d,

And, as with living Souls, have been inform’d,

By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.

What then am I? Am I more senseless grown

Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!

‘Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night

The silent Tomb receiv’d the good Old King;

He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg’d

Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.

Why am not I at Peace?

- William Congreve, in The Mourning Bride, 1697

Music has emotional power. A good song can often touch our hearts, and express the feelings we can’t find words for. There seems to be a music genre for just about everything… so why not for grieving?

Here are some of the songs that have touched me. Some are by grieving parents. Some were written for grieving parents. Some just seem to have a message we need.

I have to give this quick warning though, grab a fresh box of tissues before you start listening.

To Where You Are – Josh Groban

This is one of those with an up lifting message. Maybe we need to hear that, “A breath away’s not far to where you are.”

Precious Child – Karen Taylor-Good

I was introduced to this song at our first Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting. I doubt it’s an exaggeration to say I’ve listened to it a thousand times since… usually with tears running down my face.

Here is the story of why the song came to be and some other interesting facts about it.

You can get a CD single from The Compassionate Friends website. You can download a free mp3 of the song from Karen Taylor-Good’s website. I’ve done both.

Where Beautiful Souls Go – P. Taylor Reed

We met P. Taylor Reed at the 2011 Frankfort KY Compassionate Friends Regional Conference. She’s a grieving mom and she wrote this song as a tribute to her son Jeremy.  She performed it for us at the conference.

You can read her’s and Jeremy’s stories, and purchase a single CD of the song at her website.

Why by Rascal Flatts

This is one of my favorite groups. Having a child die is so hard to deal with. Having a child die of suicide seems like it would add even more burden and heartache to an already unbearable event. This song explores that pain.

As Long As You Love by Cindy Bullens

Cindy Bullens is an award winning singer/song writer and the bereaved mother of Jessie, a cancer victim at the age of 11 . She did the soundtrack for the documentary Space Between Breaths. I couldn’t find a video with my favorite song from the album, Better Than I’ve Ever Been, but as I write this she’s offering a free mp3 of that song on her official website.

You can get the soundtrack CD at the Space Between Breaths store. You’ll also find many of these songs on Cindy’s album Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth.

You can learn more about Jessie and the The Jessie Fund, a charity that helps support children with cancer.

Tonight I Hold This Candle” by Alan Pedersen

We’ve met singer/song writer Alan Pedersen at both of the Compassionate Friends of Frankfort regional conferences we’ve attended. He’ll be performing at this year’s conference as well. His daughter Ashley died in a 2001 auto accident.

He has been referred to as the James Taylor of grieving parent music. He currently has 4 CD’s which you can buy at his store.

He tours the country with his Angels Across the USA Tour.

Dennis Apple, author of Life After The Death of My Son: What I’m Learning, sent a note the other day telling me about a Compassionate Friends (TCF) regional conference that he’s part of. So I thought I’d share some info here about a couple of upcoming TCF regional conferences.

Sunflowers of Hope Regional Conference of The Compassionate Friends

This conference is hosted by the Johnson County, KS chapter of TCF, and Dennis Apple and his wife Buelah will be doing a workshop.

When:
February 17 & 18, 2012

Where:
The DoubleTree Hotel
US Highway 69 and College Blvd
Overland Park,  Kansas

There are special rates available at the hotel for conference attendees.

Get More Info:
You can get full conference details and registration instructions at the following website,
http://www.jocotcf.org/?page_id=209 

“Wilderness of Grief, Is There Hope?” Frankfort, KY Regional Conference

This one’s a bit closer to home for us, and we plan to attend.

When:
March 23 & 24, 2012

Where:
Capital Plaza Hotel
405 Wilkinson Blvd
Frankfort, KY 40601

There is a block of rooms reserved for conference attendees at a discount rate of $79 + tax. Mention TCF when you make your reservations at (502)-227-5100.

Get More Info:
You can find more details, contact info and registration form at their website,
http://thecompassionatefriendsfrankfortky.com

Tonight my cousin Denise lost her daughter Jessica.

It brings back memories of that night two and a half years ago. Debbie and I were sitting on our couch going through every picture of Richard we could find. We sat there crying, hugging and, if you can believe it, laughing as we looked at the images of the smiling face we’d never see again.

Maybe Denise has been doing the same thing. See that playful picture of Jessica above? Denise just posted it to Facebook to let friends and family know about Jessica’s death. She says she likes this picture. And no, that’s not Jessica’s real hair.

I’m sitting here now trying to think of some magic words to say to my sweet cousin. I’m searching for something, anything I can tell her to ease her pain and grief.

But I have no magic words. There are none.

So all I can do right now is pray for her. I hope you’ll help me if you’re a praying person. I believe in the power of prayer, especially prayers said by many people in many places.

Denise has spent many worry filled days and sleepless nights in hospitals and at home nursing her daughter after the brain surgeries she had. She has one last earthly task to do for her little girl. I pray she’ll find the strength to get through taking Jessica to her final resting place. I pray that she’ll make it through the nightmare that never ends and find peace in the coming months and years.

I pray. It’s all I know to do.

After your kid leaves this earth you do a lot of thinking – at least I do. I come up with some pretty crazy ideas too.

A few months before Richard died I was involved in a truck crash. My Toyota pickup truck verses a Big Rig. It ran over me on I-64.

It was the first week of February. That winter had been a bad one for driving. We’d had several ice storms. On that night, as I left work for the 45 mile drive home, the roads were clear.

There are two exits for Frankfort, KY on I-64, five miles apart. In the middle is the Kentucky River. You pass one exit and then descend down a long slow decline, cross the river, then drive up a long slow incline back to the top and then pass the second exit.

This area between the Frankfort exits, across the Kentucky River valley, is a moisture magnet. If there is any rain, snow or ice in the air, it will fall between those exits. I’ve been making near daily trips along this stretch of road for more than three decades now, and it’s always been that way.

So I wasn’t a bit surprised when ice started falling as I began to near Frankfort.

It was light at first, but like always it got worse the closer to Frankfort I got. The surface was soon covered in a slush and ice combo. As I passed the first exit the ice was much worse. I slowed down and shifted into 4-wheel drive mode. Driving down the hill toward the river I could feel the road grow slicker. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I slowed down more. As I got close to the bottom of the hill and the Kentucky River bridge I was probably doing between 30 and 35 miles per hour.

As I concentrated on keeping my truck on the road I remember looking up at the rearview mirror. I saw a tractor trailer truck coming up on me fast. I realized he was going to hit me, and there wasn’t a thing either of us could do at that point to keep it from happening. I don’t remember being really afraid about it, it was just a mental calculation of speed and distance, as the headlights rapidly filled my mirror.

The next thing I remember was looking up at the headliner of my truck. The seat was laid backward, so I was facing the roof. The top half of the steering wheel was bent backwards at a 90 degree angle. I grabbed it and pulled myself upright.

The truck was pointed uphill in what appeared to be a woods. The still running pickup (gotta love those Toyotas) was backed down in between several trees. I couldn’t see any road from where my truck sat. I had no idea how I had gotten there.

I unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the truck. There was some guy coming down the hill and asking, “Are you alright?”

I had a bit of a headache, and there seemed to be a bump on the back of my head, but all parts were still attached and moving when I wanted them to, so I told him I was.

I did consent to an ambulance ride to the hospital to be checked out when the medics arrived.

Many hours later the details were filled in.

The truck driver claimed to be doing 60 miles per hour when he rear-ended me. There was a sliding window in my truck cab, and I knocked the section behind the driver seat out with my head.

Got a concussion and a bit of a cut on the back of my head.

My truck was totalled.

I didn’t even remember the truck coming up on me until a couple of hours after the wreck. Until then I thought it was a single vehicle accident.

Everyone tells me I was lucky to still be alive. And that’s where the crazy thoughts come in…

Maybe I’m not still alive.

Maybe I was killed in the crash and my body is the one buried near my mom at the cemetery, not Richard’s.

I mean really, couldn’t this be hell?

I know we all think of hell as some big sea of fire. The devil prances around above with some nice cold sweet tea, and just laughs at the bad people as they suffer in the flames. That’s the hell the good Sisters of Mercy taught me about back in my Catholic grade school days.

But wouldn’t that be soft time compared to this?

Maybe when you go to hell you think you’re still alive, and the devil makes bad things happen to your family.

That’s one of the crazy thoughts I’ve had since Richard died.

I wasn’t a saint. I didn’t even get close to it. But I don’t think I was so horrible that God couldn’t forgive me and would send me straight to hell. I’m just guessing at his standards here, but I’ve never felt I was that close to the edge.

So maybe I’m not in hell. And that’s where another crazy thought comes in…

Could I have made a deal with the angel of death?

What if I was supposed to die in the crash. But while I was out of it after using my head for a hammer against the rear window, the Grim Reaper offered to let me come back, if I’d offer up one of my beautiful children in my place. Certainly either of them would be a much more valuable catch than me.

I’ve never wanted to die. The thought has always scared the crap out of me. I always liked it here. Sign me up for the immortality juice.

Could I have made a deal? Would I have done something so horrible, just to save myself?

I really love that kid, so I don’t think I would do it. I hope I wouldn’t do it.

I pray I didn’t do it.

So there are just a couple of my crazy thoughts. They are crazy, aren’t they… Or are they? Either of them could have happened. How the heck would I know if they did?

Welcome to the wacky mind of a grieving parent.

Richard was a fan of Jolly Ranchers.

In case you don’t know,  Jolly Ranchers are rectangular blocks of fruit flavored hard candy. Each Jolly Rancher comes individually wrapped in cellophane wrappers.

He had lots of them in his apartment. There were a couple of containers of them on his desk. There was a cup full on an end table. There was also a huge unopened bag of them in one of his kitchen cabinets.

Because of the strong chemicals used to fumigate Richard’s apartment after his death, I tossed out all the candy he had in open containers. I didn’t trust the cellophane wraps that were just twisted closed on the ends to keep the chemical fog away from the candy.

But I was sure the big unopened bag was OK and I brought it home when I cleaned out his apartment.

Over the past two and a half years I’ve eaten Richard’s Jolly Ranchers. I would think of him with each piece. It was like sharing a little bit of his life again.

We also “gave some to Richard” at candy giving times by tossing them on his grave – with the wrappers removed of course.

Today we went to the cemetery and did a bit of Halloween decorating at Richard’s grave. Debbie tossed out some candy for Richard.

In that candy she tossed on his grave was the last of Richard’s Jolly Ranchers. There were two left and she gave them to Richard.

They were his of course, and it’s only right he gets to finish them off. The wrappers were getting hard to peel away from the candy and it was time to do something with them.

But it seems along with the last chunk of the candy he loved and bought with his own money, another piece of my kid is gone.

Yes, that’s pretty silly when you really think about it. But then, having to bury one of your kids is pretty silly too.

Happy Halloween kid, I hope you enjoy the candy.

I’ve recently been trying to close Richard’s checking account. I know I should have done this a long time ago, but you just can’t rush some things. I would have just kept on waiting but Chase forced me into it because they started charging a “service fee” on the account. In a couple of more months the account would have been gone.

I had to make 3 visits to the bank for this, and it finally looked like things were heading to completion and they were going to issue a check and close the account. The problem is I had to deal with a different people each time I was there. The lady I talked to the last time made some calls to the front office.

As proof of my right to claim Richard’s account I brought the court order to Dispense With Administration. This order says what belonged to Richard now belongs to me.

While I was sitting there the people on the phone with the local banker lady told her I also need to provide a certified copy of the death certificate. The fact that you only administer the estate of a dead person, and therefore an order to dispense with administration means the person in question, in this case Richard, has passed away.

So I left the bank to go home for a copy of the death certificate.

Just after I walked in the door at home, the phone rang. It was the lady from the bank. The front office told her that my order to dispense didn’t apply to them because Richard’s checking account wasn’t listed on the order.

Perhaps I should do a quick review of the legal process involved here. Oh, by the way, I’m not an attorney, I don’t play one on TV, and if you need legal advice of any kind please seek real legal council.

The Legal Side of the Death of Your Child

When someone dies their estate must be dealt with. This involves taking care of any debts they left behind and distributing their assets to the proper people. This is handled in one of two ways:

1. If the person had a will, his wishes as spelled out in the will must be executed. This means someone must be appointed to be the executor of the estate.
2. If there is no will, termed dying intestate, the estate must be administered using guidelines provided by the state. The person appointed to represent the estate is an administrator.

Richard didn’t have a will.

Early on after his death, we went to court with the help of our attorney, and I was appointed to be the administrator of Richard’s estate. The idea of Richard having an estate still seems totally bizarre to me.

After being declared the administrator I next had to provide an inventory of Richard’s assets and also a list of any known claims against his property – his debts. Next his death is published with a call for anyone with claims against the estate to come forward. There is a six month period in Kentucky for claims against the estate to be made.

In our case Richard was a single college kid. He had no wife or children. Because he had no will and no dependents, in Kentucky Richard’s parents, us, would become his heirs and would take ownership of anything left after his creditors were paid.

I don’t know if  it works this way anywhere else, but in Kentucky there are “preferred creditors.” They get paid first. At the top of the preferred creditor list is the funeral provider. Because I paid for his funeral, I was at the top of that preferred creditor list. Richard’s estate had to reimburse me for the cost of his funeral before anyone else could be paid.

The property he left behind totalled less than $2000. The funeral cost dwarfed this amount. It was many times that amount.

This meant his estate wasn’t big enough to cover the funeral expenses. It also meant no other creditors could be paid. The credit card companies he owed money to were just out of luck.  It aslo meant waiting the state required six months would be a waste of time.

Our lawyer went to court with me and we asked the court to speed the process up. This is called Dispensing With Administration. The court acknowledged my positon as the lone preferred creditor, and that no other creditor would be paid. The inventory of the estate, both assets and liabilities were listed and the court declared Richard’s property to now be my property.

But I forgot to list his checking account in the inventory.

If common sense mattered in the world, this wouldn’t make any difference. We can only wish for that, because there is very little common sense in the world and none in the banking industry.

It should be pretty easy to figure out that adding the just over $100 value of Richard’s checking account to the asset inventory would still not bring the total remotely close to the $14,000 cost of his funeral, and the order to Dispense with Administration would still apply. It should also be obvious that after two and a half years, the six month claim period for creditors to come forward was long past, and the estate would have been transferred to his heirs a long time ago even without the order to dispense. We are his heirs.

But Chase wants to be a pain.

So our attorney is now going back into court to have the Order to Dispense amended to include Richard’s checking account.

It will take a little longer to close his account. Chase has charged another monthly service charge in this delay period. They’ll get to give it back.

Today I’m exhausted.

I’ve begun the process of taking care of all my unfinished Richard business. It’s a pretty impressive to-do list. There are just so many little things that need to be done, so many loose ends that need tying.

In the early days after Richard’s death I had a lot of energy to get all the legal and financial things taken care of. I felt like making sure Richard’s money was secured, and his final financial house was in order, was one last thing I could do for my kid. But you can’t just go and transfer funds, and close accounts. You need legal documentation that says you have the right to do those things. That’s a good thing, because we don’t want someone to be able to come in and transfer all our money out of our bank accounts without jumping through a whole bunch of hoops.

But there was a problem. This process all begins with the death certificate. It took three months to get Richard’s death certificate. That’s a long time to wait, and to maintain the desire to force yourself to do emotionally hard tasks.

It also turns out most financial institutions won’t let you access accounts with only a death certificate. You need court orders that give you authority. This of course takes more time.

Richard left behind a checking account, a small mutual fund account, a couple of paychecks, a broke down Camero, and assorted credit card bills.

The credit cards were taken care of as soon as it was legally possible. I had an attorney do that for me. Credit card companies seem to take the news that they won’t be getting any money much better when a lawyer tells them.

It’s the other items, the assets, that I’m struggling with.

They’re like little pieces of him left behind. I know it sounds silly, but closing those items out is sort of like he’s dying all over again. At least a little bit.

He had an automatic draft from his checking account of $50 each month going to his mutual fund. I had to stop that as soon as the death certificate arrived because his checking account balance got too low to make another payment. $50 bucks a month wasn’t much, but it was just an example of Richard’s plans for the future. The future that will never be. But I can still feel his hopes and dreams when I look at his account statements that come to our mail box.

It’s really hard to let go of those pieces of him.  So, I’ve been putting it off.

I’ve been forced to deal with it.

Chase bank has started charging his account a monthly maintenance fee. In a couple of months they have all that’s left in there. I don’t think he’d like that. So I’ve spent the last couple of days dealing with the bank to get his account closed. He had some sort of reward points that I’m having converted to cash. They’re worth nearly $100. It’s taking them a long time to post the funds to his account, so I’m still waiting to close it out.

The emotional stress of such a simple thing as closing a bank account is exhausting.

I still have to transfer his mutual fund into my name. I need to do something with his car that’s rotting in our driveway. And I need to have his two final paychecks, that expired before we could get the death certificate, reissued.

I don’t want to do any of those things. But I guess the time has come.

It’s now been two and a quater years since Richard died. It seems like it was just yesterday, and it feels like it’s been a lifetime.

After all this time, I still often feel like it’s not real… like Richard is still here. I often expect him to walk into the house, and just flash that sheepish grin when he sees our shocked expression. I just don’t feel like he’s really dead.

Then the tidal wave will wash over me. You know, that tsunami that just overwhelms you when you realize you’ll never see your kid again… at least on this earth. I think that’s my brain talking. My brain has processed Richard’s death and added that piece of data to all the rest it has stored away. And every so often, my brain has to assert itself and point out the facts as it knows them. Richard is dead, and I’m not going to see him again.

So why do I keep getting this feeling that’s not really true?

When we think about our feelings we most often talk about them coming from the heart. I know I find myself even clutching my chest when I think about these strong feelings. Like they’re coming from deep within. From my very core.

I wonder, is this where our soul is?

Is our soul at our core, at our heart?

I use the term soul because of my religious faith. But maybe that’s not what you call it. I’m talking about that spiritual part of us, the part that keeps on going when our body stops. The part of us we believe is eternal.

Does our soul know those other souls are out there, the ones that no longer are tied to a human body? Can it “feel” their presence even when we can’t see them? What does the soul know?

When I think of Richard, and wonder where he is, even speak out to him, I find myself looking to the sky – to the heavens. Most religions even call that place our souls go “Heaven”. Is that where he is now, out in the sky somewhere?

Or is he right here still, but just in another dimension – one our physical bodies can’t detect? Maybe Richard is here now, looking over my shoulder as I type.

We know of at best 4 dimensions: length, width, height and time. That’s all we can tell about with our limited bodies. But physicists believe there are many, many times more dimensions. I read a book called The Black Hole Wars that dealt with the battle of the physicists over these theories. It talked about string theory and it made my head hurt. But these guys are all pretty darn sure there are a bunch of dimensions.

Maybe one of those dimensions is where the spirit lives. Could be right here on earth, kind of a parallel universe. And maybe our souls know it’s there. It can’t communicate with it in any fashion we understand – except maybe for a few “sensitive” people. But still, our soul has some connection with that place.

And that’s why deep down inside we know our kids are still with us. Our brains don’t get it.

But our souls know.