What Do You Remember?

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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.