Knowledge is good, vocabulary even better, learning a whole new vocabulary…enlightening, empowering. I was able to read a bit lately, a skill and pleasure that has eluded me these past 18 months since Justin’s death. One of the books I read was written by a bereaved mother, she knew who she was writing for…large print, short sentences. I opened it up and thought “I can do this.” In it I found the words I need, the language that makes sense in the new country I live in now. The past 18 months have been a blur of glyphs, foreign, unrecognizable, yet they are how I perceive the sensory stream that bombards us everyday. Experiences like these remind me of what “veteran” parents tell us, “you are not, nor will you ever be the same person you were before your child died.”
Yesterday had been a decent day, had gotten a lot done, then I got an email from work…an innocent email, a necessary email, a simple exchange of pertinent information for a wedding I was working in May. And then I read that there was to be a piper at the wedding, to pipe the bride and groom out of the church and to play a bit afterwards. My world crashed. A piper was the only thing I was not able to coordinate for Justin’s funeral…I tried…but it simply didn’t happen. The keening cry that came from me was the same as that first night of Justin’s death, and the tape started to play as if it was happening fresh. We learned of Justin’s death at 12:10 PM on a Monday, by 4 PM that afternoon Doug was already on a plane to Washington state to tell Ryan of his brother’s death. We begged and pleaded with those who had a “need to know” not to share with anyone until Doug could get to Ryan…about 1 or 2 AM our time. By 5:30 PM I was at the funeral home making arrangements and ordering a coffin from the Trappist Monks out in the midwest. Got back home from funeral home and started the list making, the detailing of every person we talked to on a legal pad for future reference, organizing towels, blankets, sheets for incoming guests.
I had offers from folks to stay the night with me as Doug would not return from Washington until Tuesday afternoon, I declined all offers. I needed to be alone, I had no fear of being alone. I slept not all, but grieved as only a mother can grieve when she knows her son is lying on a cold coroner’s table in a town in Minnesota that she never heard of…powerless, helpless, my baby cold and alone. And when dawn came, I showered and went and did my job, I opened the church and did what I needed to do. That is how we were raised, you get up and do the next thing, whatever the next right thing is to do.
As we planned Justin’s funeral Mass the one thing I really wanted was to secure a piper to have him piped from the church to the cemetery, just a short walk from the church. I had a contact, had tried to connect, and it didn’t happen. Justin loved bagpipes, was the only person I knew who had bagpipe CD’s…the pipes have always pulled at my heart, but Justin really connected with them. And he didn’t have a piper, we got so much done and at some point I even remember saying to myself that I needed to focus on what I could do, do that well, and not fret about the piper…to let it go. But it rips my heart now…and I had no idea that it would until I got that email yesterday.
At least now I can understand why, the bagpipes were a “trigger”, something that caused a flashback as intense as the initial event. Dread fills every part of my being now knowing that I have to face hearing a piper, the anticipation of having to work and maintain a professional, cordial, detached persona is suffocating, the weight on my chest is crushing. I have come to understand that working a wedding is a trigger event. I thought that it would get easier, but I started to dread every wedding. I would see the young groomsmen and think of Justin, he had the honor of being groomsman at many of his friends weddings. I would see the groom and my heart would cry as I realized that I would never smooth the lapel on Justin’s tux, never fuss with his boutonniere just because I could…would not have the joy of seeing Justin and Ryan stand with each other as they took those milestone steps in their lives. And on the outside, I faked it, because it was expected of me, I was good at weddings, better at funerals even, until after Justin’s.
I was good at working funerals, death being no stranger to my family or Doug’s, between us we had buried fathers, a mother, grandmothers, brothers, a sister, a young niece, aunts and uncles…we were not unfamiliar with grief. But nothing prepares you to bury a child. I worked a funeral 5 weeks after we buried Justin and I felt real fear and dread, but it was my job, so I did it. I worked a lot of funerals and with each one the dread grew greater, not less. Every funeral was a flashback to Justin’s to where there was such a duality in my head that I would be exhausted for a couple of days afterwards, the way the sun fell through the windows, the music, they all were triggers for me to relive that event.
I have learned that I am not strange, crazy, weak, emotional, “taking it hard” or refusing to “suck it up”, I have learned that this is normal for parental grief. We can’t always avoid our triggers, but wisdom speaks to prudent evaluation of exposure to our triggers until we have the tools in our toolbox to outwit them. There is sorrow in recognizing that work that once was pleasant and fulfilling, not always easy, but very satisfying, now causes an almost instant tension headache, a restless anxiety until it is complete. Do not be tempted to tell me to “get over it”, “deal with it”, “keep pushing through”, if I got up this morning, made coffee, fed the animals, emptied the dishwasher, then I have done well. Imagine my relief in both speaking to bereaved parents and reading their stories, that it is not unusual to find your life on a completely different path, that what you “did” before no longer fits. The grieving process is all about adaptation, integration, it is an intense learning process, it is a search for meaning and purpose.
Justin, I am so sorry…I feel like I let you down…I forgot a sweater for you, a soft blanket, and the little stuffed dog that your grandmother gave you that you always kept on your shelf, I fret about that you know and I can’t get to you now, its too late to tuck them in with you. Sorry about the piper…so sorry…
