It is now a little later on the 16th of February (but still mid-morning), and several friends have now come and gone. This is when I begin to feel horribly alone and even more angry than I already was. A very dear friend, seeing this, says "Come on, let's go see what we can do to get your family tickets to get back home for the funeral and everything." I begin to cry again and say "There's no way we CAN go. It doesn't even matter what it costs because we just put everything we have into this business, to try and make a future for our family." And the tears start again. Our friend M just puts his arm around my shoulder and says "Come on sis, I'll help you and we'll get this done. I am sure that we'll figure out the payment part later." So I went with him and we went to the Travel Agency, which was 2 doors down from the bed and breakfast. I was surprised that I was able to walk even that far without falling down or falling apart. But I did.
Why is it that when you are grieving everything is 100 times more difficult than it is otherwise?? I mean, I had booked a gazillion flights in the last 20 years; both of our older kids had "other" parents, so they began traveling at the ages of about 7 and 5. This time, however, was completely different. It seems like every question the agent asked, I had to say "I don't know" as the answer. Danny's father was holding the funeral a couple of days so we could try and be there, so I only had vague answers for almost everything. When it was all said and done, we flew out on the 16th and arrived in Oregon early that evening. The 17th was spent at the funeral home, viewing our son. I remember how the smell of ammonia and some other undefined smells permeated the air. You know how folks say nothing smells like the smell of a funeral home?? Well, they are right ... absolutely nothing does. I remember mostly how stifling the smell was, how invasive it felt, as though the smell itself was going to become imbedded, somehow, in your very skin or your very being. I saw the open casket and came to an abrupt stop in the aisle.
Why is it that when you are grieving everything is 100 times more difficult than it is otherwise?? I mean, I had booked a gazillion flights in the last 20 years; both of our older kids had "other" parents, so they began traveling at the ages of about 7 and 5. This time, however, was completely different. It seems like every question the agent asked, I had to say "I don't know" as the answer. Danny's father was holding the funeral a couple of days so we could try and be there, so I only had vague answers for almost everything. When it was all said and done, we flew out on the 16th and arrived in Oregon early that evening. The 17th was spent at the funeral home, viewing our son. I remember how the smell of ammonia and some other undefined smells permeated the air. You know how folks say nothing smells like the smell of a funeral home?? Well, they are right ... absolutely nothing does. I remember mostly how stifling the smell was, how invasive it felt, as though the smell itself was going to become imbedded, somehow, in your very skin or your very being. I saw the open casket and came to an abrupt stop in the aisle.
For his 18th birthday, Danny's older sister had gotten him a tattoo with three stars and it was on his forearm. I hadn't gotten to see it but he had on a long sleeve shirt, buttoned all proper and all. I softly unbuttoned the cuff at his left wrist and slowly, ever so gently (as though he'd feel this and it might wake him) I rolled up the sleeve and looked at the tattoo. It was nice and simple; the total opposite of who my Danny had been. In life he had been just as complicated to understand as his death was.
I just stood there, holding his hand and smoothing his hair. I remember that I didn't get to see his eyes and, my God, he had beautiful eyes. I still remember and am moved to tears even now as I write this and try to give a description of something that really, in all honesty, cannot truly be described.
My heart was empty. There was a huge hole where Danny once was. I mean, he is still "there", in my heart ... just not "here" ... if that makes any sense to anyone but me. I was numb. The space where my heart used to be hurt. But it couldn't hurt right?? I mean, that didn't make sense to me then .... how could my heart hurt when I knew that it was just gone?? I was pretty sure I just simply had no more heart because Danny WAS my heart and he was gone ... so it must be gone too.
The 18th brought the funeral. Dave and I rode with my sister and brother-in-law to the cemetery, because we all knew that there was no way either of us were driving. On the way there, I remember listening to an Alabama CD ... well, I didn't remember that's who it was until after the burial, but I digress. We sat in the front row and I just couldn't quit crying. It wasn't like I was sobbing and wailing, but the tears fell effortlessly and endlessly down my already wet cheeks and I didn't even bother wiping them away. I mean, what would have been the point, really?? I knew that I would be crying for a very, very long time to come.
I don't remember a lot of what was said at the burial, but I DO remember the speaker asking this question: "Is it ok for us to now lower the body into the ground??" and I looked at him and retorted "Well, if I say NO, will that stop you from doing it?? Will it bring him back??" and the poor man just looked at Danny's father for support. I don't remember what he said or did at that time, but I DO remember sitting so long at the graveside that I was the last person to be there ... and when I finally turned to go some time later, THAT is when they lowered my Danny into the ground.
When we got in the car to go to the hotel for the night, the Alabama song was still in but almost immediately the song "I Believe There Are Angels Among Us" began to play and I began to weep quietly. Later we determined that wasn't the song that had been playing when we left the car and determined that God was talking to me to remind me that Danny was His and He had taken him home.
I honestly don't remember if the memorial at the community hall was before or after the burial. In fact, sitting here writing this, I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess. I do know that a friend of Danny's wrote a beautiful song and then sang it for him. I remember that the hall was packed full of kids who had only known Danny a total of maybe 2 years but they all were his friends. I remember young person after young person getting up and saying "Well, I thought I was his best friend" ... and reveling in the fact that he had left such a mark on so many people.
Finally, I stood up to say something, but I found that the words caught in my throat and I couldn't share verbally. So I began to sing and the words that came out where these: "In His time, in His time, He makes all things beautiful in His time, Lord please show me every day as You're teaching me Your way that You do just what You say in Your time." Immediately after that, my heart began to remember the lullaby that I had written for Danny when he was a tiny baby and I sang that next. "Good night, little sweet lamb, sleep tight my little lamb, in the land where sheep jump fences good night good night" ... and a bit more. I believe it was right after that when it truly hit me that Danny was gone and truly never coming home again. I remember standing by the wood burning stove with my long wool coat on because I simply could not get warm. I had been cold to the bone from the moment I had heard about Danny's death and that's something that I don't think even a scientist could explain well.
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