Sharing my mourning journey as my family learns to live a new normal after the death of my 19 y.o. son in an auto accident on 10/12/08.

Archive for the ‘cremation’ Category

How To Decorate A Christmas Tree

While driving my daughters home from school the other day, one of my daughters asked, “Mama, can we put all of the ornaments that Jordan made in a box and then have one special section of the tree that’s just for his ornaments?”

Luckily I was at a red light because tears sprang to my eyes as I said, “I think that’s a beautiful idea.”

Both girls asked at the same time, “Why are you crying?”

“Because I’m imagining our tree and I like your idea so much. It’s beautiful. I’m crying too because I miss Jordan.”

One daughter handed me a tissue, as the other rubbed my back.

“It’s okay, Mama.”

“I know. Thank you”

 

We’ve yet to get our Christmas tree. Before Jordan died we went as a family to pick out a tree. Everyone weighed in before we would make our final decision on our perfect tree. Jordan always liked the fuller trees with the feathery leaves. Mark wanted the tallest tree our house could hold. Merrick, the girls and I liked the trees with the firmer branches that were taller and not as wide. Every year after we’d picked a tree I would race back to the car, fleeing the cold. I’d sit and watch Mark with the kids trailing behind him or swirling around him.

The family ritual of all of us piling into the car and heading to the same lot every year to choose a tree has changed. Since Jordan died, just Mark and I go to pick out a tree. Our first Christmas, Mark and I went to a tree lot we had never been to before and picked up our Christmas tree on the way home from the grocery store. It wasn’t a decision we discussed, but as we turned onto Chicago Avenue I looked at Mark and said, “Let’s just get the tree here.” He made a quick right turn and parked. We hadn’t talked to the kids about changing our ritual but neither one of us could bear to go as a family to pick out a tree without Jordan.

Our first Christmas tree without Jordan was decorated only with lights. None of us could bear our usual tradition of gathering around the tree, adding ornaments while Mark played Christmas carol DJ, responding to the shouted out requests, “Play Rudolph,” “No, it my turn, Jackson 5, “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.” Invariably Jordan would sneak over and switch the music to, “This Christmas,” by Donny Hathaway and his siblings would shout out together, “Jordan!”

Last year Merrick suggested a new Christmas ritual. “How about if we put an ornament on the tree whenever we feel like it instead of doing it together. We can just do it when we’re walking by the tree if we feel like it. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”  We all agreed and over several days our tree was slowly filled with ornaments. There was even a moment when I went into the living room

After listening to Lindsay’s suggestions for our tree this year, I thought of other “ornaments,” that can adorn our tree. Jordan’s key ring, which still holds his house keys, will be hung from a branch. A set of ear buds will be on the tree too representing the way Jordan carried music with him all the time. And an ornament will be made out of a picture of Jordan wearing one of his favorite hoodies, the way we remember him best. All of these ornaments will be in a box near the tree. Each of us in our own time and communion with Jordan will add them to the tree keeping him close and a part of our Christmas.

 

Christmas 2007

Jordan breaking out in song

 

 

 

The picture of Jordan that will made into an ornament

 

 

Category:

auto accident, celebrations, cremation, holidays, new traditions

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Sweet Honey In The Rock To End The Day

To all of you still visiting my blog I say thank you. Writing has been difficult for me lately. Grief doesn’t follow any specific path and I’m learning to lean into what is happening so that as my friend Tom tells me I can, “Feel what I’m feeling.”

I was fortunate to hear Sweet Honey in the Rock perform this past weekend. If they’re ever in your town make sure to see them. One of their songs put writing in my heart again. Your comments are welcomed and needed. Thanks

My morning started with the thought, “Why did they get to keep their sons and I didn’t.” I sat up straight in bed knowing that no more rest would come. All that day the, “Why them and not me,” feeling latched on invading most of my thoughts. I wanted Jordan. It was snowing out and I wanted to call him, hearing his sleepy voice as I described what home looked like in a blanket of snow.

“Are you warm enough? Are you wearing your heavy coat?”

“Yes Mom, I’m fine.”

That’s the conversation I wanted but there’s no number to call anymore. I stayed in my pajamas most of the day, which is such a rarity for me that my kids asked if I was sick. I told them, “No, I’m just looking at this snowy day and trying to feel cozy.” I knew later in the evening I’d get dressed because Mark and I were going to a concert but the day was spent wrapped in warmth wondering when the hurt of longing would lessen.

The night was icy and the snow had the crunch of cold. As we walked to the car bracing against the wind, Mark and I joked, “This better be the best concert we’ve ever been to.” Sweet Honey in the Rock was singing at a local college and I was excited to see them. Since college I’d missed going to their concerts for a variety of reasons but I was determined to hear them sing. They sing a mixture of folk, gospel, spirituals, jazz, blues and all of it with their voices as the only instruments. My college friend Melissa was the first to rave about their concerts. Everyone who saw them told me that you leave their concerts transformed.

As we settled into our seats a woman we’d met at the reception before the concert sat next to Mark. She was an administrator at the University and we talked at the variety of guests that came to perform. While making small talk she asked, “How many kids do you have?” Mark told her, “We have 4. Twin girls who are 11, a son who is 18 and our oldest boy was 19 when he was killed in a car accident.” I studied my program as he talked knowing the story by heart but still flinching when he said, “killed.” I briefly looked up and made eye contact with our row mate as her eyes offered condolences and then went back to the program. The lights dimmed and the concert began.

After a lively upbeat intro song called “Denko,” one of the singers introduced the song they were about to sing saying, “All of us have plans for what we want to happen after we die. Sometimes those plans are followed, sometimes they’re not.” She then went on to sing, “When I Die,” with the rest of the group repeating in perfect harmony the phrase, “When I Die,” as her, “music.” As the song started, Mark reached over and rested his hand on my knee. I could tell by his touch that he worried about the hard start to my day and if this was a song I could bear to hear. I squeezed his hand, closed my eyes and chose to be a part of the song.

Jordan’s voice was in my head as I sat up straighter swaying to the refrain, “When I Die, When I Die.”

“When I die, I want to be cremated.” That was Jordan’s desire expressed to Mark and me. We filed it away in the far recesses of our hearts because we didn’t think we’d need to carry them out. Gratitude filled me because we’d listened to Jordan and carried out his wishes. Then a perfect voice sang out, “When I die let my spirit breathe, let it soar like an eagle to the highest tree,” and I touched my throat as I imagined Jordan’s spirit soaring higher than it ever could on this earth. I opened my eyes briefly then quickly closed them back tight. I needed to experience this song without distraction. It meant hearing it and feeling it without worrying about what others around me were doing or how I looked to them.

“When I die, when I die,” the song continued and I thought of Jordan’s ashes and our need to spread them far and wide to signify the world traveler he would have been. I feel guilty that it is taking us so long to spread his ashes. It has been two years and we’re only starting to plan the journeys for Jordan’s ashes. The words to the song entered my body interrupting all guilty thoughts, “Well, well when I die you can cast me out into the ocean wide.  Let my spirit cry, let it enter the tears that make the ocean deep and wide.” Eyes still closed I saw Mark and I standing on a beach releasing Jordan’s ashes into the sea saying goodbye and safe travels one last time. The tears started to fall and I did nothing to stop them. The song held a truth that freed me from one of my burdens. I whispered to myself, “What do you believe? What do you believe? Then the answer came, “Jordan is safe. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. Jordan is safe.”

I leaned back into the song and rocked as I heard the next refrain,

“Oh, oh, oh when I die, toss me out into the winds of time

Let my ashes roam, blow here blow there

I know I’m gonna find my true home”

Tears streamed down my face as the song washed over me. The truth was there begging to be accepted. “When I Die.” The when for Jordan was an answered question. There is nothing I can do about the when. I listened to voices covering and comforting me and asked my heart to accept that Jordan is safe. In the long nights when sleep won’t come and all I want is to have my boy home, I can take comfort if I choose to believe Jordan is safe. I don’t have to worry about him any more. Many questions linger but that one can be put to rest if I allow it.

The fact that he is gone and he’s here is settling in and slowly finding it’s rightful spot within me. I feel him in the bright red cardinal that perches outside my window, peering in looking straight at me as I call him Jordan by name. Jordan’s spirit is in the coincidences of his name appearing or being overheard when I miss him most. He is in the emails, texts and notes from his friends reaching out to me when I ache for him. A beautiful song opened a small part of my heart to that truth. My sorrow hasn’t evaporated and my heart is not burden free. But there is a feeling of relief akin to joy to be able to put one of my worries to rest. Jordan is safe. No more harm can come to him.

“When I die, let these bones take root, let the seed that been planted let ‘em come up bearing fruit”

Category:

anger, anniversaries, auto accident, cremation, death of son, grief, Jordan, motherhood, mourning, spreading ashes

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11-18-49 Hike!

 

Halloween circa 2002

It is the last day of October. In the shower this morning I stood and cried, thinking of Jordan, freshly feeling the pain of losing him, and how we lost him. Water fell around me as the intrusions of traumatic days and dates surged causing me to sob. In 2008, October 11th was the day Jordan told me he was going to Baltimore. The 12th is the day he died in a car accident. On October 13th, in the early morning hours the news of his death was forced upon us. The 16th is the day we viewed his body one last time at the funeral home. The 17th was the day he was cremated and the 18th was the day of his Memorial service.

On the heels of all these days comes October 20th, Merrick’s birthday. A bright spot that feels flung at us after the pounding traumatic remembrances early October brings. The 20th is the gasp of air given to my family after being held underwater for days by shock, flashbacks, turmoil and grief. I got to breathe a little knowing there was life to celebrate even though it was swirling with the vestiges of death and loss that wafted around us.

Merrick approached his 18th birthday with resolve and reflection. I asked him what he thought about such a milestone birthday, being able to vote, society’s view of him as a quasi adult? He felt more circumspect than excited. “This time next year my friends and I will be scattered around the country, attending different colleges. Our time as, “the guys” hanging out together like we do now will be over. “ I listened to his words, hearing no cynicism only the matter-of-factness that is a by-product of facing the loss of his brother. “The world is yours,” promise, so giddy and hopeful in it’s bumper sticker mentality doesn’t resonate the hopefulness the way I always imagined it would for all of my children. Merrick has firsthand knowledge that nothing is really promised. I selfishly wanted Merrick to proudly declare, “I’m 18,” with excitement. He didn’t and he wasn’t. I watched him try to find traction for celebration after days of lost sleep, quiet contemplation and wanting. The ultimate and unreachable gift, his brother to congratulate him on being 18 was unattainable. Awareness of mortality, embracing moments, and a loss of innocence were firmly placed in Merrick’s path in the month of October.

Yesterday my parents were here briefly as they started a train trip to the West Coast. They’ve always wanted to travel cross-country by train, replete with sleeper car and the luxury of time. October 28th was their 49th wedding anniversary and after years of talking about travelling by train, this year they are doing it. They sat at my kitchen table talking about the books and movies they brought along with them for their trip. I go through my checklist and they tell me they remembered the camera and look forward to sitting in the observation car watching the landscape float by. They’re finally taking one of their dream trips and a part of me senses how final it feels. As independent as they are, Daddy needs a wheelchair to get him onto the train. I ask him if he has his medication and how his arthritis plagued ankles are holding up? His response is as it always is, “Oh girl, I feel good. The doctor says I’m fine.” I ask who is picking them up from the train station and they tell me their high school friend will be there to meet them. Daddy laughs, excited about catching up with old friends. He tells me that his friend wanted him to bring him a taste of moonshine. I laugh along with him but am relieved that none of them will be drinking moonshine. Clearly their West Virginia roots are still firmly entrenched. Mark takes them to the train station and I stand in the driveway waving and yelling, “Have fun.” I walk back inside thinking and praying, “I hope they have a good time. Don’t let anyone get sick.  Bring them home safely.”

Today is Halloween and I witness my 11 year old daughters pour bags of candy into a basket that will be empty by the end of the evening after all the trick-or-treaters make their way by our home. The girls’ excitement this year is less about running from house to house filling their candy bags to the brim, than it is about attending their friend’s haunted house party. Wanly I watch them, glimpsing the teenagers they will soon be. They are my youngest and my wish to have time stand still, to keep their youthful exuberance about costumes and counting their candy at the end of the evening, “Mama, I got 3 BIG candy bars,” is overpowering. I’m stuck in a nostalgia time warp that is making me teary in wanting things I cannot have. The days of having a parent accompany my daughters, waiting on the sidewalk as they run from house to house, racing to ring the doorbell are over. They look forward to trick-or treating with a group of their friends. If I want to hear them say, “Trick or treat,” this year I’ll have to force myself on them or follow them from a distance. They are acting like typical “middle schoolers” and my gratitude that they embrace normal activities without being too weighted down by grief is tempered by wariness and melancholy. What am I doing letting them explore the world and have independence? Am I insane? I’ve lost a child, yet I keep encouraging my others to find their way in the world.

I made it through October again. A new month beckons and as ceremonial as it is, I’m relieved that the calendar page is about to turn. I need the surges of grief and middle of the night weeping that are now hallmarks of October to be quieted.

Category:

anniversaries, auto accident, brothers, celebrations, cremation, death of son, grief, guilt, Halloween, insomnia, motherhood, mourning

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Getting Jordan Ready

Jordan and I at his sixth grade graduation ceremony.

I had always shopped for my family’s clothes. There were family jokes about my shopping prowess, even with my extended family when we were all together. I remember one Thanksgiving when my brother-in-law looked around my parents’ family room and observed, “Jackie dressed all of us.” Everybody looked down and realized they were wearing some article of clothing I had picked out for them as a gift.

I always liked the fact that I could shop for my teenage sons and they trusted my taste. Jordan would seem a bit surprised at times when I would come home with a t-shirt or sweatshirt that was exactly the kind of thing he would have picked for himself. I still remember when I bought him a t-shirt with a picture of Tupac Shakur on the front. Jordan loved the shirt and asked how I knew he was, “Into Tupac?” I told him, “I’ve known you for a long time. I notice what you’re listening to and reading.” I would also jokingly add, “I wasn’t born with the name “Mama”, I used to be a teenager too.”

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan.” My sister-in-law Cheryl leaned down and gently whispered these words to me when she came back from running an errand. Cheryl had told me before that they needed the clothes by Tuesday, but I had been unable to collect them or ask anyone else to do it. The time had come for me to dress my son for the last time. When Cheryl came in, Mark and I were sitting in the living room with our family friend Larry who had come over to meet with my sister Julie. She was going to assist Larry in writing the obituary for the memorial service program. Julie could provide details that only family would know. When Larry arrived, Julie was at our church with Mark’s other sister Leslie. They were meeting with our Pastor to finalize arrangements for the memorial service.

We’d asked Larry to write Jordan’s obituary not because he was a professional writer, but because his son Matt was one of Jordan’s best friends and Jordan spent a good part of most weekends at their home. Matt’s house, more correctly, Matt’s basement was the hangout for Jordan and all of his friends. I used to tease Larry and his wife saying that there were times that they saw more of Jordan than Mark and I did. I knew they loved and respected Jordan. Larry was Jordan’s little league baseball coach and took as much pride as we did in his academic accomplishments. He was the first person to come to mind to handle the task of giving account of the life of our sweet boy. We knew that Larry would do Jordan’s short, but full life on this earth justice. Jordan had vacationed with Matt and his parents on a trip to Mexico when they were in elementary school. For the trip, we had to fill out forms giving Larry and his wife permission to carry our son to a foreign country. They were Jordan’s “In Loco Parentis (in the place of a parent)” for the trip, and trusted caregivers for the rest of his life.

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan.” I knew that when Cheryl made the request this time, I could no longer avoid picking out clothes for my son. We were having a private family viewing of Jordan’s body on Thursday before the cremation and before the memorial service on Saturday. Cheryl had to take the clothes to the funeral home that same day when she and my in-laws went to make sure everything was in order for the viewing. There was no time left. For me it was the first of many things that I would deem as my “last time as his mother” gesture. I understood the finality of my task but I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. With all of my apprehension I didn’t ask for help. I needed to get the clothes alone. I knew that picking out clothes this time did not signal a party or celebration no matter how hard I tried to will away October 12th.  My “mother self” was in control and compelled me for this last time to pick out clothes for my son the way I always had.

Mark and I had decided Jordan would wear a suit because we knew that is what he would have wanted. Even as a boy, Jordan was transformed when he put on a suit. He stood taller, acted more mature and emulated his dad. The first suit Jordan wore that wasn’t from the boys’ department was for his eighth grade dance. He had to accompany me to the store because he had grown taller and needed to be measured for his first suit in the men’s department. He and I went to Men’s Wearhouse and I explained to him how they would take measurements to determine his suit size. As we looked around, Jordan picked out a black suit with a grey pinstripe. I was surprised at the conservativeness of his choice, thinking that he would pick something more colorful and flashy that matched the suits of the athletes and hip- hop stars that he liked and saw on television. When I expressed my surprise to him about his choice, he just shrugged and explained he liked the way his Dad looked in a suit and that was the look he was going for. The evening of the dance, Jordan came downstairs tie in hand asking his dad for help. Prior to this occasion Mark or I would tie the boys’ ties, but this time, Jordan wanted to learn so that he would be able to do it himself. I sat watching for a few moments as Mark simultaneously tied Jordan’s tie and provided verbal instructions. I jumped up to get the camera realizing that this was a special father/son moment-Mark showing his oldest son how to tie a tie- that we’d want to capture and be able to look back on as a milestone moment.

Jordan getting ready for 8th grade dance.

For every occasion after that initial “man’s” suit, Jordan held true to form and always went for a look that could have easily taken him to any courtroom, or boardroom. He always looked so grown up and so handsome in a suit and he knew it. I used to tease him about learning how to accept compliments. Whenever he would come downstairs preparing to go to a dance at school or church, or other special occasions, we would all tell him how nice he looked and he would reply in his deepening voice with an exaggerated, “Yes I know” and we would laugh. I always told him how much like my father he was at these times. Daddy’s response to the same compliment was always with mock indignation, “You don’t have to tell me, I know I look good.”

“The funeral home needs the clothes for Jordan,” echoed in my head as I walked up the stairs, leaving Mark talking with Larry. “You can do this, just get the things and give them to Cheryl. You’re okay.” I repeated that phrase over and over as I went up to Jordan’s room and opened his closet door. I knew exactly what he would wear and that there would be a set of headphones in his pocket. Jordan never went anywhere without his Ipod. I wanted to make sure he would have headphones in his pocket to symbolize that fact. I immediately went to Jordan’s dresser hoping he’d left a spare set of headphones in his room. I looked in his dresser, feeling uncomfortable like I was snooping. In his top drawer I quickly found a spare set of headphones and placed them on top of the dresser so I wouldn’t forget them. I stood for a moment and then opened his closet door. I picked up the hanger that held the black suit he had worn to his high school graduation. I then picked out his goldenrod colored shirt that he wore for his Senior High School portrait.

He loved that shirt. That past summer he told me that one day during his internship in DC while on the train he had been complimented by a lady who told him that the color looked really nice on him. I then pulled a tie from the rack on the side of his closet. It was a tie that he picked out for a “Sadie Hawkins” dance at his high school and had worn numerous times after that occasion. All of these clothes were still in Jordan’s closet because he had left them behind when going back to college in August. His intent was to take his more formal clothes to school when he came home for Thanksgiving.

I touched his suit and shirt and was overcome remembering all the occasions Jordan had worn a suit. My mind started racing, “What am I doing?”, “How did this happen?”, “Not Jordan, not Jordan.”  I leaned against the closet door clutching the hangers that held his clothes and tried not to fall down. One small moan escaped my lips and then I said, “No” directed forcefully to me.  I was determined that I would dress my child for the last time. I was his mother and I needed to have this last chance of doing what I had always enjoyed doing, but what was now so heartbreakingly ceremonial and final.

I looked through Jordan’s dresser trying to find a white t-shirt to go under his shirt because that is how he always wore his shirts. I couldn’t find one in his drawer and thought to myself, “He probably took all of his to school with him. I’ll just get one of Mark’s.” As I walked across the hall to my bedroom the absurdity played out in my head, “He doesn’t need a t-shirt, it doesn’t matter anymore.” I shook my head as if that would knock loose the reality that these clothes would be the ones we saw when we walked into the funeral home viewing room, and they would be the ones he wore when he was cremated.

Just as these thoughts overpowered any notion I had that I could do this task alone, my sister came upstairs and asked me what I was doing. I told her that Cheryl needed to take Jordan’s clothes to the funeral home and I was getting them together. She asked how she could help and I told her I couldn’t find his dress shoes. Once again the voice in my head said, “He doesn’t need them anymore.” I continued looking for a t-shirt and black socks with, “He doesn’t need them anymore” ringing in my head. I met Julie outside of Jordan’s room where she held the shoes. She shakily said to me, “When I bent down to get his shoes, I smelled the clothes that were on the floor and they still smell like him. I tried to make a joke and said, “Those are dirty clothes he left behind, be careful.” She continued in her somber, trembling tone, “I don’t care they smell like Jordan.” I tried to keep going.

For some reason I couldn’t find black socks in Jordan’s dresser or in Mark’s dresser. I was becoming manic, turning over the socks in Jordan’s drawer trying to find a plain black pair, then going to Merrick’s room looking for plain black socks. I was on my way back into my bedroom when Mark came upstairs and asked what I was doing. I told him, “Cheryl needs Jordan’s clothes to take to the funeral home.” Mark quickly replied, “Baby why are you trying to do that by yourself I would have helped you.” I was adamant but had started to tremble; I shakily said to him, “No, I always got his clothes and I have to do it this time too.” I then said to Mark, “I can’t find black socks, I can’t find black socks.” It was too much. I couldn’t keep going. I couldn’t gather my son’s funeral clothes as though I was helping him prepare for a special occasion. I remember Julie saying, “She’s gonna fall Mark do you have her?” As I crumpled down, Mark grabbed me, holding me so tightly and gently at the same time and carried me to our bed. All I could do was scream “no”, “no”, “no.” Mark lay on the bed with me. We faced each other and clung to each other as he soothed me and whispered in my ear, “I know how you feel”, “I know how you feel.” My screams brought both of our families into our bedroom. I felt hands touching my hair and face and rubbing my back as I wailed and moaned and asked Jesus to help me.

As I began to calm down I felt Mark’s grip on me tighten and he suddenly moaned and said, “I always tied his ties. You weren’t supposed to get his tie. I’m his dad I tied his ties.” I held him as he had held me moments before. I whispered in his ear, “I know how you feel”, “I know how you feel.” We lay that way clinging to each other on the middle of our bed with our families touching and soothing us. Suddenly I heard my sister’s voice in my ear as she hummed a song from our childhood church that she used to sing. As she hummed, “Everything Will be Alright”, I felt my breathing returning to normal and the words of the song easing the sorrow that was weighing me down. The words to the song echoed in my head,

“If you put your trust in Him, although your candle may grow dim. After the storm clouds all pass over everything will be alright.”

Mark and I lay there hearing the humming and the soothing, loving voices of our family. We were able to release each other and sit up. They laid hands on us, encircled us and gave us strength to keep going.

Jordan's senior portrait

Jordan and I after his high school graduation ceremony

Category:

cremation, death of son, family support, grief, high school, loss of child

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Bringing Jordan Home

Jordan's candle

Two weeks ago on Mark’s birthday as I shuffled through the mail to get the cards sent by family and friends to put on the table with the gifts for Mark to open, I saw the letter from the funeral home addressed to Mark. I knew what it said without having to open it. We had yet to pick up Jordan’s remains from the funeral home and I knew the letter was telling us it was time to come and pick them up. Tonight was not the time for Mark to see this particular piece of mail. I placed it underneath a pile of catalogs to make sure Mark wouldn’t see it. This was a piece of mail I would make sure he didn’t open or even see on his birthday. I retrieved the cards and proceeded with our typical birthday rituals. Before I went to bed that night I found the letter and opened it knowing I would wonder about it all night if I didn’t open and read it. As I had known, the letter did say it was time to pick up Jordan’s remains. I went to bed that night sleeping off and on but spending most of my time telling myself it was time, we needed to bring Jordan home.

The next morning as Mark dressed for work I told him about the letter from the funeral home. He told me he would call them and handle the arrangements for setting up a time to pick up Jordan’s remains. Later that day Mark confirmed with the funeral home that we would pick up Jordan’s ashes the week after Thanksgiving. I had a week and a half to prepare myself to do what I hadn’t been able to do for over a year. Having Jordan cremated had been one of the easier decisions we had to make after Jordan died, because he’d made it for us. On one of our Thanksgiving drives to Ohio when Jordan was in high school, I was telling Mark my father’s desire to have his ashes spread in the hills of West Virginia near a lake where he played as a child. Jordan chimed into the conversation and said that his desire when he died was to be cremated as well. He appreciated the eco-friendly aspects of cremation and liked the idea that his ashes could be in a place or places that he wanted them to be. We never dreamed that Jordan’s request would have to be honored by us, his parents.

This year all the way to Ohio and the entire time we were there I kept thinking of Tuesday, the day Mark had arranged for us to pick up the remains. I didn’t know if I could go, but I didn’t want Mark to go alone. Tuesday came and Mark came home from work early. We sat in our family room and I told him I wasn’t ready to go to the funeral home that day. I explained to him that bringing Jordan’s ashes home meant all the tricks I’d been using to have moments of denial were being stripped away. His remains, the real proof of our loss would be in our possession.  I asked him, “Why does it have to be today?” All he answered was that he had arranged this time and was ready to go and bring Jordan home. He explained to me that if I couldn’t go, it was okay he would go by himself. I immediately objected to that scenario and asked, “Can’t you get someone to go with you if I can’t go?” Mark looked at me with tears in his eyes and explained why picking up Jordan’s remains and bringing them home was something he felt was our responsibility.

He reminded me of Jordan’s birth and retold me his birth story of the day Jordan was born:

When Jordan was born, there was a part of that experience that was just between you and Jordan. I have always honored and respected that bond and that aspect of nature. When I left the hospital after Jordan’s birth it was about 5:30 in the morning. I remember going to Denny’s to eat breakfast and telling the waitress that I was a new father and I had a son. Before I went home to rest for a while, I bought a newspaper to have as a keepsake of the day Jordan was born. I always loved that newspaper cover because it had the picture of the shuttle Columbia being launched the day before. I just remember thinking what a perfect cover for the day my son is born. The sky is the limit for him. When I brought you and Jordan home from the hospital I did it with love and the responsibility that comes with being a husband and a father. Now it’s time to bring our boy home again. I brought my little family home when he was born. I’m going to bring my son home now. I have to.

Image of the newspaper Mark bought on the day Jordan was born.

I didn’t push anymore after Mark explained how bringing Jordan’s remains home was so intertwined with his role as a father. I just asked him to give me one more day to ready myself so that I could go with him. To prepare myself I needed to have an idea of what the container would be like and what if any process we would have to follow. I called the funeral home and told them we wouldn’t be coming that day but would be there the next day. The lady assured me that was fine; we could come any day that week that worked for us. I then asked if we needed to call before we came. She said no. I stumbled a bit as I took a breath and tried to formulate the most burning question I had.  Through many “um’s” I finally told her that to prepare myself I needed her to describe in what type of container we would be picking up our son’s remains. She very gently and patiently explained that the remains were separated into four plastic bags as we’d requested and would be in a cardboard box. A cardboard box was how we would find our boy.

We had requested the ashes be separated into four bags because we planned to bury part of Jordan’s ashes in the memorial garden in our backyard, so that a part of him would always be home with us. The other bags would go with us as we travelled to places Jordan had planned to go on his adventures. We will take his remains and spread them at the places he dreamed of going but didn’t live to see.

On Wednesday, December 2nd, 2009 exactly 414 days since we were last at the funeral home when we had the family viewing of Jordan’s body before the cremation, Mark and I went to the funeral home again. The funeral home is 5 minutes from our house, but I’ve managed to avoid driving past it for over a year. We parked in front of the funeral home at a meter, not in the parking lot as we’d done the first time we were there. The parking lot was where we parked when we came to view Jordan’s body. This time we put money in a meter to take care of the final task with the funeral home. As we walked up the sidewalk Mark reached for my hand, but they were buried deep in my pockets. I was fixated, watching an elderly Asian women pulling bread from her pockets to feed the sparrows that lined the bushes along the sidewalk. Her method of feeding looked more like stalking. I kept watching her slipping up behind birds and stealthily dropping crumbs to the ground. She then spotted a squirrel and came up behind it trying to sneak up on it so she could give it breadcrumbs too. I watched her as we walked and then too soon we were at the door of the funeral home. I had to face forward and look at the door. The sign clearly read, “ring bell.” Mark pulled on one door, then the other door. I pointed to the sign, “We have to ring the bell.” He said, “Oh, I didn’t even see it.”

The funeral director came to the door and welcomed us in with a, cordial and gentle, yet professional manner. He shook our hands and told us to have a seat. We sat for a few minutes and I watched the housekeeper vacuum the room used for services. Suddenly the funeral director was back with an evergreen colored shopping bag, the funeral home name and logo on the side. It was the same green shopping bags they used to give us the extra programs, photo displays and the guest book from the memorial service. He gave Mark a paper to sign, and then explained that the best type of container to put the ashes in would be one with a wide opening. As he spoke I wondered if the container we had chosen was going to work. I didn’t think it would, but I didn’t have the strength to speak. We were then on our way.

It had taken us 414 days to come back to the funeral home and only five minutes to pick up the remains of our son. As we walked to the car with Mark carrying the bag, I saw the elderly Asian woman across the street, hand still in her pocket crumbling bread and then stealthily dropping crumbs into the bushes where birds flocked. I wanted to think about this woman and whether this routine was something she did every day. I started to make up a life story and a routine for her as we walked to the car. I watched her as she walked down the street to her next feeding spot. Thinking about her meant not thinking about the bag Mark was placing in the backseat. Mark held the bag and I looked away, not ready to look inside the bag to see the cardboard box; a box no different from any box that had been shipped to our home carrying items ordered from catalogs. There was the irony, how could the same kind of box that I had opened and used so many times before now hold the remains of one of my most precious loves. I couldn’t look in the bag.

Mark came around to the driver’s side and we were both in the car with the doors closed. I sat staring straight ahead not able to speak. Mark asked me if I wanted to go home and I shook my head no. I told him I just needed a few minutes. I asked, “Can we just sit here a few minutes so I can get myself together?” He nodded yes and placed his hand on my leg. I looked out the window at the funeral home and then the tears came. No words came out only moans, sobs and tears. I cried for all that we’d lost and the pain that accompanied every step and transition we had to make in accepting the death of our son. We had the ashes of our son in the car with us. We were taking him home. We had avoided this step for over a year because it signified a truth and finality that I couldn’t fully embrace. I still want my boy to come home. The bag in the backseat says unequivocally that he won’t, he can’t. I didn’t want to face this moment. I wanted to continue to find a way to undue time and fix October 12th, 2008. The bag in the backseat, which held Jordan’s remains, was taking us down a different path. A path that held a future of days, celebrations, and memories that Jordan wouldn’t ever experience. I wept until no more tears came. I took a breath, looked at Mark and told him I was ready to go.

We pulled away from the curb; I exhaled and told Mark I wasn’t ready to go home yet. We decided to go to lunch. Even as I said the words, “Let’s go to lunch”, I felt insane. What were we doing acting normal and doing something as mundane as having lunch when the shopping bag was in the backseat? The whole lunch was such an out of body experience. I knew that we were postponing going home and putting Jordan’s remains in the place we had decided on because taking a little more time meant that we didn’t have to face the truth that the bag held. I watched myself go to a local Greek restaurant, make small talk with my husband and eat lunch. I ate food after going to the funeral home to pick up my son’s remains. It was surreal watching myself have this typical experience meshed with the unimaginably painful sojourn we’d just crossed. I’d been placed in a world that felt undone.

Finally, it was time to go home. When we pulled into the driveway, Mark hurriedly got out of the car and bounded up the stairs. He forgot the shopping bag. As he unlocked the back door to our house I called out to him, “The bag is still here. I looked at the bag and hurriedly said, that’s okay I’ll get it.” The automatic side door slid open and I picked up the bag, still not looking into it. Not looking into it didn’t matter anymore; the weight of the bag surprised me. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I wasn’t imagining that the bag would be so heavy. Mark quickly took the bag from me and I said out loud, “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.” All he said was, “I know.” Mark took the bag and put it in the living room. We had allowed ourselves time to get Jordan’s ashes, place them in our home and deal with our initial feelings before the kids came home from school. We decided that they aren’t ready to know that his ashes are home. For now Mark and I own this information and the emotions it brings for our children and us.

Somehow the hour got late and we still hadn’t transferred Jordan’s remains to the container we had chosen. I looked at Mark and said, “Merrick will be home in about an hour we need to take care of it.” We both wearily got up from our seats in the family room and with the same dignity and somberness we’d shown at the viewing of Jordan’s body opened the box. Mark had retrieved the container we were going to use, and I dusted it off even though it was already clean. We sat side by side, I on the corner of the couch, he in the chair next to the couch and he pulled out a plastic bag of ashes. As soon as I saw the bag I knew we’d have to get a new container, the opening of the one we had was too small. Mark attempted to put the bag in but it didn’t fit.

As I looked at the bag suddenly all the memories I had of my child flooded back and blurred together. How could this be?  The baby I brought home from the hospital swaddled in blankets was now ashes contained in a plastic bag. Mark put the bag back into the box, and I began to scream. I screamed and I screamed. I screamed and the words, “No”, and “I want my boy”, and “He’s my baby, he’s my baby” echoed through our house. I pounded the walls, I wailed, I wanted to leave. I screamed until I was hoarse and my throat was raw. Mark got me to sit and held me as I moaned and sobbed. We had been given our beautiful baby boy to bring home to love, nurture and raise. Now we sat looking at a box of ashes that used to be our vibrant, firstborn son.

Our boy is gone. We will take care of his remains and do our best to honor his memory by spreading his ashes and making some of his wishes and dreams come true. No matter where his ashes travel, he’ll always be my baby. I won’t ever stop longing for him.

Category:

cremation, grief, loss of child, mourning, spreading ashes