I got a part time job. I'm a mystery shopper. Now don't laugh. I'm going to get to mystery shop A&W restaurant this weekend. Rootbeer floats, chili cheese fries and corndog bites...all for taking a few pictures of the merchandising materials in and around the store. Now THIS is living!
When I worked in Cleveland, my manager and my coworkers and I would hit the A&W at the Galleria for lunch. We would sit on the orange stools at the big windows that overlook the river and giggle when the subway train would rumble underneath the building causing our stools to vibrate.
When I was a kid, I'd spend part of my summer vacation at my grandparents' house in Indiana. My grandpa and I would get up early in the morning and head into town to the post office. We would stop for lunch at the A&W drivethrough and chow down while we watched the waitresses roll around on rollerskates (except they're not called waitresses...I can't remember the word). It's true! Roller skates and rootbeer floats. It makes me smile and fills me with warm summer thoughts even today...thirty plus years later.
A year and a half ago, we drove down to Kentucky to pick up some rescue dogs. It was my son's first encounter with an A&W...and I think he loved it as much as I do. I can't wait to take him on Saturday. And I'm going to dream sweet sweet dreams until then. There's no calories in dreams, right?
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Snow
So it took me 6 months 6 days to have a complete break with reality. I've been through the longest spring, summer, and autumn of my life. And I handled it. Then today, on the drive home, I started to cry as I thought about Alex under all the snow. "Cry" doesn't even really come close to describing it. It was more like hysterical sobbing of the sort I thought I left behind. I KNOW he's not there and not cold. But I literally couldn't breathe with the thought of him alone in the cold without someone to hold him close.
Steve and I commented once that it was always difficult to leave him behind. We left him behind at the hospital. Then again at the Funeral Home. We leave him at the cemetery time and time again. It seems we're always leaving him. But it wasn't until the snow fell today that it felt like it finally broke me.
The fact is, Alex left us...not the other way around. And it's all so final when there's snow sitting on top of his grave. I imagine him in his coffin, surrounded by his blanket and his stuffed dog. But I know his skin is cold...it was cold the day I left him at the hospital...it must be frozen by now. My poor sweet little boy.
When is this going to get better? When am I going to stop having new and exciting nightmare images to fixate on?
Steve and I commented once that it was always difficult to leave him behind. We left him behind at the hospital. Then again at the Funeral Home. We leave him at the cemetery time and time again. It seems we're always leaving him. But it wasn't until the snow fell today that it felt like it finally broke me.
The fact is, Alex left us...not the other way around. And it's all so final when there's snow sitting on top of his grave. I imagine him in his coffin, surrounded by his blanket and his stuffed dog. But I know his skin is cold...it was cold the day I left him at the hospital...it must be frozen by now. My poor sweet little boy.
When is this going to get better? When am I going to stop having new and exciting nightmare images to fixate on?
Two years worth of work...and the damn delete key
So today I pulled a real smart move. I got the bright idea that I would reorganize my work on my office computer so as to be able to find things easier. Instead, I successfully deleted about half of my client folders. How, you ask? I'm an idiot and there was no, "are you sure?" box after I hit "delete." It should be a RULE that you get an, "are you sure?" box after you hit delete. In my case, I should get two or three inquiries as to whether I know what I'm doing.
So I called the IT guys and begged for their help. Thankfully, our system backs itself up on digital tape and I should have my directory back by Monday at the latest.
arrgh! I swear I never used to be this much of a space cadet. It's really starting to get to me.
So I called the IT guys and begged for their help. Thankfully, our system backs itself up on digital tape and I should have my directory back by Monday at the latest.
arrgh! I swear I never used to be this much of a space cadet. It's really starting to get to me.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Where you least expect it...
Men. I used to think they didn't understand women all that well. And I was certain they couldn't understand the grief of a mother who has lost a baby.
But in the last three days I've had two different encounters with men that make me think I may have been hasty in forming that conclusion.
Monday I had a pre-hearing conference with a Judge. As I entered his chambers, he looked me right in the eye and asked (without the sympathetic head tilt), "How are you?" Not, "How ya doin'?" that people throw out there by way of greeting without really expecting an honest answer. He didn't smile and he didn't look as though he pitied me. He looked as though he cared. So I didn't feel uncomfortable telling him, "I'm hanging in there," with the same direct look and delivery.
The thing is...he didn't offer any platitudes. He didn't try to make me feel better. He looked me in the eye and said, "Good." Then he looked down at the case file on his desk and said, "Now what are we going to do with this case?" He didn't tell me to hang in there. He didn't tell me it would get better. He didn't say anything stupid.
Then today, the farrier was out to give the girls a manicure. As he was leaving he said, "I'll see you in January. I hope you have nice holidays...Christmas...Thanksgiving...New Year."
I smiled and said, "You too." When it came out of my mouth, I saw the question in his eyes...but I couldn't answer it. He was gracious enough not to ask the question and not to offer anything further that would prove useless. He let it be...but still somehow let me know that he cared.
So often I focus on what is wrong...what people do wrong...it's only fair that I share the people like this and the instances like this...where things are just perfect.
This leads me to wonder something that I'm a bit uncomfortable wondering. Have I been unfair to people? Have I expected too much? Have I set unrealistically high standards for the way I think people should behave around me?
In these simple moments, where my guard wasn't up and I wasn't agonizing over every detail of how to react to the other person or how to deal with my grief publicly, there was peaceful comfort. It was...nice. Maybe I don't need to worry so much. Yes, I KNOW there are going to be idiots out there..."It wasn't meant to be," or "You can try again." And I know that the idiot comments are hurtful. But maybe (and I'm just admitting to maybe at this point), if I relax and accept situations as they come without imposing standards for perfection upon them, I just might find that peaceful comfort more often.
But in the last three days I've had two different encounters with men that make me think I may have been hasty in forming that conclusion.
Monday I had a pre-hearing conference with a Judge. As I entered his chambers, he looked me right in the eye and asked (without the sympathetic head tilt), "How are you?" Not, "How ya doin'?" that people throw out there by way of greeting without really expecting an honest answer. He didn't smile and he didn't look as though he pitied me. He looked as though he cared. So I didn't feel uncomfortable telling him, "I'm hanging in there," with the same direct look and delivery.
The thing is...he didn't offer any platitudes. He didn't try to make me feel better. He looked me in the eye and said, "Good." Then he looked down at the case file on his desk and said, "Now what are we going to do with this case?" He didn't tell me to hang in there. He didn't tell me it would get better. He didn't say anything stupid.
Then today, the farrier was out to give the girls a manicure. As he was leaving he said, "I'll see you in January. I hope you have nice holidays...Christmas...Thanksgiving...New Year."
I smiled and said, "You too." When it came out of my mouth, I saw the question in his eyes...but I couldn't answer it. He was gracious enough not to ask the question and not to offer anything further that would prove useless. He let it be...but still somehow let me know that he cared.
So often I focus on what is wrong...what people do wrong...it's only fair that I share the people like this and the instances like this...where things are just perfect.
This leads me to wonder something that I'm a bit uncomfortable wondering. Have I been unfair to people? Have I expected too much? Have I set unrealistically high standards for the way I think people should behave around me?
In these simple moments, where my guard wasn't up and I wasn't agonizing over every detail of how to react to the other person or how to deal with my grief publicly, there was peaceful comfort. It was...nice. Maybe I don't need to worry so much. Yes, I KNOW there are going to be idiots out there..."It wasn't meant to be," or "You can try again." And I know that the idiot comments are hurtful. But maybe (and I'm just admitting to maybe at this point), if I relax and accept situations as they come without imposing standards for perfection upon them, I just might find that peaceful comfort more often.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The cost of mailing a letter will increase to 39 cents on Jan. 8. Even at its cheapest, a greeting card costs $0.50. I'm really going to have to like you to send you snail mail at these prices. I wasn't going to send Christmas cards this year...but maybe I will send them for one last year before I get priced out of the market.
Happiness in an egg cup
I don't know anyone who collects egg cups (I've heard Martha Stewart has a thing for them)...but thought I would pass this along in case anyone out there does know someone who collects egg cups (current bid=$117.50). Personally, I think is particularly inappropriate that you can buy Happy in an egg-sized cup...a Happy cup should be bigger...maybe barrel sized.
***bid update 11/17/05 at 4:30pm - $207.50***
I feel old
I remember when it was THE thing to get a real silver flute or piccolo. Then, in college, I was introduced to the joys of the wooden piccolo. I even stumbled across one a fellow cashier at Discount Drug Mart was trying to sell in the summer of my Junior year...and I convinced my parents to buy it for me at an unbelievable price (I still feel a bit guilty that the girl didn't know what she was selling). It was such good fun. Cold Friday nights in the marching band. Drinking hot cocoa and dancing around like a crazy person in the stands with my friend Kerry. Flirting with the boys in the drum section. Cheering and chanting, "We've got spirit...how 'bout you?"
But today...today you can get a purple piccolo. That's right...any color of the rainbow is available for your musical use. Purple, pink, green, orange, blue...it's all the latest rage.
I wonder if they still do the same cheers? It would seem they would get passed down from generation to generation...like a comfortable old story or song...or a delicious family recipe you make for special occasions.
I saw Kerry in some lawyer magazine a while back...she looks different, as we all do. Turns out she's an attorney who works to protect the rights of special education students. I really should give her a call just to say hi.
I don't play my piccolo anymore. It sits upstairs in that room...the spare room that was to be Alex's room. Today, for some reason, I really want a purple piccolo.
Monday, November 14, 2005
A comment on comments
Please don't apologize for commenting. That anyone takes the time to read my ramblings still amazes me. That anyone takes the time to actually comment is more helpful than you can ever know. It makes me feel less...alone. It gives me something by which to measure my insanity...just to see if I'm on track for a white jacket sooner or later than I anticipate.
As to the comments about God and his plan...
I suppose it's supposed to be some comfort that people believe Alex is in heaven or that his death has some meaning or purpose.
It's just not as comforting as you would think...when all I have of my baby is a cold headstone and a box of momentos.
As to the comments about God and his plan...
I suppose it's supposed to be some comfort that people believe Alex is in heaven or that his death has some meaning or purpose.
It's just not as comforting as you would think...when all I have of my baby is a cold headstone and a box of momentos.
Expectations and disappointments
I thought I would feel better by now. Maybe because so many other people expect me to feel better, or maybe just because I have unrealistically high expectations of myself. Maybe because I have no clue what I'm doing and I'm wandering around like a newly blind person left with nothing more than darkness, other senses that haven't yet learned to compensate, and a fading memory of the things I used to see (I've also apparently become used to using really bad metaphors and similes...ick).
The fact is that I'm not back to normal and I still haven't made any progress on figuring out what my new normal is. I have few moments where I'm not high-strung, nervous, or angry. Despite my best intentions I can't make it work...this new life of mine. It's not that I don't WANT to be happy. It's that there is nothing that really makes me feel happy. Everything pales in comparison to the happiness and the sadness I've felt this year. I guess that's my problem. I want THAT happiness back. I want something that will erase THAT sadness. But there isn't anything that will do that, is there?
You know, sometimes I sit at my keyboard and write and the words just flow out my fingertips onto the screen through a shower of tears. Sometimes I can barely type for the force of the sobs that escape my body as I get the words down. And then sometimes I feel like the words totally escape me and I wonder where the tears are hiding. Surely they are around the next corner...the next turn of a phrase. I almost don't want to write because I don't want them to fall AGAIN. I'm so tired of crying.
I have work to do. So I will ignore this gnawing feeling that something isn't right today...something even more wrong than usual...and get to it. I can't put my finger on it. I can't put it in words. It's this feeling I've been having since I saw the almost dead cat open its eyes and twitch its tail while laying in the middle of the road waiting to die on Friday...the same feeling I got yesterday while watching the flock of vultures circling our front pasture...a sense that there is some disaster on the way...some impending doom. There is some exhausted part of me that says, "Bring it on...what more could you do to me?" But then I think how the universe doesn't play fair and likes to take on a challenge like that...how it bats us all around like we're little cat toys...giving and taking life on a whim. No, I don't want to tempt fate like that.
I could talk about God here...as Steve and I had a pretty interesting conversation about God on our way to engage in some retail therapy on Saturday. But instead I'd rather talk about my Pumpkin Spice candle and my Eddie Bauer sweater. I've never owned anything Eddie Bauer in my life. I feel like I've turned some sort of corner.
I will never again in my life be able to say that things are just the way they should be. I will never answer that question, "What would you change?" with the trite, "Nothing, everything is the way I would want it if I could do it all again." I don't want this new life. I would even trade my Pumpkin Spice candle and my very first Eddie Bauer sweater if I could change just one thing and have my life back the way it should be.
The fact is that I'm not back to normal and I still haven't made any progress on figuring out what my new normal is. I have few moments where I'm not high-strung, nervous, or angry. Despite my best intentions I can't make it work...this new life of mine. It's not that I don't WANT to be happy. It's that there is nothing that really makes me feel happy. Everything pales in comparison to the happiness and the sadness I've felt this year. I guess that's my problem. I want THAT happiness back. I want something that will erase THAT sadness. But there isn't anything that will do that, is there?
You know, sometimes I sit at my keyboard and write and the words just flow out my fingertips onto the screen through a shower of tears. Sometimes I can barely type for the force of the sobs that escape my body as I get the words down. And then sometimes I feel like the words totally escape me and I wonder where the tears are hiding. Surely they are around the next corner...the next turn of a phrase. I almost don't want to write because I don't want them to fall AGAIN. I'm so tired of crying.
I have work to do. So I will ignore this gnawing feeling that something isn't right today...something even more wrong than usual...and get to it. I can't put my finger on it. I can't put it in words. It's this feeling I've been having since I saw the almost dead cat open its eyes and twitch its tail while laying in the middle of the road waiting to die on Friday...the same feeling I got yesterday while watching the flock of vultures circling our front pasture...a sense that there is some disaster on the way...some impending doom. There is some exhausted part of me that says, "Bring it on...what more could you do to me?" But then I think how the universe doesn't play fair and likes to take on a challenge like that...how it bats us all around like we're little cat toys...giving and taking life on a whim. No, I don't want to tempt fate like that.
I could talk about God here...as Steve and I had a pretty interesting conversation about God on our way to engage in some retail therapy on Saturday. But instead I'd rather talk about my Pumpkin Spice candle and my Eddie Bauer sweater. I've never owned anything Eddie Bauer in my life. I feel like I've turned some sort of corner.
I will never again in my life be able to say that things are just the way they should be. I will never answer that question, "What would you change?" with the trite, "Nothing, everything is the way I would want it if I could do it all again." I don't want this new life. I would even trade my Pumpkin Spice candle and my very first Eddie Bauer sweater if I could change just one thing and have my life back the way it should be.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Six months...he's still gone...I'm still missing him...
I just don't have anything to say. It's been six months since my beautiful baby boy, Alex, died and was stillborn and I don't want this blog to turn into a diary of what time I woke up (10am) and what I ate for breakfast (chocolate chip pancakes, thank you very much). I feel like there should be something important to share...some thought I should want to record for all history. But there just isn't. I'm not raw and hurting. I'm not happy. I'm not really anything. Just numb...hollow...empty.
I had a moment today where I thought I saw Sam standing behind me. But then I realized Sam was in the living room watching television. He looked so much like Sam...
I had a moment today where I thought I saw Sam standing behind me. But then I realized Sam was in the living room watching television. He looked so much like Sam...
Friday, November 11, 2005
Random holiday thoughts
Yep...this image pretty much sums up our experience watching Chicken Little today. I'm so glad we had movie passes and didn't waste money. I am not a fuddy-duddy normally...but this movie is NOT appropriate for small children. Rated G...my ass. In the first sequence, Chicken Little is darn near killed several times. There is too much going on...scary stuff. We made it about forty minutes in before Sam decided he would rather "go home and play with trains." I couldn't argue with him. It was just awful. What happened to Disney?
And questions that remain from this viewing...Why do fish have to wear helmets?
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Standing in Lowe's holding a miniature spruce tree in my hand..."I'm conducting a class on how to decorate those tomorrow, if you'd like to attend. You can put real lights or these little glass ornaments on them!"
"Thanks, but this is for the cemetery, I think we'll stick with bows."
"Oh, lots of people use the bows. I even use those in MY house."
Gee thanks.
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"Is this for your table centerpiece?"
"Actually, it's for the cemetery."
"Do you do this every year?"
"Actually, it's our first year."
"Does the cemetery throw them away?"
"No, our cemetery is very good about allowing things between October and April."
"My mom told me about a cemetery where they'll leave the flowers you take out there for a week and then pick them up and give them to an old folks home or something."
Huh...ain't that something...thanks for sharing.
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Trying to explain to a three-year-old why people are buried in a cemetery is..................tricky.
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And when you think he's sleeping and you're talking about how you got pregnant with him and his brother...just know that he's not sleeping and he'll pipe up from the backseat, "But mommy, you are wrong, I don't live with Baby Alex."
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What happened to John Lithgow that he's now doing cheesy Campbell's Soup song-and-dance commercials?
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When you leave the movie theater early with a three-year-old in tow and overhear a marching band practicing...it's perfectly acceptable to drive on over and make yourselves into a small three-person audience.
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May 11th, I left my baby behind physically. Six months later I still have the urge to dig him up just to hold him.
When it first happened, I thought six months was such a horribly long time. Today it still feels like just yesterday...six months gone in the blink of an eye. It was tortuously slow in some ways...and gone too quickly in others. I feel a greater distance...but the ache is still there.
An anniversary for our family.
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A day to remember those who served our country in the military.
Dads...Grandpas...Uncles.
Thank You.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Emily Post
I have often joked that "Emily Post doesn't live here."
But recently, while reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, I was struck by the passage that described Joan's effort to figure out what she was supposed to "do" shortly after her husband died. Surely, she was supposed to be doing something. She consulted Emily Post on funerals.
I've never read Emily Post on funerals...weddings and babies, yes...funerals, no...never had a reason. But it stuck with me that Ms. Didion consulte Emily Post.
And then Rebecca's post about "The Rules" reminded me of that passage.
As it turns out, Emily Post was quite smart about this topic. While some of the information is clearly outdated, there are definitely some tips for those people who say they just don't know what to do when a loved one is grieving.
I have previously posted about how there should be a handbook for bereaved parents. And I've had people tell me that they need a handbook on how to help bereaved parents. So I post this here for everyone to get a bit of an education. I know it is impossibly long. I am including the entire text as a way to test Blogger's limits. But also as a way to insure that I have this information readily available to myself in the future. But I hope you will take the time to read it and maybe adjust your own behavior accordingly...when you have the unfortunate need to do so in the future (and we all will...death is a certainty for all of us).
I'm particularly moved by the passages that talk about mourning. Ms. Post acknowledges the ongoing nature of the process and doesn't shrink from the knowledge that it is necessary. She is of an age where people valued each other...where people realized that it's not something to be embarassed or ashamed of...mourning is natural and should be encouraged. Yes, I know the social construct was different and the REQUIREMENT that women mourn dead spouses for such a long period is...well...icky. But the focus on the permissibility of mourning intrigues me. It's not to be cut short immaturely or moved past too quickly. It's like that long slow dance with your first love that you savor and try to absorb into your very being.
I am also intrigued by the concept of clothing being used to identify those in mourning. I had a wonderful conversation with my friend Julie last night on the telephone. In talking about the callous way in which people generally treat each other in our society, she said, "I can't walk around with a sign on me that explains my grief." And it's true today. But in Ms. Post's time, there was a visual reminder that the person before you needed some extra human compassion. There WAS a way to identify people who were in a fragile emotional state. I wonder why we left that behind?
I would definitely make some additions to Ms. Post's rules of funeral etiquette. But generally, I think it should be required reading...handed out with those useless pamphlets they give you in the hospital that tell you how everyone grieves in their own way. Instead of frightening people with the variability of grief, we should empower people with some concrete suggestions on what they can do to manage the worst time in a person's life. We should give them back a bit of control. And provide them some insight on what to expect during the mourning process.
Anyway...I have babbled on enough...but don't be surprised if you see white flowers near my doorbell this holiday season.
And on with the show...
At no time does solemnity so possess our souls as when we stand deserted at the brink of darkness into which our loved one has gone. And the last place in the world where we would look for comfort at such a time is in the seeming artificiality of etiquette; yet it is in the moment of deepest sorrow that etiquette performs its most vital and real service.
All set rules for social observance have for their object the smoothing of personal contacts, and in nothing is smoothness so necessary as in observing the solemn rites accorded our dead.
It is the time-worn servitor, Etiquette, who draws the shades, who muffles the bell, who keeps the house quiet, who hushes voices and footsteps and sudden noises; who stands between well-meaning and importunate outsiders and the retirement of the bereaved; who decrees that the last rites shall be performed smoothly and with beauty and gravity, so that the poignancy of grief may in so far as possible be assuaged.
FIRST DETAILS
As soon as death occurs, some one (the trained nurse usually) draws the blinds in the sick-room and tells a servant to draw all the blinds of the house.
If they are not already present, the first act of some one at the bedside is to telephone or telegraph the immediate members of the family, the clergyman and the sexton of the church to which the family belong, and possibly one or two closest friends, whose competence and sympathy can be counted on—as there are many things which must be done for the stricken family as well as for the deceased. (The sexton of nearly every Protestant church is also undertaker. If he is not, then an outside funeral director is sent for.)
If the illness has been a long one, it may be that the family has become attached to the trained nurse and no one is better fitted than she to turn her ministrations from the one whom she can no longer help, to those who have now very real need of just such care as she can give.
If the death was sudden, or the nurse unsympathetic or for other reasons unavailable, then a relative or a near friend of practical sympathy is the ideal attendant in charge.
CONSIDERATION FOR THE FAMILY
Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically. No matter how calm and controlled they seemingly may be, no one can under such circumstances be normal. Their disturbed circulation makes them cold, their distress makes them unstrung, sleepless. Persons they normally like, they often turn from. No one should ever be forced upon those in grief, and all over-emotional people, no matter how near or dear, should be barred absolutely. Although the knowledge that their friends love them and sorrow for them is a great solace, the nearest afflicted must be protected from any one or anything which is likely to overstrain nerves already at the threatening point, and none have the right to feel hurt if they are told they can neither be of use nor be received. At such a time, to some people companionship is a comfort, others shrink from dearest friends. One who is by choice or accident selected to come in contact with those in new affliction should, like a trained nurse, banish all consciousness of self; otherwise he or she will be of no service—and service is the only gift of value that can be offered.
FIRST AID TO THE BEREAVED
First of all, the ones in sorrow should be urged if possible to sit in a sunny room and where there is an open fire. If they feel unequal to going to the table, a very little food should be taken to them on a tray. A cup of tea or coffee or bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg, milk if they like it hot, or milk toast. Cold milk is bad for one who is already over-chilled. The cook may suggest something that appeals usually to their taste—but very little should be offered at a time, for although the stomach may be empty, the palate rejects the thought of food, and digestion is never in best order.
It sounds paradoxical to say that those in sorrow should be protected from all contacts, and yet that they must be constantly asked about arrangements and given little time to remain utterly undisturbed. They must think of people they want sent for, and they must decide the details of the funeral; when they would like it held, and whether in church or at the house, whether they want special music or flowers ordered, and where the interment is to be.
ON DUTY AT DOOR
A friend or a servant is always stationed in the hall to open the door, receive notes and cards, and to take messages. In a big house the butler in his day clothes should answer the bell, with the parlor-maid to assist him, until a footman can procure a black livery and take his or her place. A parlor-maid or waitress at the door should wear either a black or gray dress, with her plainest white apron, collar and cuffs.
MEMBER OF FAMILY IN CHARGE
A close friend or male member of the family should be—if not at the door—as near the front hall as possible to see the countless people with whom details have to be arranged, to admit to a member of the family anyone they may want to see, and to give news to, or take messages from, others.
As people come to the house to enquire and offer their services, he gives them commissions the occasion requires. The first friend who hurries to the house (in answer to the telephone message which announced the death) is asked to break the news to an invalid connection of the family, or he may be sent to the florist to order the bell hung, or to the station to meet a child arriving from school.
NOTICE TO PAPERS
The sexton (or other funeral director) sends the notices to the daily papers announcing the death, and the time and place of the funeral. The form is generally selected by a member of the family from among those appearing in that day’s newspapers. These notices are paid for by the sexton and put on his bill.
With the exception of the telephone messages or telegrams to relatives and very intimate friends, no other notices are sent out. Only those persons who are expected to go to the house at once have messages sent to them; all others are supposed to read the notice in the papers. When the notice reads “funeral private” and neither place nor time is given, very intimate friends are supposed to ask for these details at the house; others understand they are not expected.
HANGING THE BELL
As a rule the funeral director hangs crepe streamers on the bell; white ones for a child, black and white for a young person, or black for an older person. This signifies to the passerby that it is a house of mourning so that the bell will not be rung unnecessarily nor long.
If they prefer, the family sometimes orders a florist to hang a bunch of violets or other purple flowers on black ribbon streamers, for a grown person; or white violets, white carnations—any white flower without leaves—on the black ribbon for a young woman or man; or white flowers on white gauze or ribbon for a child.
CHECKING EXPENSES IN ADVANCE
It is curious that long association with the sadness of death seems to have deprived an occasional funeral director of all sense of moderation. Whether the temptation of “good business” gradually undermines his character—knowing as he does that bereaved families ask no questions—or whether his profession is merely devoid of taste, he will, if not checked, bring the most ornate and expensive casket in his establishment; he will perform every rite that his professional ingenuity for expenditure can devise; he will employ every attendant he has; he will order vehicles numerous enough for the cortège of a president; he will even, if thrown in contact with a bewildered chief-mourner, secure a pledge for the erection of an elaborate mausoleum.
Some one, therefore, who has the family’s interest at heart and knows their taste and purse, should go personally to the establishment of the undertaker, and not only select the coffin, but go carefully into the specification of all other details, so that everything necessary may be arranged for, and unnecessary items omitted.
This does not imply that a family that prefers a very elaborate funeral should not be allowed to have one; but the great majority of people have moderate, rather than unlimited means, and it is not unheard of that a small estate is seriously depleted by vulgarly lavish and entirely inappropriate funeral expenses. One would be a poor sort who for the sake of friends would not willingly endure a little troublesome inquiry, rather than witness a display of splurge and bad taste and realize at the same time that the friends who might have been protected will be deluged with bills which it cannot but embarrass them to pay.
HONORARY PALLBEARERS
The member of the family who is in charge will ask either when they come to the house, or by telephone or telegraph if they are at a distance, six or eight men who are close friends of the deceased to be the pallbearers. When a man has been prominent in public life, he may have twelve or more from among his political or business associates as well as his lifelong social friends. Near relatives are never chosen, as their place is with the women of the family. For a young woman, her own friends or those of her family are chosen. It is a service that may not under any circumstances except serious ill-health, be refused.
The one in charge will tell the pallbearers where they are to meet. It used to be customary for them to go to the house on the morning of the funeral and drive to the church behind the hearse, but as everything tending to a conspicuous procession is being gradually done away with, it is often preferred to have them wait in the vestibule of the church.
Honorary pallbearers serve only at church funerals. They do not carry the coffin for the reason that, being unaccustomed to bearing such a burden, one of them might possibly stumble, or at least give an impression of uncertainty or awkwardness that might detract from the solemnity of the occasion. The sexton’s assistants are trained for this service, so as to prevent in so far as is humanly possible a blundering occurrence.
MOURNING FOR FUNERAL
Among those who come to the house there is sure to be a woman friend of the family whose taste and method of expenditure is similar to theirs. She looks through the clothes they have, to see if there is not a black dress or suit that can be used, and makes a list of only the necessary articles which will have to be procured.
All dressmaking establishments give precedence to mourning orders and will fill a commission within twenty-four hours. These first things are made invariably without bothering the wearer with fitting. Alterations, if required, are made later.
Or the mourning departments of the big stores and specialty shops are always willing to send a selection on approval, so that a choice can be made by the family in the privacy of their own rooms. Nearly always acquaintances who are themselves in mourning offer to lend crepe veils, toques and wraps, so that the garments which must be bought at first may be as few as possible. Most women have a plain black suit, or dress, the trimming of which can quickly be replaced with crepe by a maid or a friend.
Most men are of standard size and can go to a clothier and buy a ready-made black suit. Otherwise they must borrow, or wear what they have, as no tailor can make a suit in twenty-four hours.
“SITTING UP” NO LONGER CUSTOMARY
Unless the deceased was a prelate or personage whose lying-in-state is a public ceremony, or unless it is the especial wish of the relatives, the solemn vigil through long nights by the side of the coffin is no longer essential as a mark of veneration or love for the departed.
Nor is the soulless body dressed in elaborate trappings of farewell grandeur. Everything to-day is done to avoid unnecessary evidence of the change that has taken place. In case of a very small funeral the person who has passed away is sometimes left lying in bed in night clothes, or on a sofa in a wrapper, with flowers, but no set pieces, about the room, so that an invalid or other sensitive bereft one may say farewell without ever seeing the all too definite finality of a coffin. In any event the last attentions are paid in accordance with the wish of those most nearly concerned.
EXTRA WORK FOR SERVANTS
Kindness of heart is latent in all of us, and servants, even if they have not been long with a family, rise to the emergency of such a time as that of a funeral, which always puts additional work upon them and often leaves them to manage under their own initiative. The house is always full of people, family and intimate friends occupy all available accommodation, but it is a rare household which does not give sympathy as generously below stairs as above; and he or she would be thought very heartless by their companions who did not willingly and helpfully assume a just share of the temporary tax on energy, time and consideration.
CHURCH FUNERAL
The church funeral is the more trying, in that the family have to leave the seclusion of their house and face a congregation. On the other hand, many who find solemnity only in a church service with the added beauty of choir and organ, prefer to take their heartrending farewell in the House of God.
ARRANGING AND RECORDING FLOWERS
An hour before the time for the service, if the family is Protestant, one or two woman friends go to the church to arrange the flowers which are placed about the chancel. Unless they have had unusual practise in such arrangement they should, if possible, have the assistance of a florist, as effective grouping and fastening of heavy wreaths and sprays is apt to overtax the ingenuity of novices, no matter how perfect their usual taste may be.
Whoever takes charge of the flowers must be sure to collect carefully all the notes and cards. They should always take extra pencils in case the points break, and write on the outside of each envelope a description of the flowers that the card was sent with.
“Spray of Easter lilies and palm branches tied with white ribbon.”
“Wreath of laurel leaves and gardenias.”
“Long sheaf of pink roses and white lilacs.”
These descriptions will afterwards help identify and recall the flowers when notes of thanks are sent.
As the appointed time for the funeral draws near, the organ plays softly, the congregation gradually fills the church. The first pews on either side of the center aisle are left empty.
THE PROCESSIONAL
At the appointed time the funeral procession forms in the vestibule. If there is to be a choral service the minister and the choir enter the church from the rear, and precede the funeral cortège. Directly after the choir and clergy come the pallbearers, two by two, then the coffin covered with flowers and then the family—the chief mourner comes first, leaning upon the arm of her closest male relative. Usually each man is escort for a woman, but two women or two men may walk together according to the division of the family. If the deceased is one of four sons where there is no daughter, the mother and father walk immediately behind the body of their child, followed by the two elder sons and behind them the younger, with the nearest woman relative. If there is a grandmother, she walks with the eldest son and the younger two follow together. If it is a family of daughters who are following their father, the eldest daughter may walk with her mother, or the mother may walk with her brother, or a son-in-law. Although the arrangement of the procession is thus fixed, those in affliction should be placed next to the one whose nearness may be of most comfort to them. A younger child who is calm and soothing would better be next to his mother than an older who is of more nervous temperament.
At the funeral of a woman, her husband sometimes walks alone, but usually with his mother or his daughter. A very few intimate friends walk at the rear of the family, followed by the servants of the household. At the chancel the choir take their accustomed places, the minister stands at the foot of the chancel steps, the honorary pallbearers take their places in the front pews on the left, and the coffin is set upon a stand previously placed there for the purpose. The bearers of the coffin walk quietly around to inconspicuous stations on a side aisle. The family occupy the front pews on the right, the rest of the procession fill vacant places on either side. The service is then read.
THE RECESSIONAL
Upon the conclusion of the service, the procession moves out in the same order as it came in excepting that the choir remain in their places and the honorary pallbearers go first. Outside the church, the coffin is put into the hearse, the family getting into carriages or motors waiting immediately behind, and the flowers are put into a covered vehicle. (It is very vulgar to fill open landaus with displayed floral offerings and parade through the streets.)
FEW GO TO THE BURIAL
If the burial is in the churchyard or otherwise within walking distance, the congregation naturally follows the family to the graveside. Otherwise, the general congregation no longer expects, nor wishes, to go to the interment which (excepting at a funeral of public importance) is witnessed only by the immediate family and the most intimate friends, who are asked if they “care to go.” The long line of carriages that used to stand at the church ready to be filled with a long file of mere acquaintances is a barbarous thing of the past.
HOUSE FUNERAL
Many people prefer a house funeral—it is simpler, more private, and obviates the necessity for those in sorrow to face people. The nearest relatives may stay apart in an adjoining room or even upon the upper floor, where they can hear the service but remain in unseen seclusion.
Ladies keep their wraps on. Gentlemen wear their overcoats or carry them on their arms and hold their hats in their hands.
MUSIC
To many people there is lack of solemnity in a service outside of a church and lacking the accompaniment of the organ. It is almost impossible to introduce orchestral music that does not sound either dangerously suggestive of the gaiety of entertainment or else thin and flat. A quartet or choral singing is beautiful and appropriate, if available, otherwise there is usually no music at a house funeral.
HOUSE ARRANGEMENT
Some authorities say that only the flowers sent by very close friends should be shown at a house funeral, and that it is ostentatious to make a display. But when people, or societies, have been kind enough to send flowers, it would certainly be wanting in appreciation, to say the least, to relegate their offerings to the back yard—or wherever it is that the cavilers would have them hid!
In a small house where flowers would be overpowering, it is customary to insert in the death notice: “It is requested that no flowers be sent,” or “Kindly omit flowers.”
Arrangement for the service is usually made in the drawing-room, and the coffin is placed in front of the mantel, or between the windows, but always at a distance from the door, usually on stands brought by the funeral director, who also brings enough camp chairs to fill the room without crowding. A friend, or a member of the family, collects the cards and arranges the flowers behind and at the side and against the stands of the coffin. If there is to be a blanket or pall of smilax or other leaves with or without flowers, fastened to a frame, or sewed on thin material and made into a covering, it is always ordered by the family. Otherwise, the wreaths to be placed on the coffin are chosen from among those sent by the family.
THE SERVICE
As friends arrive, they are shown to the room where the ceremony is to be held, but they take their own places. A room must be apportioned to the minister in which to put on his vestments. At the hour set for the funeral the immediate family, if they feel like being present, take their places in the front row of chairs. The women wear small hats or toques and long crepe veils over their faces, so that their countenances may be hidden. The minister takes his stand at the head of the coffin and reads the service.
At its conclusion the coffin is carried out to the hearse, which, followed by a small number of carriages, proceeds to the cemetery.
It is very rare nowadays for any but a small group of relatives and intimate men friends to go to the cemetery, and it is not thought unloving or slighting of the dead for no women at all to be at the graveside. If any women are to be present and the interment is to be in the ground, some one should order the grave lined with boughs and green branches—to lessen the impression of bare earth.
DISTANT COUNTRY FUNERAL
In the country where relatives and friends arrive by train, carriages or motors must be provided to convey them to the house or church or cemetery. If the clergyman has no conveyance of his own, he must always be sent for, and if the funeral is in a house, a room must be set apart for him in which to change his clothes.
It is unusual for a family to provide a “special car.” Sometimes the hour of the funeral is announced in the papers as taking place on the arrival of a certain train, but everyone who attends is expected to pay his own railway fare and make, if necessary, his own arrangements for lunch.
Only when the country place where the funeral is held is at a distance from town and a long drive from the railway station, a light repast of bouillon, rolls and tea and sandwiches may be spread on the dining-room table. Otherwise refreshments are never offered—except to those of the family, of course, who are staying in the house.
HOUSE RESTORED TO ORDER
While the funeral cortège is still at the cemetery, some one who is in charge at home must see that the mourning emblem is taken off the bell, that the windows are opened, the house aired from the excessive odor of flowers, and the blinds pulled up. Any furniture that has been displaced should be put back where it belongs, and unless the day is too hot a fire should be lighted in the library or principal bedroom to make a little more cheerful the sad home-coming of the family. It is also well to prepare a little hot tea or broth, and it should be brought them upon their return without their being asked if they would care for it. Those who are in great distress want no food, but if it is handed to them, they will mechanically take it, and something warm to start digestion and stimulate impaired circulation is what they most need.
MOURNING
A generation or two ago the regulations for mourning were definitely prescribed, definite periods according to the precise degree of relationship of the mourner. One’s real feelings, whether of grief or comparative indifference, had nothing to do with the outward manifestation one was obliged, in decency, to show. The tendency to-day is toward sincerity. People do not put on black for aunts, uncles and cousins unless there is a deep tie of affection as well as of blood.
Many persons to-day do not believe in going into mourning at all. There are some who believe, as do the races of the East, that great love should be expressed in rejoicing in the re-birth of a beloved spirit instead of selfishly mourning their own earthly loss. But many who object to manifestations of grief, find themselves impelled to wear mourning when their sorrow comes and the number of those who do not put on black is still comparatively small.
PROTECTION OF MOURNING
If you see acquaintances of yours in deepest mourning, it does not occur to you to go up to them and babble trivial topics or ask them to a dance or dinner. If you pass close to them, irresistible sympathy compels you merely to stop and press their hand and pass on. A widow, or mother, in the newness of her long veil, has her hard path made as little difficult as possible by everyone with whom she comes in contact, no matter on what errand she may be bent. A clerk in a store will try to wait on her as quickly and as attentively as possible. Acquaintances avoid stopping her with long conversation that could not but torture and distress her. She meets small kindnesses at every turn, which save unnecessary jars to supersensitive nerves.
Once in a great while, a tactless person may have no better sense than to ask her abruptly for whom she is in mourning! Such people would not hesitate to walk over the graves in a cemetery! And fortunately, such encounters are few.
Since many people, however, dislike long mourning veils and all crepe generally, it is absolutely correct to omit both if preferred, and to wear an untrimmed coat and hat of plainest black with or without a veil.
A WORD OF ECONOMY
In the first days of stress, people sometimes give away every colored article they possess and not until later are they aware of the effort necessary, to say nothing of the expense, of getting an entire new wardrobe. Therefore it is well to remember:
Dresses and suits can be dyed without ripping. Any number of fabrics—all woolens, soft silks, canton crepe, georgette and chiffon, dye perfectly. Buttonholes have sometimes to be re-worked, snaps or hooks and eyes changed to black, a bit of trimming taken off or covered with dull braid, silk or crepe, and the clothes look every bit as well as though newly ordered.
Straw hats can be painted with an easily applied stain sold in every drug and department store for the purpose. If you cannot trim hats yourself, a milliner can easily imitate, or, if necessary, simplify the general outline of the trimming as it was, and a seamstress can easily cover dyed trimmings on dresses with crepe or dull silk. Also tan shoes—nearly all footwear made of leather—can be dyed black and made to look like new by any first class shoemaker.
MOURNING MATERIALS
Lustreless silks, such as crepe de chine, georgette, chiffon, grosgrain, peau de soie, dull finish charmeuse and taffeta, and all plain woolen materials, are suitable for deepest mourning. Uncut velvet is as deep mourning as crepe, but cut velvet is not mourning at all! Nor is satin or lace. The only lace permissible is a plain or hemstitched net known as “footing.”
Fancy weaves in stockings are not mourning, nor is bright jet or silver. A very perplexing decree is that clothes entirely of white are deepest mourning but the addition of a black belt or hat or gloves produces second mourning.
Patent leather and satin shoes are not mourning.
People in second mourning wear all combinations of black and white as well as clothes of gray and mauve. Many of the laws for materials seem arbitrary, and people interpret them with greater freedom than they used to, but never under any circumstances can one who is not entirely in colors wear satin embroidered in silver or trimmed with jet and lace! With the exception of wearing a small string of pearls and a single ring, especially if it is an engagement ring, jewelry with deepest mourning is never in good taste.
WHEN A VEIL IS NOT WORN
Nor should a woman ever wear a crepe veil to the theater or restaurant, or any public place of amusement. On the other hand, people left long to themselves and their own thoughts grow easily morbid, and the opera or concert or an interesting play may exert a beneficial relaxation. Gay restaurants with thumping strident musical accompaniment or entertainments of the cabaret variety, need scarcely be commented upon. But to go to a matinee with a close friend or relative is becoming more and more usual—and the picture theaters where one may sit in the obscurity and be diverted by the story on the silver screen which, requiring no mental effort, often diverts a sad mind for an hour or so, is an undeniable blessing. An observer would have to be much at a loss for material who could find anything to criticise in seeing a family together under such circumstances.
One generally leaves off a long veil, however, for such an occasion and drives bareheaded, if it be evening, or substitutes a short black face veil over one’s hat on entering and leaving a building in the daytime.
MOURNING FOR COUNTRY WEAR
Except for church, crepe veils and clothes heavily trimmed with crepe are not appropriate in the country—ever! Mourning clothes for the summer consist of plain black serge or tweed, silk or cotton material, all black with white organdy collar and cuffs, and a veil-less hat with a brim. Or one may dress entirely in dull materials of white.
A WIDOW’S MOURNING
A widow used never to wear any but woolen materials, made as plain as possible, with deep-hemmed turn-back cuffs and collar of white organdy. On the street she wore a small crepe bonnet with a little cap-border of white crepe or organdy and a long veil of crepe or nun’s veiling to the bottom edge of her skirt, over her face as well as down her back. At the end of three months the front veil was put back from over her face, but the long veil was worn two years at least, and frequently for life. These details are identical with those prescribed to-day excepting that she may wear lustreless silks as well as wool, the duration of mourning may be shorter, and she need never wear her veil over her face except at the funeral unless she chooses.
A widow of mature years who follows old-fashioned conventions wears deep mourning with crepe veil two years, black the third year and second mourning the fourth. But shorter periods of mourning are becoming more and more the custom and many consider three or even two years conventional.
THE VERY YOUNG WIDOW
The young widow should wear deep crepe for a year and then lighter mourning for six months and second mourning for six months longer. There is nothing more utterly captivating than a sweet young face under a widow’s veil, and it is not to be wondered at that her own loneliness and need of sympathy, combined with all that is appealing to sympathy in a man, results in the healing of her heart. She should, however, never remain in mourning for her first husband after she has decided she can be consoled by a second.
There is no reason why a woman (or a man) should not find such consolation, but she should keep the intruding attraction away from her thoughts until the year of respect is up, after which she is free to put on colors and make happier plans.
MOURNING WORN BY A MOTHER
A mother who has lost a grown child wears the same mourning as that prescribed for a widow excepting the white cap ruche. Some mothers wear mourning for their children always, others do not believe in being long in black for a spirit that was young, and, for babies or very young children, wear colorless clothes of white or gray or mauve.
A DAUGHTER OR SISTER
A daughter or sister wears a long veil over her face at the funeral. The length of the veil may be to her waist or to the hem of her skirt, and it is worn for from three months to a year, according to her age and feelings. An older woman wears deep black for her parents, sisters and brothers for a year, and then lightens her mourning during the second year. A young girl, if she is out in society or in college, may wear a long veil for her parents or her betrothed, if she wants to, or she wears a thin net veil edged with crepe and the corners falling a short way down her back—or none at all.
Very young girls of from fourteen to eighteen wear black for three months and then six months of black and white. They never wear veils of any sort, nor are their clothes trimmed in crepe. Children from eight to fourteen wear black and white and gray for six months for a parent, brother, sister or grandparent. Young children are rarely put into mourning, though their clothes are often selected to avoid vivid color. They usually wear white with no black except a hair ribbon for the girls and a necktie for the boys. Very little children in black are too pitiful.
EXTREME FASHION INAPPROPRIATE
Fancy clothes in mourning are always offenses against good taste, because as the word implies, a person is in mourning. To have the impression of “fashion” dominant is contrary to the purpose of somber dress; it is a costume for the spirit, a covering for the visible body of one whose soul seeks the background. Nothing can be in worse taste than crepe which is gathered and ruched and puffed and pleated and made into waterfalls, and imitation ostrich feathers as a garnishing for a hat. The more absolutely plain, the more appropriate and dignified is the mourning dress. A “long veil” is a shade pulled down—a protection—it should never be a flaunting arrangement to arrest the amazed attention of the passerby.
The necessity for dignity can not be overemphasized.
BAD TASTE IN MOURNING
Mourning observances are all matters of fixed form, and any deviation from precise convention is interpreted by the world at large as signifying want of proper feeling.
How often has one heard said of a young woman who was perhaps merely ignorant of the effect of her inappropriate clothes or unconventional behavior: “Look at her! And her dear father scarcely cold in his grave!” Or “Little she seems to have cared for her mother—and such a lovely one she had, too.” Such remarks are as thoughtless as are the actions of the daughter, but they point to an undeniable condition. Better far not wear mourning at all, saying you do not believe in it, than allow your unseemly conduct to indicate indifference to the memory of a really beloved parent; better that a young widow should go out in scarlet and yellow on the day after her husband’s funeral than wear weeds which attract attention on account of their flaunting bad taste and flippancy. One may not, one must not, one can not wear the very last cry of exaggerated fashion in crepe, nor may one be boisterous or flippant or sloppy in manner, without giving the impression to all beholders that one’s spirit is posturing, tripping, or dancing on the grave of sacred memory.
This may seem exaggerated, but if you examine the expressions, you will find that they are essentially true.
Draw the picture for yourself: A slim figure, if you like, held in the posture of the caterpillar slouch, a long length of stocking so thin as to give the effect of shaded skin above high-heeled slippers with sparkling buckles of bright jet, a short skirt, a scrappy, thin, low-necked, short-sleeved blouse through which white underclothing shows various edgings of lace and ribbons, and on top of this, a painted face under a long crepe veil! Yet the wearer of this costume may in nothing but appearance resemble the unmentionable class of women she suggests; as a matter of fact she is very likely a perfectly decent young person and really sad at heart, and her clothes and “make up” not different from countless others who pass unnoticed because their colored clothing suggests no mockery of solemnity.
MOURNING WEAR FOR MEN
The necessity of business and affairs which has made withdrawal into seclusion impossible, has also made it customary for the majority of men to go into mourning by the simple expedient of putting a black band on their hat or on the left sleeve of their usual clothes and wearing only white instead of colored linen.
A man never under any circumstances wears crepe. The band on his hat is of very fine cloth and varies in width according to the degree of mourning from two and a half inches to within half an inch of the top of a high hat. On other hats the width is fixed at about two and a half or three inches. The sleeve band, from three and a half to four and a half inches in width, is of dull broadcloth on overcoats or winter clothing, and of serge on summer clothes. The sleeve band of mourning is sensible for many reasons, the first being that of economy. Men’s clothes do not come successfully from the encounter with dye vats, nor lend themselves to “alterations,” and an entire new wardrobe is an unwarranted burden to most.
Except for the one black suit bought for the funeral and kept for Sunday church, or other special occasion, only wealthy men or widowers go to the very considerable expense of getting a new wardrobe. Widowers—especially if they are elderly—always go into black (which includes very dark gray mixtures) with a deep black band on the hat, and of course, black ties and socks and shoes and gloves.
CONVENTIONS OF MOURNING FOR MEN
Although the etiquette is less exacting, the standards of social observance are much the same for a man as for a woman. A widower should not be seen at any general entertainment, such as a dance, or in a box at the opera, for a year; a son for six months; a brother for three—at least! The length of time a father stays in mourning for a child is more a matter of his own inclination.
MOURNING LIVERY
Coachmen and chauffeurs wear black liveries in town. In the country they wear gray or even their ordinary whipcord with a black band on the left sleeve.
The house footman is always put into a black livery with dull buttons and a black and white striped waistcoat. Maids are not put into mourning with the exception of a lady’s maid or nurse who, through many years of service, has “become one of the family,” and who personally desires to wear mourning as though for a relative of her own.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF SYMPATHY
In the case of a very prominent person where messages of condolence, many of them impersonal, mount into the thousands, the sending of engraved cards to strangers is proper.
Under no circumstances should such cards be sent to intimate friends, or to those who have sent flowers or written personal letters.
When some one with real sympathy in his heart has taken the trouble to select and send flowers, or has gone to the house and offered what service he might, or has in a spirit of genuine regard, written a personal letter, the receipt of words composed by a stationer and dispatched by a professional secretary is exactly as though his outstretched hand had been pushed aside.
A family in mourning is in retirement from all social activities. There is no excuse on the score of their “having no time.” Also no one expects a long letter, nor does any one look for an early reply. A personal word on a visiting card is all any one asks for. The envelope may be addressed by some one else.
It takes but a moment to write “Thank you,” or “Thank you for all sympathy,” or “Thank you for your kind offers and sympathy.” Or, on a sheet of letter paper:
“Thank you, dear Mrs. Smith, for your beautiful flowers and your kind sympathy.”
Or:
“Your flowers were so beautiful! Thank you for them and for your loving message.”
Or:
“Thank you for your sweet letter. I know you meant it and I appreciate it.”
Many, many such notes can be written in a day. If the list is overlong, or the one who received the flowers and messages is in reality so prostrated that she (or he) is unable to perform the task of writing, then some member of her immediate family can write for her:
“Mother (or father) is too ill to write and asks me to thank you for your beautiful flowers and kind message.”
Most people find a sad comfort as well as pain, in the reading and replying to letters and cards, but they should not sit at it too long; it is apt to increase rather than assuage their grief. Therefore, no one expects more than a word—but that word should be seemingly personal.
OBLIGATIONS OF PRESENCE AT FUNERALS
Upon reading the death notice of a mere acquaintance you may leave your card at the house, if you feel so inclined, or you may merely send your card.
Upon the death of an intimate acquaintance or friend you should go at once to the house, write, “With sympathy” on your card and leave it at the door. Or you should write a letter to the family; in either case, you send flowers addressed to the nearest relative. On the card accompanying the flowers, you write, “With sympathy,” “With deepest sympathy,” or “With heartfelt sympathy,” or “With love and sympathy.” If there is a notice in the papers “requesting no flowers be sent,” you send them only if you are a very intimate friend.
Or if you prefer, send a few flowers with a note, immediately after the funeral, to the member of the family who is particularly your friend.
If the notice says “funeral private” you do not go unless you have received a message from the family that you are expected, or unless you are such an intimate friend that you know you are expected without being asked. Where a general notice is published in the paper, it is proper and fitting that you should show sympathy by going to the funeral, even though you had little more than a visiting acquaintance with the family. You should not leave cards nor go to a funeral of a person with whom you have not in any way been associated or to whose house you have never been asked.
But it is heartless and delinquent if you do not go to the funeral of one with whom you were associated in business or other interests, or to whose house you were often invited, or where you are a friend of the immediate members of the family.
You should wear black clothes if you have them, or if not, the darkest, the least conspicuous you possess. Enter the church as quietly as possible, and as there are no ushers at a funeral, seat yourself where you approximately belong. Only a very intimate friend should take a position far up on the center aisle. If you are merely an acquaintance you should sit inconspicuously in the rear somewhere, unless the funeral is very small and the church big, in which case you may sit on the end seat of the center aisle toward the back.
But recently, while reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, I was struck by the passage that described Joan's effort to figure out what she was supposed to "do" shortly after her husband died. Surely, she was supposed to be doing something. She consulted Emily Post on funerals.
I've never read Emily Post on funerals...weddings and babies, yes...funerals, no...never had a reason. But it stuck with me that Ms. Didion consulte Emily Post.
And then Rebecca's post about "The Rules" reminded me of that passage.
As it turns out, Emily Post was quite smart about this topic. While some of the information is clearly outdated, there are definitely some tips for those people who say they just don't know what to do when a loved one is grieving.
I have previously posted about how there should be a handbook for bereaved parents. And I've had people tell me that they need a handbook on how to help bereaved parents. So I post this here for everyone to get a bit of an education. I know it is impossibly long. I am including the entire text as a way to test Blogger's limits. But also as a way to insure that I have this information readily available to myself in the future. But I hope you will take the time to read it and maybe adjust your own behavior accordingly...when you have the unfortunate need to do so in the future (and we all will...death is a certainty for all of us).
I'm particularly moved by the passages that talk about mourning. Ms. Post acknowledges the ongoing nature of the process and doesn't shrink from the knowledge that it is necessary. She is of an age where people valued each other...where people realized that it's not something to be embarassed or ashamed of...mourning is natural and should be encouraged. Yes, I know the social construct was different and the REQUIREMENT that women mourn dead spouses for such a long period is...well...icky. But the focus on the permissibility of mourning intrigues me. It's not to be cut short immaturely or moved past too quickly. It's like that long slow dance with your first love that you savor and try to absorb into your very being.
I am also intrigued by the concept of clothing being used to identify those in mourning. I had a wonderful conversation with my friend Julie last night on the telephone. In talking about the callous way in which people generally treat each other in our society, she said, "I can't walk around with a sign on me that explains my grief." And it's true today. But in Ms. Post's time, there was a visual reminder that the person before you needed some extra human compassion. There WAS a way to identify people who were in a fragile emotional state. I wonder why we left that behind?
I would definitely make some additions to Ms. Post's rules of funeral etiquette. But generally, I think it should be required reading...handed out with those useless pamphlets they give you in the hospital that tell you how everyone grieves in their own way. Instead of frightening people with the variability of grief, we should empower people with some concrete suggestions on what they can do to manage the worst time in a person's life. We should give them back a bit of control. And provide them some insight on what to expect during the mourning process.
Anyway...I have babbled on enough...but don't be surprised if you see white flowers near my doorbell this holiday season.
And on with the show...
At no time does solemnity so possess our souls as when we stand deserted at the brink of darkness into which our loved one has gone. And the last place in the world where we would look for comfort at such a time is in the seeming artificiality of etiquette; yet it is in the moment of deepest sorrow that etiquette performs its most vital and real service.
All set rules for social observance have for their object the smoothing of personal contacts, and in nothing is smoothness so necessary as in observing the solemn rites accorded our dead.
It is the time-worn servitor, Etiquette, who draws the shades, who muffles the bell, who keeps the house quiet, who hushes voices and footsteps and sudden noises; who stands between well-meaning and importunate outsiders and the retirement of the bereaved; who decrees that the last rites shall be performed smoothly and with beauty and gravity, so that the poignancy of grief may in so far as possible be assuaged.
FIRST DETAILS
As soon as death occurs, some one (the trained nurse usually) draws the blinds in the sick-room and tells a servant to draw all the blinds of the house.
If they are not already present, the first act of some one at the bedside is to telephone or telegraph the immediate members of the family, the clergyman and the sexton of the church to which the family belong, and possibly one or two closest friends, whose competence and sympathy can be counted on—as there are many things which must be done for the stricken family as well as for the deceased. (The sexton of nearly every Protestant church is also undertaker. If he is not, then an outside funeral director is sent for.)
If the illness has been a long one, it may be that the family has become attached to the trained nurse and no one is better fitted than she to turn her ministrations from the one whom she can no longer help, to those who have now very real need of just such care as she can give.
If the death was sudden, or the nurse unsympathetic or for other reasons unavailable, then a relative or a near friend of practical sympathy is the ideal attendant in charge.
CONSIDERATION FOR THE FAMILY
Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically. No matter how calm and controlled they seemingly may be, no one can under such circumstances be normal. Their disturbed circulation makes them cold, their distress makes them unstrung, sleepless. Persons they normally like, they often turn from. No one should ever be forced upon those in grief, and all over-emotional people, no matter how near or dear, should be barred absolutely. Although the knowledge that their friends love them and sorrow for them is a great solace, the nearest afflicted must be protected from any one or anything which is likely to overstrain nerves already at the threatening point, and none have the right to feel hurt if they are told they can neither be of use nor be received. At such a time, to some people companionship is a comfort, others shrink from dearest friends. One who is by choice or accident selected to come in contact with those in new affliction should, like a trained nurse, banish all consciousness of self; otherwise he or she will be of no service—and service is the only gift of value that can be offered.
FIRST AID TO THE BEREAVED
First of all, the ones in sorrow should be urged if possible to sit in a sunny room and where there is an open fire. If they feel unequal to going to the table, a very little food should be taken to them on a tray. A cup of tea or coffee or bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg, milk if they like it hot, or milk toast. Cold milk is bad for one who is already over-chilled. The cook may suggest something that appeals usually to their taste—but very little should be offered at a time, for although the stomach may be empty, the palate rejects the thought of food, and digestion is never in best order.
It sounds paradoxical to say that those in sorrow should be protected from all contacts, and yet that they must be constantly asked about arrangements and given little time to remain utterly undisturbed. They must think of people they want sent for, and they must decide the details of the funeral; when they would like it held, and whether in church or at the house, whether they want special music or flowers ordered, and where the interment is to be.
ON DUTY AT DOOR
A friend or a servant is always stationed in the hall to open the door, receive notes and cards, and to take messages. In a big house the butler in his day clothes should answer the bell, with the parlor-maid to assist him, until a footman can procure a black livery and take his or her place. A parlor-maid or waitress at the door should wear either a black or gray dress, with her plainest white apron, collar and cuffs.
MEMBER OF FAMILY IN CHARGE
A close friend or male member of the family should be—if not at the door—as near the front hall as possible to see the countless people with whom details have to be arranged, to admit to a member of the family anyone they may want to see, and to give news to, or take messages from, others.
As people come to the house to enquire and offer their services, he gives them commissions the occasion requires. The first friend who hurries to the house (in answer to the telephone message which announced the death) is asked to break the news to an invalid connection of the family, or he may be sent to the florist to order the bell hung, or to the station to meet a child arriving from school.
NOTICE TO PAPERS
The sexton (or other funeral director) sends the notices to the daily papers announcing the death, and the time and place of the funeral. The form is generally selected by a member of the family from among those appearing in that day’s newspapers. These notices are paid for by the sexton and put on his bill.
With the exception of the telephone messages or telegrams to relatives and very intimate friends, no other notices are sent out. Only those persons who are expected to go to the house at once have messages sent to them; all others are supposed to read the notice in the papers. When the notice reads “funeral private” and neither place nor time is given, very intimate friends are supposed to ask for these details at the house; others understand they are not expected.
HANGING THE BELL
As a rule the funeral director hangs crepe streamers on the bell; white ones for a child, black and white for a young person, or black for an older person. This signifies to the passerby that it is a house of mourning so that the bell will not be rung unnecessarily nor long.
If they prefer, the family sometimes orders a florist to hang a bunch of violets or other purple flowers on black ribbon streamers, for a grown person; or white violets, white carnations—any white flower without leaves—on the black ribbon for a young woman or man; or white flowers on white gauze or ribbon for a child.
CHECKING EXPENSES IN ADVANCE
It is curious that long association with the sadness of death seems to have deprived an occasional funeral director of all sense of moderation. Whether the temptation of “good business” gradually undermines his character—knowing as he does that bereaved families ask no questions—or whether his profession is merely devoid of taste, he will, if not checked, bring the most ornate and expensive casket in his establishment; he will perform every rite that his professional ingenuity for expenditure can devise; he will employ every attendant he has; he will order vehicles numerous enough for the cortège of a president; he will even, if thrown in contact with a bewildered chief-mourner, secure a pledge for the erection of an elaborate mausoleum.
Some one, therefore, who has the family’s interest at heart and knows their taste and purse, should go personally to the establishment of the undertaker, and not only select the coffin, but go carefully into the specification of all other details, so that everything necessary may be arranged for, and unnecessary items omitted.
This does not imply that a family that prefers a very elaborate funeral should not be allowed to have one; but the great majority of people have moderate, rather than unlimited means, and it is not unheard of that a small estate is seriously depleted by vulgarly lavish and entirely inappropriate funeral expenses. One would be a poor sort who for the sake of friends would not willingly endure a little troublesome inquiry, rather than witness a display of splurge and bad taste and realize at the same time that the friends who might have been protected will be deluged with bills which it cannot but embarrass them to pay.
HONORARY PALLBEARERS
The member of the family who is in charge will ask either when they come to the house, or by telephone or telegraph if they are at a distance, six or eight men who are close friends of the deceased to be the pallbearers. When a man has been prominent in public life, he may have twelve or more from among his political or business associates as well as his lifelong social friends. Near relatives are never chosen, as their place is with the women of the family. For a young woman, her own friends or those of her family are chosen. It is a service that may not under any circumstances except serious ill-health, be refused.
The one in charge will tell the pallbearers where they are to meet. It used to be customary for them to go to the house on the morning of the funeral and drive to the church behind the hearse, but as everything tending to a conspicuous procession is being gradually done away with, it is often preferred to have them wait in the vestibule of the church.
Honorary pallbearers serve only at church funerals. They do not carry the coffin for the reason that, being unaccustomed to bearing such a burden, one of them might possibly stumble, or at least give an impression of uncertainty or awkwardness that might detract from the solemnity of the occasion. The sexton’s assistants are trained for this service, so as to prevent in so far as is humanly possible a blundering occurrence.
MOURNING FOR FUNERAL
Among those who come to the house there is sure to be a woman friend of the family whose taste and method of expenditure is similar to theirs. She looks through the clothes they have, to see if there is not a black dress or suit that can be used, and makes a list of only the necessary articles which will have to be procured.
All dressmaking establishments give precedence to mourning orders and will fill a commission within twenty-four hours. These first things are made invariably without bothering the wearer with fitting. Alterations, if required, are made later.
Or the mourning departments of the big stores and specialty shops are always willing to send a selection on approval, so that a choice can be made by the family in the privacy of their own rooms. Nearly always acquaintances who are themselves in mourning offer to lend crepe veils, toques and wraps, so that the garments which must be bought at first may be as few as possible. Most women have a plain black suit, or dress, the trimming of which can quickly be replaced with crepe by a maid or a friend.
Most men are of standard size and can go to a clothier and buy a ready-made black suit. Otherwise they must borrow, or wear what they have, as no tailor can make a suit in twenty-four hours.
“SITTING UP” NO LONGER CUSTOMARY
Unless the deceased was a prelate or personage whose lying-in-state is a public ceremony, or unless it is the especial wish of the relatives, the solemn vigil through long nights by the side of the coffin is no longer essential as a mark of veneration or love for the departed.
Nor is the soulless body dressed in elaborate trappings of farewell grandeur. Everything to-day is done to avoid unnecessary evidence of the change that has taken place. In case of a very small funeral the person who has passed away is sometimes left lying in bed in night clothes, or on a sofa in a wrapper, with flowers, but no set pieces, about the room, so that an invalid or other sensitive bereft one may say farewell without ever seeing the all too definite finality of a coffin. In any event the last attentions are paid in accordance with the wish of those most nearly concerned.
EXTRA WORK FOR SERVANTS
Kindness of heart is latent in all of us, and servants, even if they have not been long with a family, rise to the emergency of such a time as that of a funeral, which always puts additional work upon them and often leaves them to manage under their own initiative. The house is always full of people, family and intimate friends occupy all available accommodation, but it is a rare household which does not give sympathy as generously below stairs as above; and he or she would be thought very heartless by their companions who did not willingly and helpfully assume a just share of the temporary tax on energy, time and consideration.
CHURCH FUNERAL
The church funeral is the more trying, in that the family have to leave the seclusion of their house and face a congregation. On the other hand, many who find solemnity only in a church service with the added beauty of choir and organ, prefer to take their heartrending farewell in the House of God.
ARRANGING AND RECORDING FLOWERS
An hour before the time for the service, if the family is Protestant, one or two woman friends go to the church to arrange the flowers which are placed about the chancel. Unless they have had unusual practise in such arrangement they should, if possible, have the assistance of a florist, as effective grouping and fastening of heavy wreaths and sprays is apt to overtax the ingenuity of novices, no matter how perfect their usual taste may be.
Whoever takes charge of the flowers must be sure to collect carefully all the notes and cards. They should always take extra pencils in case the points break, and write on the outside of each envelope a description of the flowers that the card was sent with.
“Spray of Easter lilies and palm branches tied with white ribbon.”
“Wreath of laurel leaves and gardenias.”
“Long sheaf of pink roses and white lilacs.”
These descriptions will afterwards help identify and recall the flowers when notes of thanks are sent.
As the appointed time for the funeral draws near, the organ plays softly, the congregation gradually fills the church. The first pews on either side of the center aisle are left empty.
THE PROCESSIONAL
At the appointed time the funeral procession forms in the vestibule. If there is to be a choral service the minister and the choir enter the church from the rear, and precede the funeral cortège. Directly after the choir and clergy come the pallbearers, two by two, then the coffin covered with flowers and then the family—the chief mourner comes first, leaning upon the arm of her closest male relative. Usually each man is escort for a woman, but two women or two men may walk together according to the division of the family. If the deceased is one of four sons where there is no daughter, the mother and father walk immediately behind the body of their child, followed by the two elder sons and behind them the younger, with the nearest woman relative. If there is a grandmother, she walks with the eldest son and the younger two follow together. If it is a family of daughters who are following their father, the eldest daughter may walk with her mother, or the mother may walk with her brother, or a son-in-law. Although the arrangement of the procession is thus fixed, those in affliction should be placed next to the one whose nearness may be of most comfort to them. A younger child who is calm and soothing would better be next to his mother than an older who is of more nervous temperament.
At the funeral of a woman, her husband sometimes walks alone, but usually with his mother or his daughter. A very few intimate friends walk at the rear of the family, followed by the servants of the household. At the chancel the choir take their accustomed places, the minister stands at the foot of the chancel steps, the honorary pallbearers take their places in the front pews on the left, and the coffin is set upon a stand previously placed there for the purpose. The bearers of the coffin walk quietly around to inconspicuous stations on a side aisle. The family occupy the front pews on the right, the rest of the procession fill vacant places on either side. The service is then read.
THE RECESSIONAL
Upon the conclusion of the service, the procession moves out in the same order as it came in excepting that the choir remain in their places and the honorary pallbearers go first. Outside the church, the coffin is put into the hearse, the family getting into carriages or motors waiting immediately behind, and the flowers are put into a covered vehicle. (It is very vulgar to fill open landaus with displayed floral offerings and parade through the streets.)
FEW GO TO THE BURIAL
If the burial is in the churchyard or otherwise within walking distance, the congregation naturally follows the family to the graveside. Otherwise, the general congregation no longer expects, nor wishes, to go to the interment which (excepting at a funeral of public importance) is witnessed only by the immediate family and the most intimate friends, who are asked if they “care to go.” The long line of carriages that used to stand at the church ready to be filled with a long file of mere acquaintances is a barbarous thing of the past.
HOUSE FUNERAL
Many people prefer a house funeral—it is simpler, more private, and obviates the necessity for those in sorrow to face people. The nearest relatives may stay apart in an adjoining room or even upon the upper floor, where they can hear the service but remain in unseen seclusion.
Ladies keep their wraps on. Gentlemen wear their overcoats or carry them on their arms and hold their hats in their hands.
MUSIC
To many people there is lack of solemnity in a service outside of a church and lacking the accompaniment of the organ. It is almost impossible to introduce orchestral music that does not sound either dangerously suggestive of the gaiety of entertainment or else thin and flat. A quartet or choral singing is beautiful and appropriate, if available, otherwise there is usually no music at a house funeral.
HOUSE ARRANGEMENT
Some authorities say that only the flowers sent by very close friends should be shown at a house funeral, and that it is ostentatious to make a display. But when people, or societies, have been kind enough to send flowers, it would certainly be wanting in appreciation, to say the least, to relegate their offerings to the back yard—or wherever it is that the cavilers would have them hid!
In a small house where flowers would be overpowering, it is customary to insert in the death notice: “It is requested that no flowers be sent,” or “Kindly omit flowers.”
Arrangement for the service is usually made in the drawing-room, and the coffin is placed in front of the mantel, or between the windows, but always at a distance from the door, usually on stands brought by the funeral director, who also brings enough camp chairs to fill the room without crowding. A friend, or a member of the family, collects the cards and arranges the flowers behind and at the side and against the stands of the coffin. If there is to be a blanket or pall of smilax or other leaves with or without flowers, fastened to a frame, or sewed on thin material and made into a covering, it is always ordered by the family. Otherwise, the wreaths to be placed on the coffin are chosen from among those sent by the family.
THE SERVICE
As friends arrive, they are shown to the room where the ceremony is to be held, but they take their own places. A room must be apportioned to the minister in which to put on his vestments. At the hour set for the funeral the immediate family, if they feel like being present, take their places in the front row of chairs. The women wear small hats or toques and long crepe veils over their faces, so that their countenances may be hidden. The minister takes his stand at the head of the coffin and reads the service.
At its conclusion the coffin is carried out to the hearse, which, followed by a small number of carriages, proceeds to the cemetery.
It is very rare nowadays for any but a small group of relatives and intimate men friends to go to the cemetery, and it is not thought unloving or slighting of the dead for no women at all to be at the graveside. If any women are to be present and the interment is to be in the ground, some one should order the grave lined with boughs and green branches—to lessen the impression of bare earth.
DISTANT COUNTRY FUNERAL
In the country where relatives and friends arrive by train, carriages or motors must be provided to convey them to the house or church or cemetery. If the clergyman has no conveyance of his own, he must always be sent for, and if the funeral is in a house, a room must be set apart for him in which to change his clothes.
It is unusual for a family to provide a “special car.” Sometimes the hour of the funeral is announced in the papers as taking place on the arrival of a certain train, but everyone who attends is expected to pay his own railway fare and make, if necessary, his own arrangements for lunch.
Only when the country place where the funeral is held is at a distance from town and a long drive from the railway station, a light repast of bouillon, rolls and tea and sandwiches may be spread on the dining-room table. Otherwise refreshments are never offered—except to those of the family, of course, who are staying in the house.
HOUSE RESTORED TO ORDER
While the funeral cortège is still at the cemetery, some one who is in charge at home must see that the mourning emblem is taken off the bell, that the windows are opened, the house aired from the excessive odor of flowers, and the blinds pulled up. Any furniture that has been displaced should be put back where it belongs, and unless the day is too hot a fire should be lighted in the library or principal bedroom to make a little more cheerful the sad home-coming of the family. It is also well to prepare a little hot tea or broth, and it should be brought them upon their return without their being asked if they would care for it. Those who are in great distress want no food, but if it is handed to them, they will mechanically take it, and something warm to start digestion and stimulate impaired circulation is what they most need.
MOURNING
A generation or two ago the regulations for mourning were definitely prescribed, definite periods according to the precise degree of relationship of the mourner. One’s real feelings, whether of grief or comparative indifference, had nothing to do with the outward manifestation one was obliged, in decency, to show. The tendency to-day is toward sincerity. People do not put on black for aunts, uncles and cousins unless there is a deep tie of affection as well as of blood.
Many persons to-day do not believe in going into mourning at all. There are some who believe, as do the races of the East, that great love should be expressed in rejoicing in the re-birth of a beloved spirit instead of selfishly mourning their own earthly loss. But many who object to manifestations of grief, find themselves impelled to wear mourning when their sorrow comes and the number of those who do not put on black is still comparatively small.
PROTECTION OF MOURNING
If you see acquaintances of yours in deepest mourning, it does not occur to you to go up to them and babble trivial topics or ask them to a dance or dinner. If you pass close to them, irresistible sympathy compels you merely to stop and press their hand and pass on. A widow, or mother, in the newness of her long veil, has her hard path made as little difficult as possible by everyone with whom she comes in contact, no matter on what errand she may be bent. A clerk in a store will try to wait on her as quickly and as attentively as possible. Acquaintances avoid stopping her with long conversation that could not but torture and distress her. She meets small kindnesses at every turn, which save unnecessary jars to supersensitive nerves.
Once in a great while, a tactless person may have no better sense than to ask her abruptly for whom she is in mourning! Such people would not hesitate to walk over the graves in a cemetery! And fortunately, such encounters are few.
Since many people, however, dislike long mourning veils and all crepe generally, it is absolutely correct to omit both if preferred, and to wear an untrimmed coat and hat of plainest black with or without a veil.
A WORD OF ECONOMY
In the first days of stress, people sometimes give away every colored article they possess and not until later are they aware of the effort necessary, to say nothing of the expense, of getting an entire new wardrobe. Therefore it is well to remember:
Dresses and suits can be dyed without ripping. Any number of fabrics—all woolens, soft silks, canton crepe, georgette and chiffon, dye perfectly. Buttonholes have sometimes to be re-worked, snaps or hooks and eyes changed to black, a bit of trimming taken off or covered with dull braid, silk or crepe, and the clothes look every bit as well as though newly ordered.
Straw hats can be painted with an easily applied stain sold in every drug and department store for the purpose. If you cannot trim hats yourself, a milliner can easily imitate, or, if necessary, simplify the general outline of the trimming as it was, and a seamstress can easily cover dyed trimmings on dresses with crepe or dull silk. Also tan shoes—nearly all footwear made of leather—can be dyed black and made to look like new by any first class shoemaker.
MOURNING MATERIALS
Lustreless silks, such as crepe de chine, georgette, chiffon, grosgrain, peau de soie, dull finish charmeuse and taffeta, and all plain woolen materials, are suitable for deepest mourning. Uncut velvet is as deep mourning as crepe, but cut velvet is not mourning at all! Nor is satin or lace. The only lace permissible is a plain or hemstitched net known as “footing.”
Fancy weaves in stockings are not mourning, nor is bright jet or silver. A very perplexing decree is that clothes entirely of white are deepest mourning but the addition of a black belt or hat or gloves produces second mourning.
Patent leather and satin shoes are not mourning.
People in second mourning wear all combinations of black and white as well as clothes of gray and mauve. Many of the laws for materials seem arbitrary, and people interpret them with greater freedom than they used to, but never under any circumstances can one who is not entirely in colors wear satin embroidered in silver or trimmed with jet and lace! With the exception of wearing a small string of pearls and a single ring, especially if it is an engagement ring, jewelry with deepest mourning is never in good taste.
WHEN A VEIL IS NOT WORN
Nor should a woman ever wear a crepe veil to the theater or restaurant, or any public place of amusement. On the other hand, people left long to themselves and their own thoughts grow easily morbid, and the opera or concert or an interesting play may exert a beneficial relaxation. Gay restaurants with thumping strident musical accompaniment or entertainments of the cabaret variety, need scarcely be commented upon. But to go to a matinee with a close friend or relative is becoming more and more usual—and the picture theaters where one may sit in the obscurity and be diverted by the story on the silver screen which, requiring no mental effort, often diverts a sad mind for an hour or so, is an undeniable blessing. An observer would have to be much at a loss for material who could find anything to criticise in seeing a family together under such circumstances.
One generally leaves off a long veil, however, for such an occasion and drives bareheaded, if it be evening, or substitutes a short black face veil over one’s hat on entering and leaving a building in the daytime.
MOURNING FOR COUNTRY WEAR
Except for church, crepe veils and clothes heavily trimmed with crepe are not appropriate in the country—ever! Mourning clothes for the summer consist of plain black serge or tweed, silk or cotton material, all black with white organdy collar and cuffs, and a veil-less hat with a brim. Or one may dress entirely in dull materials of white.
A WIDOW’S MOURNING
A widow used never to wear any but woolen materials, made as plain as possible, with deep-hemmed turn-back cuffs and collar of white organdy. On the street she wore a small crepe bonnet with a little cap-border of white crepe or organdy and a long veil of crepe or nun’s veiling to the bottom edge of her skirt, over her face as well as down her back. At the end of three months the front veil was put back from over her face, but the long veil was worn two years at least, and frequently for life. These details are identical with those prescribed to-day excepting that she may wear lustreless silks as well as wool, the duration of mourning may be shorter, and she need never wear her veil over her face except at the funeral unless she chooses.
A widow of mature years who follows old-fashioned conventions wears deep mourning with crepe veil two years, black the third year and second mourning the fourth. But shorter periods of mourning are becoming more and more the custom and many consider three or even two years conventional.
THE VERY YOUNG WIDOW
The young widow should wear deep crepe for a year and then lighter mourning for six months and second mourning for six months longer. There is nothing more utterly captivating than a sweet young face under a widow’s veil, and it is not to be wondered at that her own loneliness and need of sympathy, combined with all that is appealing to sympathy in a man, results in the healing of her heart. She should, however, never remain in mourning for her first husband after she has decided she can be consoled by a second.
There is no reason why a woman (or a man) should not find such consolation, but she should keep the intruding attraction away from her thoughts until the year of respect is up, after which she is free to put on colors and make happier plans.
MOURNING WORN BY A MOTHER
A mother who has lost a grown child wears the same mourning as that prescribed for a widow excepting the white cap ruche. Some mothers wear mourning for their children always, others do not believe in being long in black for a spirit that was young, and, for babies or very young children, wear colorless clothes of white or gray or mauve.
A DAUGHTER OR SISTER
A daughter or sister wears a long veil over her face at the funeral. The length of the veil may be to her waist or to the hem of her skirt, and it is worn for from three months to a year, according to her age and feelings. An older woman wears deep black for her parents, sisters and brothers for a year, and then lightens her mourning during the second year. A young girl, if she is out in society or in college, may wear a long veil for her parents or her betrothed, if she wants to, or she wears a thin net veil edged with crepe and the corners falling a short way down her back—or none at all.
Very young girls of from fourteen to eighteen wear black for three months and then six months of black and white. They never wear veils of any sort, nor are their clothes trimmed in crepe. Children from eight to fourteen wear black and white and gray for six months for a parent, brother, sister or grandparent. Young children are rarely put into mourning, though their clothes are often selected to avoid vivid color. They usually wear white with no black except a hair ribbon for the girls and a necktie for the boys. Very little children in black are too pitiful.
EXTREME FASHION INAPPROPRIATE
Fancy clothes in mourning are always offenses against good taste, because as the word implies, a person is in mourning. To have the impression of “fashion” dominant is contrary to the purpose of somber dress; it is a costume for the spirit, a covering for the visible body of one whose soul seeks the background. Nothing can be in worse taste than crepe which is gathered and ruched and puffed and pleated and made into waterfalls, and imitation ostrich feathers as a garnishing for a hat. The more absolutely plain, the more appropriate and dignified is the mourning dress. A “long veil” is a shade pulled down—a protection—it should never be a flaunting arrangement to arrest the amazed attention of the passerby.
The necessity for dignity can not be overemphasized.
BAD TASTE IN MOURNING
Mourning observances are all matters of fixed form, and any deviation from precise convention is interpreted by the world at large as signifying want of proper feeling.
How often has one heard said of a young woman who was perhaps merely ignorant of the effect of her inappropriate clothes or unconventional behavior: “Look at her! And her dear father scarcely cold in his grave!” Or “Little she seems to have cared for her mother—and such a lovely one she had, too.” Such remarks are as thoughtless as are the actions of the daughter, but they point to an undeniable condition. Better far not wear mourning at all, saying you do not believe in it, than allow your unseemly conduct to indicate indifference to the memory of a really beloved parent; better that a young widow should go out in scarlet and yellow on the day after her husband’s funeral than wear weeds which attract attention on account of their flaunting bad taste and flippancy. One may not, one must not, one can not wear the very last cry of exaggerated fashion in crepe, nor may one be boisterous or flippant or sloppy in manner, without giving the impression to all beholders that one’s spirit is posturing, tripping, or dancing on the grave of sacred memory.
This may seem exaggerated, but if you examine the expressions, you will find that they are essentially true.
Draw the picture for yourself: A slim figure, if you like, held in the posture of the caterpillar slouch, a long length of stocking so thin as to give the effect of shaded skin above high-heeled slippers with sparkling buckles of bright jet, a short skirt, a scrappy, thin, low-necked, short-sleeved blouse through which white underclothing shows various edgings of lace and ribbons, and on top of this, a painted face under a long crepe veil! Yet the wearer of this costume may in nothing but appearance resemble the unmentionable class of women she suggests; as a matter of fact she is very likely a perfectly decent young person and really sad at heart, and her clothes and “make up” not different from countless others who pass unnoticed because their colored clothing suggests no mockery of solemnity.
MOURNING WEAR FOR MEN
The necessity of business and affairs which has made withdrawal into seclusion impossible, has also made it customary for the majority of men to go into mourning by the simple expedient of putting a black band on their hat or on the left sleeve of their usual clothes and wearing only white instead of colored linen.
A man never under any circumstances wears crepe. The band on his hat is of very fine cloth and varies in width according to the degree of mourning from two and a half inches to within half an inch of the top of a high hat. On other hats the width is fixed at about two and a half or three inches. The sleeve band, from three and a half to four and a half inches in width, is of dull broadcloth on overcoats or winter clothing, and of serge on summer clothes. The sleeve band of mourning is sensible for many reasons, the first being that of economy. Men’s clothes do not come successfully from the encounter with dye vats, nor lend themselves to “alterations,” and an entire new wardrobe is an unwarranted burden to most.
Except for the one black suit bought for the funeral and kept for Sunday church, or other special occasion, only wealthy men or widowers go to the very considerable expense of getting a new wardrobe. Widowers—especially if they are elderly—always go into black (which includes very dark gray mixtures) with a deep black band on the hat, and of course, black ties and socks and shoes and gloves.
CONVENTIONS OF MOURNING FOR MEN
Although the etiquette is less exacting, the standards of social observance are much the same for a man as for a woman. A widower should not be seen at any general entertainment, such as a dance, or in a box at the opera, for a year; a son for six months; a brother for three—at least! The length of time a father stays in mourning for a child is more a matter of his own inclination.
MOURNING LIVERY
Coachmen and chauffeurs wear black liveries in town. In the country they wear gray or even their ordinary whipcord with a black band on the left sleeve.
The house footman is always put into a black livery with dull buttons and a black and white striped waistcoat. Maids are not put into mourning with the exception of a lady’s maid or nurse who, through many years of service, has “become one of the family,” and who personally desires to wear mourning as though for a relative of her own.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF SYMPATHY
In the case of a very prominent person where messages of condolence, many of them impersonal, mount into the thousands, the sending of engraved cards to strangers is proper.
Under no circumstances should such cards be sent to intimate friends, or to those who have sent flowers or written personal letters.
When some one with real sympathy in his heart has taken the trouble to select and send flowers, or has gone to the house and offered what service he might, or has in a spirit of genuine regard, written a personal letter, the receipt of words composed by a stationer and dispatched by a professional secretary is exactly as though his outstretched hand had been pushed aside.
A family in mourning is in retirement from all social activities. There is no excuse on the score of their “having no time.” Also no one expects a long letter, nor does any one look for an early reply. A personal word on a visiting card is all any one asks for. The envelope may be addressed by some one else.
It takes but a moment to write “Thank you,” or “Thank you for all sympathy,” or “Thank you for your kind offers and sympathy.” Or, on a sheet of letter paper:
“Thank you, dear Mrs. Smith, for your beautiful flowers and your kind sympathy.”
Or:
“Your flowers were so beautiful! Thank you for them and for your loving message.”
Or:
“Thank you for your sweet letter. I know you meant it and I appreciate it.”
Many, many such notes can be written in a day. If the list is overlong, or the one who received the flowers and messages is in reality so prostrated that she (or he) is unable to perform the task of writing, then some member of her immediate family can write for her:
“Mother (or father) is too ill to write and asks me to thank you for your beautiful flowers and kind message.”
Most people find a sad comfort as well as pain, in the reading and replying to letters and cards, but they should not sit at it too long; it is apt to increase rather than assuage their grief. Therefore, no one expects more than a word—but that word should be seemingly personal.
OBLIGATIONS OF PRESENCE AT FUNERALS
Upon reading the death notice of a mere acquaintance you may leave your card at the house, if you feel so inclined, or you may merely send your card.
Upon the death of an intimate acquaintance or friend you should go at once to the house, write, “With sympathy” on your card and leave it at the door. Or you should write a letter to the family; in either case, you send flowers addressed to the nearest relative. On the card accompanying the flowers, you write, “With sympathy,” “With deepest sympathy,” or “With heartfelt sympathy,” or “With love and sympathy.” If there is a notice in the papers “requesting no flowers be sent,” you send them only if you are a very intimate friend.
Or if you prefer, send a few flowers with a note, immediately after the funeral, to the member of the family who is particularly your friend.
If the notice says “funeral private” you do not go unless you have received a message from the family that you are expected, or unless you are such an intimate friend that you know you are expected without being asked. Where a general notice is published in the paper, it is proper and fitting that you should show sympathy by going to the funeral, even though you had little more than a visiting acquaintance with the family. You should not leave cards nor go to a funeral of a person with whom you have not in any way been associated or to whose house you have never been asked.
But it is heartless and delinquent if you do not go to the funeral of one with whom you were associated in business or other interests, or to whose house you were often invited, or where you are a friend of the immediate members of the family.
You should wear black clothes if you have them, or if not, the darkest, the least conspicuous you possess. Enter the church as quietly as possible, and as there are no ushers at a funeral, seat yourself where you approximately belong. Only a very intimate friend should take a position far up on the center aisle. If you are merely an acquaintance you should sit inconspicuously in the rear somewhere, unless the funeral is very small and the church big, in which case you may sit on the end seat of the center aisle toward the back.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Time stops
The doctor lifted him away from me and I watched her hand him to the nurse. Everything was blurry because I wasn't wearing my glasses. But I could see the naked form of his body...one leg bent over the other, arms folded in toward his body, all that dark hair on his head, his bare butt. I couldn't watch. So I looked up and stared into the spotlight the doctor had turned on in the dark room so that she could see for the delivery and the subsequent sewing of the stitches. The nurse said she was going to take him to clean him up and I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, wheel the silent blanket covered isolette out of the room. I closed my eyes and opened them again to stare into the spotlight...hoping it would burn the retinas out of my eyes so I wouldn't ever have to see anything ever again.
I know he was cold. I touched his cheek. When I held him, he was all wrapped in blankets and I was afraid to unwrap him. I know from his footprints that he had my curly toes...the same curly toes his big brother has. And later, actually the next morning, I felt them through the blankets, never daring to unwrap him...I didn't want him to be cold. I held him and rocked him, but it was like a doll, like something happening to someone else. THIS wasn't my child. THIS wasn't my precious baby boy.
And then I looked at his gums. His GUMS...of all things. His mouth was open as though he were gasping for breath. My poor boy who probably struggled to breathe until the fight was too much for his poor little body. That final gasp captured for mommy and daddy to see as though it were frozen in the instant he left us. His little baby tongue...and his gums...I saw there were no teeth. I imagined his toothless cry. I imagined him nursing at my breast. I imagined those precious toothless smiles we would never get to see. His gums are what made him real to me...made me realize this was happening to me and this was MY baby. His gums.
I touched his cheek. I kissed his cheek. This is the only thing I remember. The coldness of his perfect skin. Why can't I just forget that? Why can't I just forget the feel of his curly toes through the blankets?
I packed a little white cap for them to bury him in. Why in God's name did I do that? They autopsied his brain for Christ's sake. There is no way they actually put that hat on him. What was I thinking?
I want to drive up there right now. It's all I can do not to get in my car and go up there on that hill to sit at his graveside. I imagine him there, wrapped in the blanket I made for him, snuggled with his blue stuffed doggy...how cold he must be...how alone. In my brain, I have a complete grasp on reality. But I can't stop the images and the feeling of complete and utter helplessness...hopelessness.
11:38pm
Why didn't you just cry?
Sam said to me yesterday, "But mommy, I want friends to play with." All I could think was how Alex was supposed to be his friend. I had wished it for them both. Aren't wishes supposed to come true?
It's different now. It's less raw, but it's darker. It's waiting to show me all the things I couldn't face before. It wants me to see the ugly pictures that are the reality. It tortures me with images of what his body looks like now. I mocks me with the taunt that I may never hold another baby alive in my arms. It laughs when I cry and dances about with joy when Sam tells me he still misses Baby Alex. I wish the spotlight had burned my eyes out so I couldn't see the images anymore.
It's not that he is cold. It's that I am cold. I can't feel anything like I used to. I just feel that spot on my belly where he used to kick me and I think of his gums and I think, where did his breath go? Who stole it? Is it inside of me somewhere? I don't want it.
11:38pm
Goodnight sweet boy.
I'm hugging my blue doggy and missing him. And the tears are here. And I'm trying to find a way to forget his gums and his silence.
I know he was cold. I touched his cheek. When I held him, he was all wrapped in blankets and I was afraid to unwrap him. I know from his footprints that he had my curly toes...the same curly toes his big brother has. And later, actually the next morning, I felt them through the blankets, never daring to unwrap him...I didn't want him to be cold. I held him and rocked him, but it was like a doll, like something happening to someone else. THIS wasn't my child. THIS wasn't my precious baby boy.
And then I looked at his gums. His GUMS...of all things. His mouth was open as though he were gasping for breath. My poor boy who probably struggled to breathe until the fight was too much for his poor little body. That final gasp captured for mommy and daddy to see as though it were frozen in the instant he left us. His little baby tongue...and his gums...I saw there were no teeth. I imagined his toothless cry. I imagined him nursing at my breast. I imagined those precious toothless smiles we would never get to see. His gums are what made him real to me...made me realize this was happening to me and this was MY baby. His gums.
I touched his cheek. I kissed his cheek. This is the only thing I remember. The coldness of his perfect skin. Why can't I just forget that? Why can't I just forget the feel of his curly toes through the blankets?
I packed a little white cap for them to bury him in. Why in God's name did I do that? They autopsied his brain for Christ's sake. There is no way they actually put that hat on him. What was I thinking?
I want to drive up there right now. It's all I can do not to get in my car and go up there on that hill to sit at his graveside. I imagine him there, wrapped in the blanket I made for him, snuggled with his blue stuffed doggy...how cold he must be...how alone. In my brain, I have a complete grasp on reality. But I can't stop the images and the feeling of complete and utter helplessness...hopelessness.
11:38pm
Why didn't you just cry?
Sam said to me yesterday, "But mommy, I want friends to play with." All I could think was how Alex was supposed to be his friend. I had wished it for them both. Aren't wishes supposed to come true?
It's different now. It's less raw, but it's darker. It's waiting to show me all the things I couldn't face before. It wants me to see the ugly pictures that are the reality. It tortures me with images of what his body looks like now. I mocks me with the taunt that I may never hold another baby alive in my arms. It laughs when I cry and dances about with joy when Sam tells me he still misses Baby Alex. I wish the spotlight had burned my eyes out so I couldn't see the images anymore.
It's not that he is cold. It's that I am cold. I can't feel anything like I used to. I just feel that spot on my belly where he used to kick me and I think of his gums and I think, where did his breath go? Who stole it? Is it inside of me somewhere? I don't want it.
11:38pm
Goodnight sweet boy.
I'm hugging my blue doggy and missing him. And the tears are here. And I'm trying to find a way to forget his gums and his silence.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Unemployment?
The sales tax ain't gonna pass.
How much does unemployment pay again?
You know, there is some relief in knowing that, after a year of worrying, it will finally come to some sort of a resolution. Either they will be able to pay me or they won't.
What seemed so important at the beginning of this year seems so silly and pointless now.
Such is life.
How much does unemployment pay again?
You know, there is some relief in knowing that, after a year of worrying, it will finally come to some sort of a resolution. Either they will be able to pay me or they won't.
What seemed so important at the beginning of this year seems so silly and pointless now.
Such is life.
Metaphors & other deep thoughts
From a friend who is better with words than I...
What you said in your email about A's feeling so helpless at Alex's funeral as you cried sounds familiar. The image I have had is that you're in a creek or river being swept along in this raging current and you're trying to keep your head above water, and I'm on the bank and there's this chain link fence between us, and all I can do is run along beside the creek and yell these stupid words of encouragement down to you as you're fighting for your life. Sometimes I've wondered if you wouldn't like to throw a rock at me if you had the energy, but still, I keep talking to you just so you know there's someone here and just in case it might help.
This is someone who gets it. This is a true friend. Someone who isn't afraid to take a rock in the temple should I lob one over and get lucky with my aim. Her voice is what has kept me from giving up and letting the river drag me under. Hers and the other amazing sisters in grief I've found (though some of them are being swept along with me in the water...they still manage to shout words of encouragement that keep me afloat).
Yes, every now and again I want to hit someone...anyone. With a rock or my fists or a baseball bat. The anger is there. But I truly believe it is kept under control by the knowledge that you care enough to put yourself in the middle of a dark dark forest...running along an unfamiliar river...caring whether I make it to shore again. There are those who turned and walked away from the river the minute the rapids got a bit rough. How I would LOVE to throw a rock or two at them.
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R - I hope I didn't overstep my bounds on your blog comments. I rather enjoy the discussion, but find that my anger is sometimes unknowingly directed at people who don't deserve it. I hope you know that I didn't mean to be derisive or rude in any way. The comment following mine gave me pause...
As paradoxical as it sounds, I take comfort in knowing God is responsible for the pain (or at least, allows it happen). If He isn't reponsible for it, that means it's BIGGER than God, which is terrifying. If He allows it to happen, it must mean He seems something I don't. How many times have I had to discipline my children, withhold something, etc. etc. for their own good?
I'm percolating more of my own thoughts on that subject for a post later, I'm sure. :o)
What you said in your email about A's feeling so helpless at Alex's funeral as you cried sounds familiar. The image I have had is that you're in a creek or river being swept along in this raging current and you're trying to keep your head above water, and I'm on the bank and there's this chain link fence between us, and all I can do is run along beside the creek and yell these stupid words of encouragement down to you as you're fighting for your life. Sometimes I've wondered if you wouldn't like to throw a rock at me if you had the energy, but still, I keep talking to you just so you know there's someone here and just in case it might help.
This is someone who gets it. This is a true friend. Someone who isn't afraid to take a rock in the temple should I lob one over and get lucky with my aim. Her voice is what has kept me from giving up and letting the river drag me under. Hers and the other amazing sisters in grief I've found (though some of them are being swept along with me in the water...they still manage to shout words of encouragement that keep me afloat).
Yes, every now and again I want to hit someone...anyone. With a rock or my fists or a baseball bat. The anger is there. But I truly believe it is kept under control by the knowledge that you care enough to put yourself in the middle of a dark dark forest...running along an unfamiliar river...caring whether I make it to shore again. There are those who turned and walked away from the river the minute the rapids got a bit rough. How I would LOVE to throw a rock or two at them.
----------------------------------------
R - I hope I didn't overstep my bounds on your blog comments. I rather enjoy the discussion, but find that my anger is sometimes unknowingly directed at people who don't deserve it. I hope you know that I didn't mean to be derisive or rude in any way. The comment following mine gave me pause...
As paradoxical as it sounds, I take comfort in knowing God is responsible for the pain (or at least, allows it happen). If He isn't reponsible for it, that means it's BIGGER than God, which is terrifying. If He allows it to happen, it must mean He seems something I don't. How many times have I had to discipline my children, withhold something, etc. etc. for their own good?
I'm percolating more of my own thoughts on that subject for a post later, I'm sure. :o)
Holiday inspiration
I've been wondering what I can do this Christmas to honor Alex's memory. I think I've found something.
Please read the inspirational story of Holly Tubbs. It's the story of what even a child can do when she puts her mind to it. And if you are so moved, please click the link in my sidebar and read the details of how you can help.
Please read the inspirational story of Holly Tubbs. It's the story of what even a child can do when she puts her mind to it. And if you are so moved, please click the link in my sidebar and read the details of how you can help.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Two years worth of movie reviews
I have not been to the movies in over a year. I'm not sure if we've even rented a movie in the last year. Time to hit the video store and find a cheap matinee (or two).
Movies of interest from 2004 include but are not limited to...
Against the Ropes
Alfie
Cellular
Christmas with the Kranks
Closer
Finding Neverland
The Forgotten
Garden State
Hotel Rwanda
Jersey Girl
The Ladykillers
Laws of Attraction
Lemony Snicket's a Serious of Unfortunate Events
National Treasure
The Notebook
Ocean's Twelve (first need to see any and all previous Ocean's)
The Polar Express
Raisin Helen
Shall We Dance
Sideways
Spanglish
The Terminal
Twisted
The Village
Movies of interest from 2005 include but are not limited to...
Million Dollar Baby
The Wedding Date
Crash
Monster-in-Law
Star Wars Episode III
Cinderella Man
Dark Water
The Wedding Crashers
Must Love Dogs
The Skeleton Key
Proof
Two for the Money
Elizabethtown
Shopgirl
Chicken Little
Bee Season
Derailed
Harry Potter
Walk the Line
Chronicles of Narnia
Any I should cross off the list? Any I should add? Let me know please.
Movies of interest from 2004 include but are not limited to...
Against the Ropes
Alfie
Cellular
Christmas with the Kranks
Closer
Finding Neverland
The Forgotten
Garden State
Hotel Rwanda
Jersey Girl
The Ladykillers
Laws of Attraction
Lemony Snicket's a Serious of Unfortunate Events
National Treasure
The Notebook
Ocean's Twelve (first need to see any and all previous Ocean's)
The Polar Express
Raisin Helen
Shall We Dance
Sideways
Spanglish
The Terminal
Twisted
The Village
Movies of interest from 2005 include but are not limited to...
Million Dollar Baby
The Wedding Date
Crash
Monster-in-Law
Star Wars Episode III
Cinderella Man
Dark Water
The Wedding Crashers
Must Love Dogs
The Skeleton Key
Proof
Two for the Money
Elizabethtown
Shopgirl
Chicken Little
Bee Season
Derailed
Harry Potter
Walk the Line
Chronicles of Narnia
Any I should cross off the list? Any I should add? Let me know please.
The truth hurts
----------------------------
A co-worker told me that she is leaving for a new job at the beginning of next month. She said, "We'll keep in touch." Suddenly, I realized I have no need for pleasantries and said, "People always say that...it doesn't happen." She looked stunned. I don't think it was rude to say this. Was I wrong?
----------------------------
Got my mug back. She rinsed it off and set it on the counter. She wasn't there to see, but I rinsed it out again and poured my coffe into it. I wonder if she'll be offended if she sees me drinking out of it now. Too bad. All is right with the world. (I'll put it in my desk drawer when I'm done with it from now on.)
----------------------------
Cross your fingers for us today. Sam has school pictures at his preschool. We have tried unsuccessfully for the past two years to get school pictures. He just doesn't cooperate with the photographers.
And the last scheduled school picture session was May 9th. Cancelled for reasons beyond all of our control.
----------------------------
A co-worker told me that she is leaving for a new job at the beginning of next month. She said, "We'll keep in touch." Suddenly, I realized I have no need for pleasantries and said, "People always say that...it doesn't happen." She looked stunned. I don't think it was rude to say this. Was I wrong?
----------------------------
Got my mug back. She rinsed it off and set it on the counter. She wasn't there to see, but I rinsed it out again and poured my coffe into it. I wonder if she'll be offended if she sees me drinking out of it now. Too bad. All is right with the world. (I'll put it in my desk drawer when I'm done with it from now on.)
----------------------------
Cross your fingers for us today. Sam has school pictures at his preschool. We have tried unsuccessfully for the past two years to get school pictures. He just doesn't cooperate with the photographers.
And the last scheduled school picture session was May 9th. Cancelled for reasons beyond all of our control.
----------------------------
My coffee cup and my tenuous maintenance of sanity
For my birthday in February my husband sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers. It was one of those birthday arrangements the florist makes over the phone...adding their own special touches. Mine came in a coffee mug. The inside of my coffee mug is pink and the outside is white with big pink roses painted on it. It's the kind of mug you'd find at the Dollar Store...nothing special...Made in China...matches nothing in your kitchen. It came with the flowers and a card that read, "Happy Birthday, Love, Steve, Sam and Alex." I kept the card and carry it around in my purse.
Today I came into work a bit late and headed to the kitchenette, as is my usual routine, for my morning cup of coffee. You can see where this is headed, I'm sure. My coffee cup is nowhere to be found. I searched the cupboard...I went back to my office and searched...I even looked in the trash and the bathroom (just in case something weird had happened...and my freak out doesn't count). I realized then that someone else was using MY coffee mug. My coffee mug from my boys. The ONLY gift I've ever received from all three of them...the ONLY gift I will EVER receive from all of them. I flipped out.
And I know what you're thinking (I've thought it too)...if the mug is so important to you, then why the heck do you keep it at work? Why not take it home and put is somewhere safe? I use it every morning. It's my connection to what used to be. It's my piece of normalcy that hasn't changed since February. It's decaf coffee and herbal tea...it's what used to be. WHY DIDN'T I JUST TAKE IT HOME?
So...trying to maintain my calm, I barracaded myself in my office until I could stop hyperventilating and appear reasonable once again. What can I do? I can't ask the woman to pour her coffee into another mug...that would just be weird. So I gathered my wits and have taken a few deep breaths and am now sitting here wondering what the hell is wrong with me. My HUSBAND sent me that mug. My two boys didn't know a damn thing about it. In fact, my one boy wasn't EVEN BORN. I really need to get a grip on reality here.
The reality is that the woman who is using my mug is the new mommy coworker. Doesn't she have enough of her own? She's got a beautiful baby boy at home. She has to use my mug too? And I'm sure she's using it without even thinking, "Hey, this isn't my mug." Just like I'm sure she goes home to her baby every single afternoon and fails to think, "I'm a lucky woman." Or maybe she does think that. Maybe she thinks, "I'm so lucky I'm not her."
The reality is that I'm jealous. And I certainly don't think it's fair that her life is so f@#$% perfect AND she gets to use MY mug...without asking.
Everything is NOT under control. And I want my damn mug back!
Today I came into work a bit late and headed to the kitchenette, as is my usual routine, for my morning cup of coffee. You can see where this is headed, I'm sure. My coffee cup is nowhere to be found. I searched the cupboard...I went back to my office and searched...I even looked in the trash and the bathroom (just in case something weird had happened...and my freak out doesn't count). I realized then that someone else was using MY coffee mug. My coffee mug from my boys. The ONLY gift I've ever received from all three of them...the ONLY gift I will EVER receive from all of them. I flipped out.
And I know what you're thinking (I've thought it too)...if the mug is so important to you, then why the heck do you keep it at work? Why not take it home and put is somewhere safe? I use it every morning. It's my connection to what used to be. It's my piece of normalcy that hasn't changed since February. It's decaf coffee and herbal tea...it's what used to be. WHY DIDN'T I JUST TAKE IT HOME?
So...trying to maintain my calm, I barracaded myself in my office until I could stop hyperventilating and appear reasonable once again. What can I do? I can't ask the woman to pour her coffee into another mug...that would just be weird. So I gathered my wits and have taken a few deep breaths and am now sitting here wondering what the hell is wrong with me. My HUSBAND sent me that mug. My two boys didn't know a damn thing about it. In fact, my one boy wasn't EVEN BORN. I really need to get a grip on reality here.
The reality is that the woman who is using my mug is the new mommy coworker. Doesn't she have enough of her own? She's got a beautiful baby boy at home. She has to use my mug too? And I'm sure she's using it without even thinking, "Hey, this isn't my mug." Just like I'm sure she goes home to her baby every single afternoon and fails to think, "I'm a lucky woman." Or maybe she does think that. Maybe she thinks, "I'm so lucky I'm not her."
The reality is that I'm jealous. And I certainly don't think it's fair that her life is so f@#$% perfect AND she gets to use MY mug...without asking.
Everything is NOT under control. And I want my damn mug back!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
It already happened
Three years, five months..."May you have a child just like you."
I never thought we'd get here so soon.
I never thought we'd get here so soon.
More customer service complaints
You buy something on Saturday...it goes on sale on Sunday. They'll refund you the difference, sure. But WHY can't they just save you the extra trip back to the store and tell you on Saturday in the first place?
Fear of what?
Am I a freak? Am I embarassed? Am I scared?
I guess it's all of the above.
I just had the weirdest conversation with myself over whether to post my blog address in my comment information on a typepad blog that I read that is not loss related. Should I post it or not? Why would I have a problem sharing that information? I guess I'm still stuck in the mindset that this is my personal journal and only those I invite can read it. I don't want some stranger happening upon my thoughts by randomly clicking on some link somewhere. Or do I? This has gotten so complicated.
On the one hand I want this to be MY space...with the boundaries and limits defined by me. But I can't deny that there is an opportunity here to educate people about the truth of life when you lose a baby (at least as I see it). This is a chance to humanize that line in the pregnancy books that says, "...and rarely, stillbirth results." I want anyone and everyone to know that the statistical rarity doesn't make it any less devestating when it happens to you. And I want people, especially women, to know that they need to take control of their pregnancy care and ask questions...arm themselves with information so that their babies come home alive.
There is also the fear that someone will stumble on my words and not be as understanding as I need to heal emotionally. At that point, I think I would just have to shut the place down, and that would be very difficult since this has become a sort of therapy...writing my thoughts down and making sense of them.
So do I protect my existing little sphere of "friends" and keep you all to myself? Or do I share myself and risk the possible fallout?
What an odd situation.
I guess it's all of the above.
I just had the weirdest conversation with myself over whether to post my blog address in my comment information on a typepad blog that I read that is not loss related. Should I post it or not? Why would I have a problem sharing that information? I guess I'm still stuck in the mindset that this is my personal journal and only those I invite can read it. I don't want some stranger happening upon my thoughts by randomly clicking on some link somewhere. Or do I? This has gotten so complicated.
On the one hand I want this to be MY space...with the boundaries and limits defined by me. But I can't deny that there is an opportunity here to educate people about the truth of life when you lose a baby (at least as I see it). This is a chance to humanize that line in the pregnancy books that says, "...and rarely, stillbirth results." I want anyone and everyone to know that the statistical rarity doesn't make it any less devestating when it happens to you. And I want people, especially women, to know that they need to take control of their pregnancy care and ask questions...arm themselves with information so that their babies come home alive.
There is also the fear that someone will stumble on my words and not be as understanding as I need to heal emotionally. At that point, I think I would just have to shut the place down, and that would be very difficult since this has become a sort of therapy...writing my thoughts down and making sense of them.
So do I protect my existing little sphere of "friends" and keep you all to myself? Or do I share myself and risk the possible fallout?
What an odd situation.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
My new life
There is something different about us in our grief now. We visited the cemetery today...together as a family. Sam was thrilled to be out and about and spent his time flitting from grave to grave, righting the toppled flower arrangements and decorations. I said to Steve, "It's different now." I thought he would think I'm crazy. Instead, he looked at me and said, "I know. It's like I've turned a corner. I did the last thing I could do for him and now there's nothing else left to do for him." I don't know if he realizes that he's wrong...and I don't know how to tell him just yet.
We have lawyers involved now. That's probably going to get really complicated before all is said and done. And I will personally, to my dying day, tell women about the dangers of intrauterine infections. Despite their being "rare" or "unusual," they are completely treatable. Nobody should lose a baby because of a lack of information...NOBODY.
So there is still a lot we can do for Alex.
But it is still different.
When we went to see David's play, I was struck by how David had rolled his experience into the fabric of his being. It had become a part of him. For a very long time, it was just the opposite for me. I was a part of the experience of losing Alex...it was my whole life. I saw the key to moving forward as weaving the experience into my life...making it a part of my life instead of my entire existence. The basic concept is that I couldn't let my loss of Alex define me. I had to define it WITHIN the context of my life. (I'm not sure I'm explaining this appropriately.)
Somewhere along the line in the past six months, I've had the opportunity to have days where the good outweighs the bad. I think I'm starting to fold it all up into its appropriate place in my life. There are still days when it is all-consuming...where I literally can't breathe for the weight of the pain. But those days are more evenly spaced apart now...with periods of time where I can feel my own life seeping back in around the edges. I can see it coming back. Sure, it's different than the life I had before...and it's not the life I would have chosen...but at least it's something more than pain and sadness and grief. There is relief in that...even maybe some happiness.
We have lawyers involved now. That's probably going to get really complicated before all is said and done. And I will personally, to my dying day, tell women about the dangers of intrauterine infections. Despite their being "rare" or "unusual," they are completely treatable. Nobody should lose a baby because of a lack of information...NOBODY.
So there is still a lot we can do for Alex.
But it is still different.
When we went to see David's play, I was struck by how David had rolled his experience into the fabric of his being. It had become a part of him. For a very long time, it was just the opposite for me. I was a part of the experience of losing Alex...it was my whole life. I saw the key to moving forward as weaving the experience into my life...making it a part of my life instead of my entire existence. The basic concept is that I couldn't let my loss of Alex define me. I had to define it WITHIN the context of my life. (I'm not sure I'm explaining this appropriately.)
Somewhere along the line in the past six months, I've had the opportunity to have days where the good outweighs the bad. I think I'm starting to fold it all up into its appropriate place in my life. There are still days when it is all-consuming...where I literally can't breathe for the weight of the pain. But those days are more evenly spaced apart now...with periods of time where I can feel my own life seeping back in around the edges. I can see it coming back. Sure, it's different than the life I had before...and it's not the life I would have chosen...but at least it's something more than pain and sadness and grief. There is relief in that...even maybe some happiness.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Maybe I spoke too soon. Not sure the appropriate way to retract my previous post at this point. But please stop by Julie's blog and share your love with her. And if you talk to God sometime, tell him I don't understand...and we won't be speaking for a while.
The Easter Card answers
I have this card that my mother-in-law sent us at Easter...before things fell apart...
I was never an overly religious person to begin with...and I'm not a practicing Catholic, which I'm sure has been a big disappointment to my in-laws. In fact, I don't think I've been TO church since my wedding day. We considered joining several churches during our travels from residence to residence throughout our marriage, but we never found one that held our interest or attention. (I have to admit that we never really looked all that hard.)
But every Christmas and Easter I count on my mother-in-law to send us a religious card of some sort that says that we will be remembered in a Mass somewhere. It has always provided me some sense of stability and peace that someone somewhere is praying for us, even when we can't find the time or energy to pray for ourselves. It also provides me some indication that my mother-in-law, with whom I don't have much of a relationship, thinks enough of me to include me in her practice of faith. I don't know if she knows this or not, but despite my not being a practicing Catholic, I was baptized as such, and I've always been intrigued by the idea of strong faith...where it comes from...how it's learned. I also don't know if she knows that it has intrigued me such that I have always kept every single one of those cards until the run of the mass is concluded. I usually keep it with me privately somehow...as a bookmark in a book I'm reading...in my purse...tucked into my jewelry box...or standing behind my clock on the bookshelf at work.
And that's where the most recent card stands...behind the clock on the bookshelf at work...tucked in the midst of a framed copy of Alex's footprints, pictures of Sam and Steve, and artwork created by Sam at daycare "just for mommy." I had it on display at home through Easter but then moved it when the Easter season was over (I'm a bit OCD about decorations matching the season/holiday in my house). And I've been meaning to write about it for some time now.
It came just before Easter this year...a purple card with pretty purple flowers and a gorgeous gold foil cross on the front. It says, "Happy Easter," and, "May this blessed time fill you with peace and a renewed faith in our Risen Lord." It says we will be remembered in a special Marianist Novena of Masses at Easter and at daily Mass throughout the year. I just figured I would keep it for the whole year.
But then Alex died.
I was SO tempted to throw the thing in the trash. I was (and still am) angry with God. So much so that I'm not even sure I believe He exists anymore. Yet, this card still sits on my bookshelf...almost mocking me with its faith...with the faith of the people who are praying for us...with the faith of the mother-in-law who sent it in love.
In true Catherine fashion, I couldn't just do NOTHING. So I picked up the card the other day and read it again. The front, the inside, and the back. There had to be an answer here. Something that would guide me to find what these people found...to know what they know...to accept my life as it is now, but still hold on to some shred of faith.
And wouldn't ya know it...they have a website.
Marianists seek to imitate Mary's loving heart and steadfast witness in prayer and service, as well as her courage in being the channel for bringing Christ’s transformative message into our earthly existence.
You can submit your prayer requests for free via the internet which I think is really cool. New age prayer. They also have a variety of things that you can request for a modest donation. Now, I'm not sure exactly how I feel about the whole prayer for sale thing...but the products are nice...and if the card on my bookshelf is any indication, it's worth the donation.
I'm not sure if I'll go to hell for any of this...quite honestly I don't care right now (for which I'm sure I'll go to hell). Anything that brings an ounce of peace into my life is welcome. Even if it is a conflicted peace.
November is the Month of the Poor Souls. Maybe there was an answer on that Easter card. It just took a while to see it.
I was never an overly religious person to begin with...and I'm not a practicing Catholic, which I'm sure has been a big disappointment to my in-laws. In fact, I don't think I've been TO church since my wedding day. We considered joining several churches during our travels from residence to residence throughout our marriage, but we never found one that held our interest or attention. (I have to admit that we never really looked all that hard.)
But every Christmas and Easter I count on my mother-in-law to send us a religious card of some sort that says that we will be remembered in a Mass somewhere. It has always provided me some sense of stability and peace that someone somewhere is praying for us, even when we can't find the time or energy to pray for ourselves. It also provides me some indication that my mother-in-law, with whom I don't have much of a relationship, thinks enough of me to include me in her practice of faith. I don't know if she knows this or not, but despite my not being a practicing Catholic, I was baptized as such, and I've always been intrigued by the idea of strong faith...where it comes from...how it's learned. I also don't know if she knows that it has intrigued me such that I have always kept every single one of those cards until the run of the mass is concluded. I usually keep it with me privately somehow...as a bookmark in a book I'm reading...in my purse...tucked into my jewelry box...or standing behind my clock on the bookshelf at work.
And that's where the most recent card stands...behind the clock on the bookshelf at work...tucked in the midst of a framed copy of Alex's footprints, pictures of Sam and Steve, and artwork created by Sam at daycare "just for mommy." I had it on display at home through Easter but then moved it when the Easter season was over (I'm a bit OCD about decorations matching the season/holiday in my house). And I've been meaning to write about it for some time now.
It came just before Easter this year...a purple card with pretty purple flowers and a gorgeous gold foil cross on the front. It says, "Happy Easter," and, "May this blessed time fill you with peace and a renewed faith in our Risen Lord." It says we will be remembered in a special Marianist Novena of Masses at Easter and at daily Mass throughout the year. I just figured I would keep it for the whole year.
But then Alex died.
I was SO tempted to throw the thing in the trash. I was (and still am) angry with God. So much so that I'm not even sure I believe He exists anymore. Yet, this card still sits on my bookshelf...almost mocking me with its faith...with the faith of the people who are praying for us...with the faith of the mother-in-law who sent it in love.
In true Catherine fashion, I couldn't just do NOTHING. So I picked up the card the other day and read it again. The front, the inside, and the back. There had to be an answer here. Something that would guide me to find what these people found...to know what they know...to accept my life as it is now, but still hold on to some shred of faith.
And wouldn't ya know it...they have a website.
Marianists seek to imitate Mary's loving heart and steadfast witness in prayer and service, as well as her courage in being the channel for bringing Christ’s transformative message into our earthly existence.
You can submit your prayer requests for free via the internet which I think is really cool. New age prayer. They also have a variety of things that you can request for a modest donation. Now, I'm not sure exactly how I feel about the whole prayer for sale thing...but the products are nice...and if the card on my bookshelf is any indication, it's worth the donation.
I'm not sure if I'll go to hell for any of this...quite honestly I don't care right now (for which I'm sure I'll go to hell). Anything that brings an ounce of peace into my life is welcome. Even if it is a conflicted peace.
November is the Month of the Poor Souls. Maybe there was an answer on that Easter card. It just took a while to see it.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Country living
The Podunk Golden Dawn is more than just a grocery store. Did you know they have a fabulous firearms display? Podunk Golden Dawn is proud to be a sponsor of the Big Buck contest.
Actual radio commercial with our town substituted for Podunk. No, I'm not kidding.
Actual radio commercial with our town substituted for Podunk. No, I'm not kidding.
Would you have pegged us as the type?
I had a chance encounter with J, the lone woman in our county's Data Services Department (the computer geeks). I was having issues with my newly "fixed" computer and she came by to see if she could help. While sitting at my desk, she noticed my pencil sketch of Alex and asked, "Is that your...baby?" She said it reverently...gently...kindly, but I still wasn't sure what to say.
I said yes and then paused briefly and stuttered, "I don't know if you know what happened..."
She smiled a sad smile to interrupt me and let me know I didn't need to find any more words, "Yes, I know what happened...I'm very sad for you...I lost a grandson earlier this year."
Earlier this year, while still blissfully pregnant, I heard the sirens on my way to work. I remember noting that they were especially loud and near to our home. I wondered what had happened and was horrified to later find that a woman, nine months pregnant, had been involved in a terrible car accident on the next street over (in the country that is quite a distance...but there's not much in between us but corn, so it is close by our standards). They kept her alive for a day but there was no hope to save the baby...a boy. The office sent flowers to the funeral, as the deceased mother was the niece of one of our receptionists. I didn't know anyone else was related to her.
J explained how she was the baby's grandmama. She told me how they delivered the baby right away, but it was too late. They all got to hold him and say hello and goodbye. J said he was perfect...his little body just didn't survive the trauma caused to his mother's body. I asked if they gave him a name. His name was Caleb. I thought of Julie when I heard that name. And I thought of the father...who lost so much on that day. And then I thought of J.
It still shocks me when people tell me their stories of loss. I don't know that I will ever get used to the idea of people walking around with these wounds and scars. They all seem so normal. The kind woman I work with who lost her brother when she was 18. The accomplished attorney who lost her sister when she was 12. The friend's mother who lost her own baby and then later lost a grandbaby to SIDS. The friend who lost her nephew. The dear friend who only had a few days to enjoy her pregnancy before miscarrying. They all go on with life. They're all different because of their experiences. They all carry that sadness with them on a daily basis. Sure, it is tempered by time, but it is there nonetheless.
When I tried to explain my surprise to my husband he said, "Well, would you have pegged us as the type to have a dead baby?" Funny, I never thought about it that way. I guess you can't tell just by looking. It makes me wonder what things people carry with them...at the grocery store...at work...at parties...at my son's daycare. And despite knowing what I carry around with me each day, I'm still surprised by the idea that other people DO know something about the burden...the weight of the sadness. And there are other types of sadness too. Sadness that we just don't talk about and people are left to deal with on their own. We all suffer in silence and we all feel alone as a result. But we're not alone. Perhaps it is that feeling of isolation that makes it seem so unreal that other people have their own burdens that they carry.
Caleb was buried in his mother's arms. I know I will look at J a bit differently now. She understands me and I understand her. How sad that this is the thing that brings us together.
I said yes and then paused briefly and stuttered, "I don't know if you know what happened..."
She smiled a sad smile to interrupt me and let me know I didn't need to find any more words, "Yes, I know what happened...I'm very sad for you...I lost a grandson earlier this year."
Earlier this year, while still blissfully pregnant, I heard the sirens on my way to work. I remember noting that they were especially loud and near to our home. I wondered what had happened and was horrified to later find that a woman, nine months pregnant, had been involved in a terrible car accident on the next street over (in the country that is quite a distance...but there's not much in between us but corn, so it is close by our standards). They kept her alive for a day but there was no hope to save the baby...a boy. The office sent flowers to the funeral, as the deceased mother was the niece of one of our receptionists. I didn't know anyone else was related to her.
J explained how she was the baby's grandmama. She told me how they delivered the baby right away, but it was too late. They all got to hold him and say hello and goodbye. J said he was perfect...his little body just didn't survive the trauma caused to his mother's body. I asked if they gave him a name. His name was Caleb. I thought of Julie when I heard that name. And I thought of the father...who lost so much on that day. And then I thought of J.
It still shocks me when people tell me their stories of loss. I don't know that I will ever get used to the idea of people walking around with these wounds and scars. They all seem so normal. The kind woman I work with who lost her brother when she was 18. The accomplished attorney who lost her sister when she was 12. The friend's mother who lost her own baby and then later lost a grandbaby to SIDS. The friend who lost her nephew. The dear friend who only had a few days to enjoy her pregnancy before miscarrying. They all go on with life. They're all different because of their experiences. They all carry that sadness with them on a daily basis. Sure, it is tempered by time, but it is there nonetheless.
When I tried to explain my surprise to my husband he said, "Well, would you have pegged us as the type to have a dead baby?" Funny, I never thought about it that way. I guess you can't tell just by looking. It makes me wonder what things people carry with them...at the grocery store...at work...at parties...at my son's daycare. And despite knowing what I carry around with me each day, I'm still surprised by the idea that other people DO know something about the burden...the weight of the sadness. And there are other types of sadness too. Sadness that we just don't talk about and people are left to deal with on their own. We all suffer in silence and we all feel alone as a result. But we're not alone. Perhaps it is that feeling of isolation that makes it seem so unreal that other people have their own burdens that they carry.
Caleb was buried in his mother's arms. I know I will look at J a bit differently now. She understands me and I understand her. How sad that this is the thing that brings us together.
Bitterness softens
I have become a bitter and unfeeling person. I don't want to hear about the trials and tribulations of your having to cart your living kids to soccer practice, etc, etc, etc. I don't want to hear how your baby keeps you from having breakfast before you come into work. I don't want to hear how your husband doesn't love you. I don't want to hear how you live in the midst of a few million people but you feel so lonely. I don't want to hear how your life, completely within your control, is like a roller coaster ride. I don't want to hear how you put your trust in God to provide for you in your time of "need." Your time of need is NOTHING. Your time of need is a mere inconvenience. Your time of need is your opportunity to get off your ass and do something to make your own life better. God doesn't hear you with that insignificant crap. And I don't want to hear you either.
I want the world to listen to me. I want the world to understand what it is really like to feel a crisis of faith. I want the world to understand what it feels like to truly be living a roller coaster life. I want the world to know how it feels to have no control...no say...no input whatsoever. I want you to get some perspective. I want you to read a newspaper or even watch five seconds of the news and see that your little drama is GOOD compared to how some people have it. I want to shake you out of your safety zone and make you realize you are living a dream life...some people would give their right arm to have what you have.
It's not that I don't understand the normal weariness of life anymore. I do. I still feel it myself. But it's all small potatoes compared to the life and death game going on all around you. It's all a BLESSING compared to what some people have to suffer in order to have even a moment of peace during their day. Life is hard? You bet your ass it is. But it isn't a unique experience. People live their lives every day with HALF the bitching and moaning you offer. People deal with REAL tragedies in their lives that would shred your little universe in a split second. Then you would know what real pain is.
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This rant is not directed at any individual in particular. The "you" referred to here is mainly a culmination of the feelings I had while blog-hopping this morning. The advice given here can as much be directed at myself as it can at anyone else in the blogosphere. While writing it, I realized I am as guilty as those that I complain of. While what happened to us sucks big hairy monkey balls, it's not the worst thing that could happen to a person. And I need to get a grip.
Life goes on...and all that sunshiney crap. I need to check my anger at the door. The universe may have screwed up, but the people around me aren't responsible for that. I need to channel my anger a bit more constructively, instead of participating in the Woe is Me Sweepstakes. Empathy...compassion...goes two ways. I have to remember that I can understand the worst AND the best that life has to offer. And the old saying that you attract more flies with honey than vinegar still holds true. So my pain might be worse than yours...that doesn't negate yours at all...it just qualifies it. And I know I can find a gentle way to remind you that you've got it good. I don't have to beat you over the head with it. Most people recognize it already...I don't always have to point it as though they don't. I don't get any points...I don't win a prize...if I have the worst story out there.
I want the world to listen to me. I want the world to understand what it is really like to feel a crisis of faith. I want the world to understand what it feels like to truly be living a roller coaster life. I want the world to know how it feels to have no control...no say...no input whatsoever. I want you to get some perspective. I want you to read a newspaper or even watch five seconds of the news and see that your little drama is GOOD compared to how some people have it. I want to shake you out of your safety zone and make you realize you are living a dream life...some people would give their right arm to have what you have.
It's not that I don't understand the normal weariness of life anymore. I do. I still feel it myself. But it's all small potatoes compared to the life and death game going on all around you. It's all a BLESSING compared to what some people have to suffer in order to have even a moment of peace during their day. Life is hard? You bet your ass it is. But it isn't a unique experience. People live their lives every day with HALF the bitching and moaning you offer. People deal with REAL tragedies in their lives that would shred your little universe in a split second. Then you would know what real pain is.
----------------------------------------
This rant is not directed at any individual in particular. The "you" referred to here is mainly a culmination of the feelings I had while blog-hopping this morning. The advice given here can as much be directed at myself as it can at anyone else in the blogosphere. While writing it, I realized I am as guilty as those that I complain of. While what happened to us sucks big hairy monkey balls, it's not the worst thing that could happen to a person. And I need to get a grip.
Life goes on...and all that sunshiney crap. I need to check my anger at the door. The universe may have screwed up, but the people around me aren't responsible for that. I need to channel my anger a bit more constructively, instead of participating in the Woe is Me Sweepstakes. Empathy...compassion...goes two ways. I have to remember that I can understand the worst AND the best that life has to offer. And the old saying that you attract more flies with honey than vinegar still holds true. So my pain might be worse than yours...that doesn't negate yours at all...it just qualifies it. And I know I can find a gentle way to remind you that you've got it good. I don't have to beat you over the head with it. Most people recognize it already...I don't always have to point it as though they don't. I don't get any points...I don't win a prize...if I have the worst story out there.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
And time keeps marching on...
I counted.
I shouldn't have, but I counted.
25 weeks.
25 weeks and I barely remember what he looked like. What he felt like.
How can time be so kind and so cruel at the same time?
To forget is to find some peace...and to mourn all the more that I've lost the memories as well.
I've lost my beautiful baby boy.
It seems that it has all changed. I knew it would...even when I hoped it wouldn't.
I haven't made any sense of it yet. It has no meaning still.
I don't go to visit him much anymore. I have a million excuses. I just can't do it.
I feel guilty.
I feel sad.
I feel happy.
I feel empty.
I'm coping.
Sometimes.
Today Sam asked when we could put up the Christmas tree but I have no answer because I dread putting up the Christmas tree.
I dread most everything.
It's not just this Christmas. It's every Christmas for the rest of my life.
It's all the happy moments...and all the moments that should be happy. There will always be something missing...someone missing.
25 weeks.
I shouldn't have counted.
I shouldn't have, but I counted.
25 weeks.
25 weeks and I barely remember what he looked like. What he felt like.
How can time be so kind and so cruel at the same time?
To forget is to find some peace...and to mourn all the more that I've lost the memories as well.
I've lost my beautiful baby boy.
It seems that it has all changed. I knew it would...even when I hoped it wouldn't.
I haven't made any sense of it yet. It has no meaning still.
I don't go to visit him much anymore. I have a million excuses. I just can't do it.
I feel guilty.
I feel sad.
I feel happy.
I feel empty.
I'm coping.
Sometimes.
Today Sam asked when we could put up the Christmas tree but I have no answer because I dread putting up the Christmas tree.
I dread most everything.
It's not just this Christmas. It's every Christmas for the rest of my life.
It's all the happy moments...and all the moments that should be happy. There will always be something missing...someone missing.
25 weeks.
I shouldn't have counted.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Halloween wrap-up
Here is our Thomas the Tank Engine.
What else did you think he'd be in this, the year of Thomas?
We made it to three houses. I figure that's not bad...three years old...three houses.
After the second house he said, "Mommy, that's enough for me."
I said, "OK, but you have to go to Ms. Debbie's house." (Ms. Debbie is his daycare provider who lives up the street)
He said excitedly, "Oh, yeah, ok."
After visiting with Ms. Debbie, I asked if he was ready to head back to Grandma and Grandpa's house and he said, "Yeah."
I said, "Do you want to stop at a couple houses on the way back?"
He said, "No, that's ok...I've got enough candy."
I kept reminding myself that I didn't need more candy in my house and three houses was perfectly respectable at his age.
Plus, it meant I didn't have to face the same people we saw last year and so excitedly told we were expecting Alex. Not once did I have to explain or cry.
But I really wanted more candy. Thankfully, my parents (read my parents=my MOM) bought too much candy and wanted to unload it (mom's diabetic and dad needs it about as much as I do...lol). So I've got some chocolate for this week. :o)
All in all...a decent Halloween. We survived it. Now on to Thanksgiving...
What else did you think he'd be in this, the year of Thomas?
We made it to three houses. I figure that's not bad...three years old...three houses.
After the second house he said, "Mommy, that's enough for me."
I said, "OK, but you have to go to Ms. Debbie's house." (Ms. Debbie is his daycare provider who lives up the street)
He said excitedly, "Oh, yeah, ok."
After visiting with Ms. Debbie, I asked if he was ready to head back to Grandma and Grandpa's house and he said, "Yeah."
I said, "Do you want to stop at a couple houses on the way back?"
He said, "No, that's ok...I've got enough candy."
I kept reminding myself that I didn't need more candy in my house and three houses was perfectly respectable at his age.
Plus, it meant I didn't have to face the same people we saw last year and so excitedly told we were expecting Alex. Not once did I have to explain or cry.
But I really wanted more candy. Thankfully, my parents (read my parents=my MOM) bought too much candy and wanted to unload it (mom's diabetic and dad needs it about as much as I do...lol). So I've got some chocolate for this week. :o)
All in all...a decent Halloween. We survived it. Now on to Thanksgiving...
Money matters
The attorney reviewed his standard contract and decided not to charge us for just getting the nurse practitioner or the doctor's opinions. We don't have to front $1000.
We got a $15 check as a refund for Alex's stillbirth certificate. Not only does Ohio offer them...the first one is free...their mistake.
The monument company sent us a paid in full receipt for Alex's headstone when we thought we still owed them money.
That's it...all wrapped up in dollars and cents. A life not lived still leaves behind a trail of checks and bank statements, contracts and bills. How very strange.
We got a $15 check as a refund for Alex's stillbirth certificate. Not only does Ohio offer them...the first one is free...their mistake.
The monument company sent us a paid in full receipt for Alex's headstone when we thought we still owed them money.
That's it...all wrapped up in dollars and cents. A life not lived still leaves behind a trail of checks and bank statements, contracts and bills. How very strange.
Dia de los Angelitos
Welcome home Alex. We miss you. We love you. On this and every day we speak your name and honor your short life. We hope to meet you again some day.May you find this day a day to visit with us and enjoy our family as one. Don't eat too much of your brother's chocolate. :o)
I wish I was them
Let me tell you what really irks me. Not the nameless crack whores who can get pregnant so easily. Not the nameless irresponsible fathers who disappear and don't provide. No. What really irks me is my family. Not my immediate family...my extended family. I don't know if any of them read this, so I won't name names.
The source of my amusement for many years has been the image of my brother sitting at my parent's kitchen table, surrounded by my aunts (someone's graduation party, I believe), laughing and saying, "Who would've thought WE'D be the normal ones (referring to himself, my sister and me)?" It was funny at the time. Now, with a different perspective, it's really irritating.
My one cousin. Four, possibly five illegitimate children. No responsibility for any of them. Her parents have custody of three of them, one was adopted, and we're not sure if there was a fifth, though there is some suspicion.
My other cousin. Married, had twins and then one more, divorced, married again, divorced, ex-wife has baby unbeknownst to him, he's now labelled violent and dangerous and only gets supervised visitation, dating someone, gets her pregnant, has a vasectomy (finally), now dating another woman while the previous one is still expecting (I think...it's hard to keep the details of this little soap opera straight).
My other cousin. Not married, gets girlfriend pregnant, needs to establish paternity in order to get child away from obviously neglectful mother, finds one excuse or another not to do it.
My other cousin. Engaged seven times, I think. Finally gets married. Has twins and then one more. Divorce. Still living with ex-husband (or something like that...again...it's all lost in the details).
My other cousin. Married, has a baby, says he's done, wife disagrees, they have two more.
Me...can't even have a second child without f*cking it up.
Who is normal again?
Why is it they can live their lives without a care in the world? Why do they get the sadly unrecognized blessing of multiple children? What did I do to deserve this? I swear something is seriously screwed up with the universe...and it pisses me off.
The source of my amusement for many years has been the image of my brother sitting at my parent's kitchen table, surrounded by my aunts (someone's graduation party, I believe), laughing and saying, "Who would've thought WE'D be the normal ones (referring to himself, my sister and me)?" It was funny at the time. Now, with a different perspective, it's really irritating.
My one cousin. Four, possibly five illegitimate children. No responsibility for any of them. Her parents have custody of three of them, one was adopted, and we're not sure if there was a fifth, though there is some suspicion.
My other cousin. Married, had twins and then one more, divorced, married again, divorced, ex-wife has baby unbeknownst to him, he's now labelled violent and dangerous and only gets supervised visitation, dating someone, gets her pregnant, has a vasectomy (finally), now dating another woman while the previous one is still expecting (I think...it's hard to keep the details of this little soap opera straight).
My other cousin. Not married, gets girlfriend pregnant, needs to establish paternity in order to get child away from obviously neglectful mother, finds one excuse or another not to do it.
My other cousin. Engaged seven times, I think. Finally gets married. Has twins and then one more. Divorce. Still living with ex-husband (or something like that...again...it's all lost in the details).
My other cousin. Married, has a baby, says he's done, wife disagrees, they have two more.
Me...can't even have a second child without f*cking it up.
Who is normal again?
Why is it they can live their lives without a care in the world? Why do they get the sadly unrecognized blessing of multiple children? What did I do to deserve this? I swear something is seriously screwed up with the universe...and it pisses me off.
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